Frozen Mercy – Walking Madison's Ice
Part of the Marker Stones series (3 of 4)
I arrived in Madison on a Greyhound from my brother’s place in Virginia. It was winter—real winter. The kind of cold that doesn’t announce itself so much as take hold of you from the first breath and refuse to let go.
The bus stopped in Chicago along the way. On the platform, people were freezing. I gave away the only two warm jackets I had. By the time I reached Wisconsin, I was already underdressed for what waited there.
The first night, wandering near State Street and the university, I found a halfway house. A man there took mercy on me. He broke the rules and let me sleep in a recliner. He risked trouble for a stranger. I’ve never forgotten that. He wore a large crucifix around his neck.
I was starving, but I felt compelled to fast. When I finally gave in, I waited until the students cleared out of Ian’s Pizza on State Street and ate the crusts they’d left behind—cold, dry, barely food at all.
They tasted like ambrosia.
Madison in January has teeth. Snow everywhere. Wind off the lakes that cuts straight through bone. I walked out onto frozen Lake Mendota in flip-flops, watching students play pickup hockey across a white, endless expanse. One ice fisherman, bundled head to toe in winter gear, stared at me—shorts, light jacket, bare feet in sandals—as if I’d stepped out of a story. He asked to take a photo of my feet to show his friends and family back home. I let him.
The second night, around two in the morning, I met a drunk UW student from Minnesota—lost, unable to find her apartment. She’d worked as a cocktail waitress at a comedy club on State Street. As we talked, she mentioned their open mic nights. That was how I learned about it.
We used my phone to navigate. She invited me back to her place and passed out almost immediately. I covered her with a blanket and slept on the couch. In the morning, we talked—about her family, her life. I believe God put me there that night instead of someone else. I still think about her sometimes. I hope she’s okay.
Another night, I went back to that same comedy club and tried to sign up for the open mic. I showed up barefoot. They wouldn’t let me on.
I avoided shelters. They felt darker than the streets.
When doors were open, I sat in Catholic churches to warm up. Holy Redeemer on Johnson Street became familiar. I would sit and stare at Jesus on the crucifix, drawn so strongly it hurt—but I didn’t know His name to call. I didn’t know how to give myself to Him yet. I was still following signs.
One night, trying to stay warm in a hotel vestibule, a man told me he worked there and could get me a room. He led me up the elevator—to his personal room. He offered me the couch, then insisted I take the bed. I was naïve. When he made a move, I ran.
Another evening, I wandered into a charity ballroom event honoring African American contributors to the city. There was free banquet food. I went table to table, introducing myself. People listened. They were kind. One younger man, stylish scarf wrapped neatly around his neck, offered me a place to stay. We walked together and ended up huddled beneath a plastic tarp downtown. When he made a move, I left again.
At the State Capitol, I found an unlocked window leading to a closed rooftop balcony. I climbed through barefoot into deep snow. From up there, Madison stretched out—frozen, silent, beautiful. I stayed only a moment.
It was worth it.
At some point, I tried to leave. I walked miles through snow to the airport and flew toward Sacramento, with a long layover in Las Vegas—for reasons I still don’t know how to explain. The Strip felt wrong. Mid-layover, I changed my ticket and flew straight back into the ice.
Back in Madison, a woman working at Starbucks—a second job after waitressing, painting Christmas windows on the side—heard my story. She saw the state I was in. She bought me boots and socks. She gave me her jacket. Then she convinced a restaurant-owner friend to let me stay in an under-construction space nearby.
To earn the stay, I helped move supplies from the basement to the main floor. I slept on a wooden bench. The building was cold, but a powerful space heater turned it into a sanctuary. I stayed several days. She took me to church with her mom. She tried to buy me food. I refused.
Outside a Trader Joe’s near that restaurant, a homeless man sat calmly—still as water. He seemed to hold the keys to understanding the universe. He told me he used to teach at UW. I believed him.
That same week, I helped homeless people at a shelter with their feet. The shelter was city-run, but a UW student had organized a special service that day—cleaning wounds, fitting donated shoes. There was a divorced man there who had lost everything, and I remember noticing how out of place he looked. The irony struck me: despite helping them, I wasn’t far from their condition myself—flip-flops, no home, wandering the ice, searching for something solid.
When nothing was open at night, I slept in parking garage stairwells, curled near concrete vents for whatever warmth they gave. I slept an hour at a time—never long enough to rest.
Days were endless walking. Each day farther. Each day more lost inside.
Eventually, I gave in. I paid twenty dollars to stay at a hostel on Butler Street. I stayed about a week. Mornings talking with the owner. Afternoons jogging barefoot through snow and ice.
I thought suffering was the assignment.
I didn’t know God was carrying me through it.
Every mercy—the recliner, the crusts, the protected girl, the boots and the heater, the hostel—was Him saying, I’ve got you, son.
The darkness tried. It didn’t win. He did.
If you’re walking your own ice right now—flip-flops in the snow, nowhere warm to go—know this:
He sees you.
He’ll open a church door.
He’ll send boots when you need them.
He’s bringing you home.
Praise Jesus,
Jason
Read the full series: [1. The Divine Anhinga] [2. Exactly Where the Rain Fell] [3. Frozen Mercy] [4. Savage Nights]