Why does God allow homelessness?

Down, down, fell the Christmas snow, circling down in soft baby-like flakes, as white-souled messengers from an unknown world!

Down they fell, dotting the hedges and whitening the plains and lanes of the open country.

Down, down, they fell, spreading in little patches over the tattered and stained coat of an old man, footsore and hungry, crouching against the snow-tipped hedge.

He tossed up his last copper on Christmas Eve, and lost that―

He had had a long, long tramp since, and had been groping over those cold, long, weary miles, for some stray coin dropped by his god, Chance, the only God he had ever known!

Chance had frowned on him this Christmas Day, and he sunk exhausted by the wayside. Poor old Buffer!

Friendless and homeless, wifeless and childless, it had gone hard with him this merry Christmas, and he thought, as he sat there, too nerveless to rise, what a lucky chance it would be if some fine gentleman should pass by and drop him a sixpence or a shilling for his Christmas.

Faintly sounded on his ear the happy chimes from the distant cathedral tower.

Soft and white the snow fell, creeping nearer and nearer, like some sheltering friend, and his hungry, eager gaze died out in a helpless look of endurance.

The snow fell faster and faster, the cold pierce deeper and deeper, He made an effort to rise, but he could not―his limbs were stiff with cold and famine, and yet life was dear to him.

Life had been with him a constant conflict with the elements―a mere animal struggle for existence against earth's contending forces, and now, in his last moments, his only thought and wish was that some kind gentleman would give him a sixpence with which to buy a mug of ale and a slice of bacon for his Christmas dinner.

Ring out, Christmas bells, another immortal soul is about to commence a long tramp over the unknown highway!

The snow fell white―his weary body and tattered garments were alike covered by its pure cold robe.

Now slowly he raised his half-palsied arm and touched his battered cap. He was making his exit from the world!

He bowed, but it was to a phantom gentleman who suddenly stood before him. He was too far gone to question whence he came.

Was it the kind gentleman with the friendly sixpence he had been looking for?

Was he some good Christian from the cathedral town who had heard his hungry cry or some noble lord from the neighbouring park? 

He dreamily asked himself these questions, as the friendly person approached nearer, took him by the arm, and placed to his parched lips a generous, life-reviving cordial.

Surely this must be the chance gentleman he had been thinking of all this Christmas Day.

Presently, this unknown friend lifted him from the snowbound hedge and led him to a curious chariot, gay as the fiery chariot of Elijah.

He resisted at first―the kindness was too much for him―he was not used to such attentions, and shook his head and drew back.

When the gentleman, in answer to his hesitation, said, Come, my friend, I will take you to a good inn, where you shall have your Christmas dinner, he yielded to the good chance, and they vanished together.

Together, they glided on, on over the spires of the cathedral―they heard the chimes ring out for Christmas, but no one saw them in their golden chariot.

The good Christians eat their dinner and do not cast one thought to the poor wretches dying from cold and hunger beneath the snowy hedges of merry old England on Christmas Day!

Ring out, spirit world Christmas bells, for the poor who die on Christmas Days!

Poor homeless waifs of humanity―for once they shall have a merry Christmas!

―Charles Dickens in Spirit