Hey, that's my shirt!

A few weeks ago, James and I played hooky for a day. Sort of. We didn't go to our places of employment. Instead we cleaned our closets of clothes, office supplies, and toiletries we didn't need, and went on a field trip to three of NOLA's homeless shelters. The New Orleans Mission, a shelter for men, Lindy's Place, a shelter for women over the age of 21, and Liberty House, for women ages 15-24 who are homeless and pregnant.

Each day since, as we drive past the NOLA Mission on our way home, James has been searching anxiously for his clothing to appear on one of the men hanging out around the building or under the I10 on-ramp. I wasn't betting that he'd see anyone - and then, last week, we were headed through the stoplight when James squealed out in excitement "Hey, that's my shirt!" I was a little shocked and surprised and not quite sure what he was talking about. I also wasn't sure if he was trying to tell the guy it was his shirt and he wanted it back or if he was just sharing the news with me.



As we circled the block, heading toward the on-ramp, the guy crossed the parking lot walking in our direction. I grabbed our camera as we slowly drove by, James stuck his head out of the window and said, "Nice shirt, man." The man smiled, said "thank you," and stopped walking to admire his shirt for for a bit while also rocking back and forth. At the stop light, James snapped this photo in the truck's review mirror as evidence. "It looks good on him." He said with a satisfied tone as we drove away,"It never quite suited me, but on him - it's perfect."