He walked into my office one day. I was still working as a
family therapist. He was alone, which was
unusual. There was usually more
than one. I remember my first impressions: He was old, obviously
worn down from all the living. His
skin was fragile, transparent, like the slightest touch would draw
blood. His face was wrinkled, his
brows wild and bushy. His muscles were gone, used up over all the
years. He was a bit slumped, giving
him the appearance of having carried many burdens over his
lifetime. He walked with a slight
limp, probably from falling on numerous misguided paths. Still, his
eyes were penetrating. He stared at
me with a longing to find something, perhaps salvation,
something I was not prepared to
give him.
Everything had taken its toll on
him, including the booze. Mainly whiskey. I don’t know what they
thought I could do. He talked and I
listened. Stories of delight, hope, despair, betrayal, friendship,
love, hate, forgiveness and lack of
forgiveness, all meshed into sixty-seven years of living. Back
from prison; homeless and living on
Skid Row; married and divorced, at least three times; rejected
as a father by his son and
daughter; lost jobs and bankruptcies until he was forced to beg; a bleeding
ulcer and pancreatitis and numerous
broken bones from beatings. Back from promises broken and
nightmares turned real. Each time
saved he was thankful, but not enough to quit drinking. Not for
very long. What could I do for him
but listen, say thanks for sharing, help him from his chair, gently
squeeze his hand, touch him lightly
on the shoulder, and hope, as I was showing him out, that I at
least made the slightest
difference.
I woke up at 1a.m. I had been
dreaming about meeting Christ. I shook my head to get the cobwebs
out. Suddenly it occurred to me: I already had.
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