He sits at a subway restaurant, a few belongings stuffed onto a small table
anguish is apparent.
Layers of thick clothing zipped up to his neck
perspiration drizzling down his visible skin.
Eyes droopy and worn, clear exhaustion
with an alert panic and anxiety to his presence.
I am aware of him seated a few tables over,
however I am stumped a little frozen with what to make of him.
Whatever is going on there is great depth of need even just visually, I cannot fathom.
Our eyes meet, his desperation with my concern and uncertainty
dropping head upon extended arm he mumbles some words to me.
I find myself welcomed to sit at his table,
I am struck by his rawness, his quick trust and vulnerability.
Deep fears and wounds are simply voiced as his face crumbles
abuses, harms upon his life, sickening injustices.
Filthy lies and hatred sinking deep into him, haunting and tormenting
burdens so massive, he feels paralyzed to leave the table and face the world.
Words begin to catch in his throat as stories are shared.
He weeps while welcoming prayer,
One of pleading for peace,
Jesus presence to be known.
True identity
healing somehow, someway
Strength to walk out the door and keep living.
I feel quivery and unsure as I pray,
aware of this man's hurt and disappointment.
I don't want to make anything worse, or say the wrong thing.
My words feel thin, what am I doing?
Prayer comes to a close, eyes open.
Without words he stands up in response.
Timid
yet courageous,
peaceful
and unhurried.
He bends down and kisses me lightly on the cheek.
The presence of Jesus so tangible mysterious, holy catching us both by surprise.
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