I’m sat here in a doorway on one of Leeds’ busy streets. People rush past, their hands full of shopping bags, their faces lit by the glow of Christmas lights and phones. The city is alive with the noise of the season, but for me, it feels quieter than ever. Cold, damp, and invisible—that’s my Christmas this year.
Housing Options said they couldn’t provide me with a room. Emergency accommodation is full, and there’s no space for me. The shelters are stretched thin, and I’m left with nothing but this sleeping bag and a doorway to call my own.
I watch people hurrying past me, heads down, rushing to the next shop or café, and I wonder what they see. Do they even notice me? Or am I just part of the backdrop to their busy lives?
It’s hard not to feel abandoned. Hard not to wonder if anyone cares at all. But then, my mind drifts to the story of Christmas—the real one, not the one told in adverts or shop windows. The one about a young girl giving birth in a stable because there was no room for them anywhere else. Homeless, cold, and rejected, just like me.
That’s the part of the story that sticks with me. Jesus wasn’t born into a palace or a comfortable home. He wasn’t surrounded by luxury or wealth. He came into the world in the dirt, the cold, the rejection. He came into my world.
And that’s where I find a flicker of hope. Because the birth of Jesus—the incarnation—means that God hasn’t abandoned this broken world. He hasn’t abandoned me. He hasn’t walked away from the mess, from the pain, from the injustice. Instead, He stepped into it. He chose to be part of it.
I look at the shoppers, the consumerism, the tinsel and lights, and I can’t help but feel something is missing. This isn’t what Christmas is about. It’s not about spending money or filling our homes with stuff. It’s about a God who came to set things right. A God who promised a world where the homeless would have a home, where the hungry would be fed, and where compassion would replace greed.
I don’t see much of that world yet. Right now, I’m sitting here in the cold, invisible to most, with no roof over my head. But I hold on to the hope that the story isn’t over. The baby in the manger didn’t stay there. He grew up to be a Savior—a Savior who is in the business of making all things new.
So I sit here, and I pray—not just for myself, but for the city around me. I pray for the shoppers rushing by, for the ones so caught up in the rush that they’ve forgotten the baby. I pray for a world where no one has to sleep in a doorway, where no one feels forgotten.
And I whisper to anyone who will listen: don’t miss Him. Don’t let the noise and the glitter drown out the real meaning of Christmas. A Savior has come. And He hasn’t abandoned us. Not me, not you, not this city.
Christmas is a reminder that even in the darkest places, light still breaks through. Even in a doorway in Leeds, there’s hope. And His name is Jesus.
(A fictional but ‘true’ lighthouse story. Also, Lighhouse are seeking to make sure none of our community will be on the streets this Christmas by putting people into B&B’s when there is no provision from local council.)
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