I’m not though and on Thursday night, in downtown Dallas, Nicholas, a homeless man, stopped me to ask me a question. We were standing in the middle of an underpass, at night. “Sir, will you listen to me?”
“Absolutely.”
Nicholas is a self-proclaimed Vietnam War veteran who had his right calf blown off in the war (he nearly took my hand off shaking it). He doesn’t have any teeth, but he was rocking a huge rosary over his raggedy T-shirt, which draped loosely above sweat pants blackened by life, not dye. Each time he spoke, he clutched desperately at his rosary.
“Thank you, sir. I’m not a drug user. See?” he said revealing the underside of his forearm, “I have pills on me, but they are prescription and they are for my war wounds.” He pulled three bottles out and handed them to me. “Life dealt me a rough deck of cards, but I don’t blame nobody. I’ve been begging for eight days and I’ve got a $1.80. I need $12 to stay at the shelter and get three meals plus a shower.”
“Why do they charge at the shelter?”
“Because I have a source of income.”
“What is your source of income?”
“I get disability checks from the government. Please, believe me I don’t spend it on drugs or alcohol or nothin’,” he was frantic dropping the rosary, lifting his sleeves again, and emptying his pockets.
“I believe you.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m sorry. Please, just listen,” he said beginning to sob.
I was in Dallas for a ministry development session with a psychologist. It’s required for ministry candidates in my denomination. Earlier that morning, the doctor told me I have a reactive personality. She told me that quality would not be beneficial in ministry. She said it would surface mostly in stressful, pressured situations. She advised, “learn to be present, listen, and thoughtful in situations making you feel anxious.”
Sure thing, doc.
“Why are you crying?”
“Just believe me, please. I don’t do that stuff,” his knuckles were white hiding the rosary.
“I believe you, Nicholas. Why are you crying?”
“I’m scared to sleep on the streets. Everyone thinks I’m a druggie.”
“I don’t. What do you need me to do? What would you like?”
“I just need ten bucks, and then I’m going to go to the shelter.”
“Okay, where is the shelter Nicholas?”
“Oh God, please just believe me. I’m sorry,” tears bubbling over.
“Nicholas, I believe you. Now, stop. Just tell me how to get to the shelter.”
He explained very detailed directions to me. My iPhone confirmed the directions.
“I don’t have any cash on me. Would you like to walk with me to the gas station? They have an ATM.”
“They run me out of there. They don’t like me. They say I’m bad for business," he shook his head frantically.
Shocking.
“Okay, I’ll be back.”
“Please, I’m sorry. I’ll just wait here.”
“Stop apologizing. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
For the ATM’s that charge $5.00 for withdrawals, there should be a ‘for the homeless guy’ button you can press to waive the fee. Cursing under my breath, I grabbed the twenty, got change at the counter, and pushed back outside. Nick stood in the same spot sobbing still.
“Nick?”
“Oh, thank God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Thank you.”“Stop for a second and listen to me. It’s not my business to know what you do with this money. It’s my job to engage you and discern from the Spirit what to do. I’m not going to ask you where your disability check goes. I don’t care. I believe God’s Spirit is leading me to give you $15, so that you can go to the shelter. I believe you, Nick.”
“I don’t need $15,” he said pushing a five dollar bill back into my hand.
“Nick, just keep it.”
“No sir, I only need $10 dollars.”
“Nick you just said the shelter cost you $12.”
“I’ve been begging for 8 days and I have $2,” he brandished a nasty Taco Bell cup with change weighing on the inside.
“Could you use five extra dollars, Nick?”
“Yes.”
“Then, here keep it.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Thank you so much. I’m so sorry.”
“Nick, why are you apologizing?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know. Can I give you some water?”
“My bottle is full. That’s okay, you keep it.”
“Oh God, I’m sorry, sir.”
“Nick, stop.”
“Do you believe in Jesus?”
“Yeah, I’m a youth pastor.”
Clapping excitedly and showing all zero of his teeth, Nick nearly shrieked with joy. He then clutched his rosary, pressed it to his lips, and then pointed to the sky.
“Do you see?” he asked. I nodded and wiped a tear from my eye. I saw it.
“Will you pray for me?”
“Yeah, Nick I'll pray.”
I wrapped my whole arm around his back and hugged him tightly. Our heads rested against one another. I asked God to watch over Nick. I asked the Spirit to keep Nick accountable so that he may not misuse the grace that he received. I asked the Spirit to keep me humble in all situations like this one. I prayed for all those in lesser positions, and thanked God for the charmed life I have been given. Amen.
“Thank you, pastor.”
“I love you, Nick. Be good and take care of yourself.”
He shook my hand three different times, hugged me, and apologized again. We parted after that.
On my way back from dinner, in the exact same spot where I met Nick, a truck pulled next to the curb and the passenger window dropped.
“Hey, let me give you this.”
“What is it?”
“Food, water, socks, a bible, and a bit of money.”
“I’m not homeless.”
“Oh…” and the shiny Chevy pick-up drove off without another word.
I felt my face boil with anger. Reactive personality. My only thought, “I loved Nicholas.”
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