She appeared in midsummer and I must have ridden past her 50 times, always curious, more than a little ashamed.

I commute to work by bike on the Eliza Furnace Trail (the jail trail) and that's where I started seeing Janet. She was sitting along the trail on a large planter bed by the Greyhound station with suitcases, backpacks and other belongings.

With her dark skin, wide-set eyes and colorful headscarf, she had the look of an African refugee somehow displaced in Pittsburgh. A few times we made eye contact and I was surprised to see her flash a gentle smile, not something you often see on the face of a homeless person Downtown.

As the season wore on, I would see her with a broom, sweeping leaves to the side and even stuffing them in bags. Where she got a broom, I had no idea, but it was as if she was keeping house here on this hard ground between the parkway and the Greyhound lot. Her stuff was neatly organized -- clothes hung carefully on tree branches, a tattered Bible sitting next to her.

Every time I pedaled by, I said to myself, "This time I'm going to stop," but, to be honest, I haven't had much experience reaching out to people like this and something held me back.

Over the high holidays, Rabbi Stephen Listfield of Tree of Life gave an inspiring sermon. It addressed how hard it is to believe in God when so much in the world goes wrong. Pretty standard sermon material, but this one was more honest and forthright than any I'd heard.

He was talking about a Time magazine story revealing Mother Teresa's doubts about her faith. The rabbi wondered, if Mother Teresa, a saint who devoted her life to God and helping the impoverished, could have these doubts, where does that leave the rest of us? His conclusion was, regardless of what you believe, what you practice, the most important thing is this: "Go out and do some good for someone."

The next Saturday I drove to the trail and asked the woman if I could buy her lunch. She nodded politely and said she would love the chicken planks and fries from the Greyhound station. While she nibbled on those, she told me her story in a low, raspy voice that was hard to hear over the cars whizzing by.

Her name was Janet. She was 51. She wasn't from Africa, she was from Youngstown. She has six grown children, scattered around the country and as far away as Germany. She had left Youngstown to see her 3-year-old granddaughter in Johnstown. Long story short, things didn't go well there, so she caught a bus home. But when it stopped in Pittsburgh, she didn't get back on.

She had a troubled family life and a troubled past. She mentioned having been abused in a shelter or institution. Now, she had planted herself in the middle of Pittsburgh out of fear of going anywhere else. There was no way she was going into housing with other people, no matter how miserable the weather turned.

I realized she wasn't a homeless person, she was a stranded person -- like Tom Hanks in "The Terminal." She was impossibly stubborn, but also sweet and quick to laugh and joke around, with a vain streak, as well. On Light Up Night, I said, "Why don't you walk Downtown? There's free food and holiday music." She pointed to her old maroon sweatpants and said, "Oh, I couldn't go down there like this."

I started making regular stops and weekend visits. She and my two youngest kids even became friends, and my 3-year-old would give her a hug. Janet would always offer them something -- juice packs or candy bars. We visited her with turkey dinners on Thanksgiving and Christmas Day, and gave her sweaters, coats and a portable CD player with a holiday music sampler my wife made that included a song Janet would grow to love -- Joni Mitchell's "Come In From the Cold."

I was hardly Janet's only friend along the trail. There were so many people -- social workers, bikers, other homeless people and members of Operation Safety Net (OSN) -- doing more for her than me. Everyone was trying to talk her into emergency housing.

When the temperatures started hitting single digits at night, I was aghast that she was still there toughing it out. She said she could hardly feel her toes. We talked about the woman who died of exposure on the other side of the Mon. Janet didn't want to die, but didn't want to leave. At one point, I even called the Hill District police station and asked if she could be taken by force. In January I talked to a program for abused women, and after hours of discussion, persuaded Janet to go the next morning.

She was reluctant that day and overcome with anxiety. The woman who answered the door offered coffee and took us to a nice clean room, where Janet stood motionless with her hood on, wracked with fear. When the director showed up, she wouldn't allow Janet to stay, saying anyone who'd been homeless that long was in need of counseling they couldn't offer. As we trudged back down the stairs with all her stuff, Janet said to me, "Show me a woman who has been abused who doesn't suffer from trauma."

An hour later, Janet was back on the jail trail in a freezing rain, more miserable than ever. She had felt the warmth of the indoors, been thrown back into the cold and now had lost trust in me. She told one of her friends, "I'm tired of living like a dog."

That, at least, was progress.

Earlier this month, I rode by and Janet was gone. Apparently, she had taken a taxi to a South Side laundromat and got stuck there in a snow storm. She spent a week or so wandering the streets without a winter coat. She slept in doorways, found occasional shelter in a garage and got a little help from the owner of an upscale restaurant on Carson. Finally, one of the tireless people from OSN located her and talked her into housing.

That's the end of the story for now. And it seems like a happy one. Janet survived the brutal winter. I'm hoping she can get her life back together and reunite with her family.

By leaving my e-mail address posted on a tree along the trail, I've heard from several people who helped Janet. They were there for her more than I was and probably didn't hesitate as long.

Most of them made reference to God in their e-mails. It's comforting to know those people are out there.