I got the piece of mail I have dreaded receiving. I couldn't afford to pay my debts, let alone taxes. The winter taxes had come. I had to tell them, but that wouldn't matter to the collectors. They had to be paid.

About a year ago, I lost my wife to a devastating battle to an unknown illness. She fought too long and hard for her life, and God had decided it was time for her to fly home. I was, and am, an avid drinker. Coaxing my body with alcohol allowed me to feel as if she were still alive. But soon after the despair returns, and I cannot bear the pain. So again I sip.

And there I was now, just skin and bone, not a new pair of clothes on my back, scraps of food at the table, or a warm house at night. And I had to pay the taxes. I was dead. My house was gone. I was nothing.

That's when I gave up hope. I concluded it was time to walk about the lonely streets, not a space to claim my own. Every painful step brung back overloads of despair, the look of agony on...