Talking With Christ
He walked into my office. He was old, worn down from all the living.
His skin had that fragile, transparent look, like the slightest touch
wold draw blood. Everything had taken its toll, including the booze.
Whiskey mainly. I don't know what they thought I could do. They said I
was good at what I did, but this....He talked and I listened. Stories of
delight, hope, despair, betrayal, friendship, love, hate, all meshed
into sixty-seven years of living. He had died and come back maybe five
or six times. Back from prison, homeless and on skid row, rejected by
his son and daughter, countless lost jobs, two divorces, a bleeding
ulcer. Back from promises unkept and nightmares turned real. Each time
saved he was thankful, but not enough to quit drinking. What could I do
for him but listen, say thank you for sharing our life, help him from
his chair, gently squeeze his shoulder, and wonder how you tell Christ
he's Christ? I guess you just let it go.
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