**Against All the Odds: Why Me?**

A ferocious thunderstorm raged through the night, like the heavens were angry, unleashing their fury upon the world. In the dim glow of streetlights, barely visible through the pouring rain, a bald man sat hunched inside a cardboard box. His long, white beard dripped with rainwater, and his scarred scalp glistened with wetness. The surgical scar that ran along his head, a permanent reminder of a life-saving operation, seemed to pulse under the relentless downpour.

Clutching a damp bundle of stale bread and half-eaten fruits salvaged from nearby dustbins, he tried to shield the precious food from the storm. His thick clothes, worn and patched, did little to keep the cold at bay, while his dark glasses perched awkwardly on his nose, fogged up from the mix of rain and steam rising from his body heat.

His hands, smeared with grime and blood from old wounds, trembled slightly as he held onto the food. Each finger was a testament to his struggle—scarred, messy, but unrelenting. The man’s round, expressive eyes, even behind the cracked lenses of his glasses, gleamed with a quirky determination. Every so often, a strange, crooked smile stretched across his face, as if mocking the cruelty of the storm. 

*Why me?* he thought, not with bitterness, but with a bizarre, almost amused curiosity. "Why always me?" His words were swallowed by the crashing thunder. He had asked this question a thousand times, each time with less anger and more resignation. 

Behind him, barely visible in the out-of-focus background, was an old art studio. The once vibrant and chaotic space was now abandoned, just like him—left to decay in the storm. Once upon a time, he had been an artist. Paintings, sculptures, and sketches had flowed from his hands, hands that now shook as he fought to hold onto food scraps. But life had taken a cruel turn. The surgical scar, a reminder of the brain surgery due to his near-fatal accident that robbed him of his talent, had also taken away his family, his home, his career, and his health. With this it made his own family say “WE DON'T NEED YOU…”

Yet, even amid this chaos, he found something to smile about. Life had been unfair, yes. It had left him homeless, drenched, hungry, and wounded. But it hadn't taken everything. That quirky smile remained, and so did his will to survive. Against all the odds, he was still here, defying the storm, the world, and the cruel twists of fate that had marked him. 

As the rain intensified, his smile grew broader. He leaned back against his cardboard shelter, his eyes twinkling with a strange peace. "Why me?" he whispered once more, but this time, he didn’t wait for an answer. He already knew it. Because despite everything—he was still standing. Still here.

Thank you, God, for protecting and keeping me alive…

God bless us all

Jacob M