Her “place” is on Wells Street. Her bed is cement. Her name is Florence.

But like so many other homeless people in Chicago, I knew nothing about her.

A co-worker walked the same route I took from the train station to Moody that early morning. She was a block ahead and took the initiative to talk with the homeless lady.

Turns out Florence is a nurse from Uganda who has come to the United States in hopes of securing a job in the medical field. However, there are forms, procedures, approvals, and acres of red tape—all of which add up to long wait times.

And because Florence is stuck in a holding pattern without a support system here, she lives on the sidewalk next to a swanky restaurant on Wells Street. By the time the business day begins, Florence has disappeared. To where, I don't know. By nightfall, she returns.

Since that initial conversation, I’ve had a chance to greet Florence by name, pray with her—and even help her out a bit financially (though she appeared uneasy accepting the small gift).

Sounds nice. Except the truth is, before my co-worker set the example and spoke with Florence, I'd passed by this homeless lady a dozen or more times. I never stopped, never talked, never waved, never cared. Worse, I resented the fact that she was living on the street near Moody.

Yes, there are people on the streets due to drug and alcohol abuse. Yes, there are people on the streets with mental problems that no government handout can fix. Yes, there are shady characters among them. But must we judge and label and shun every last one of them?

What if we got to know a few of them? What if we greeted them? Is it possible we don’t love them because we don’t know them? Would it kill us to learn their name—and use it?

Thanks to Florence, I have more questions than answers.

But whoever has worldly goods and sees his brother or sister in need, and closes his heart against him, how does the love of God remain in him? Little children, let’s not love with word or with tongue, but in deed and truth.

• I John 3:17-18