James

We first met on street ministry – a service platform for people to purposely seek out and build friendship with those living on the streets. I am constantly learning new faces, so to keep track I tend to remember people by whatever sticks out the most. For James, it was the multiple layers of hats weighing down his tall, lanky body, often times with a small American flag popping out from the top left crease. Thinking on it now, I’m a bit surprised it wasn’t his crooked pinky I remembered. No, no, no. Not a slightly bent limb. I mean a Tetris-shaped finger he called his “nose-picking finger.”

Anyhow, he began attending our daily Bible Studies and Sunday Church services, offering his sweet smile and kind words with a carefully gentle voice comparable to that of Winnie the Pooh. One Sunday afternoon, he stopped me. "I think God told me to give this to you,” he said, handing me a tie-dye bracelet with the words “Jesus is the Answer” etched on its side. Incredibly enough, I had spent the past few weeks asking God to assure me He was the answer to all the pain and problems around me, because if He wasn’t, I needed to know immediately so I could stop lying to myself and the people I loved. But there He was, answering me through this multiple-hat-wearing, Tetris-pinky, Winnie-the-Pooh-voiced friend of mine.

A few months later, I had the privilege of supervising James in our discipleship program. It was one of the most frustrating yet humorous experiences. Why? James had suffered head trauma during the 2017 riots, severely damaging his memory. In my opinion, he may have, at times, played it to his advantage because, well, who wouldn’t? But for the most part, this man remembered the day of the week by writing it on his hand. It once took me three tries to get him to remember the day, time, and place I would pick him up for a scheduled doctor’s appointment. Guys, these things are hard to plan out. But every time I saw him after he’d missed it he would smile and give me a hug like nothing had happened. It’s hard to be mad at someone when you realize they’re doing their best. And also when they have no memory. For the record, we did finally make it to the appointment, hats, American flag, and this time, a pair of swim trunks too.

Unfortunately, James was unable to complete the program and a mix up in communication led him to believe he wasn’t welcomed back at all. We quickly corrected this, but alas, his short-term memory beat our best efforts. The next twelve months we saw him every so often during street ministry, continuously assuring him his presence was wanted and welcomed. At last, he returned, so consistently that seeing him became a part of my normal. Instead of crazy hats, however, he now sported Hawaiian shirts, bright jackets, lipstick, and the occasional stuffed bra, but the same kind spirit.

We began a routine. Every time he passed me on his way in to Bible Study he stopped to say hello, offering me his best compliments and a hug. One day he mentioned raccoons had taken it upon themselves to tear into the tent he slept in. I joked about him making friends with the woodland creatures but later brought him duct tape to patch it up. A week afterwards he reported his whole tent had been stolen. It wasn’t the first time. Still, Monday came and his spirits were up as he continued stopping his day to speak with me. Saturday morning I awoke to an article describing Charlotte’s 35th homicide - a sixty-year-old man found right outside a homeless camp near the community college. James.

I didn’t cry. By this point, I’d come to understand that sudden and/or violent death frequently visited. He was the eighth person I’d looked in the eye, smiled, laughed and shared an open sky with who had passed like this, though the third one in just five weeks. I’d only discovered his death because a co-worker sent me a text to confirm his last name. "He’s either dead or arrested” I thought as I googled his name. It’s just the way things seemed to work.

A bit disturbing isn't it? To know that I can grow accustomed to something as atrocious as murder. Or I suppose I'm in the middle of that decision, aren't I? I can choose to accept it as a common and continued part of reality and protect myself from its consequences by not getting too close to anyone and minimizing my prayers since what is will be. Or I can choose to see it as an opportunity to understand those who have faced this reality for generations; to get over my own insecurities and love people harder and sooner because time is as precious as every cliche predicts; and to pray bigger, because this isn't the way it was ever intended to be. It's a choice. There's always a choice.

I suppose, if you're still reading, there are a few things I hope you walk away with, depending on where you were when you started.

• Endings suck, especially when there are missing chapters.

• Unprocessed loss, big or bigger (because there is no small version) can build up walls and weapons you're better off not maintaining. Process. Unbuild. Notice your weapons and put them down.

• Consider what you might not understand before assigning judgments. Regularity breeds familiarity. Read more on that here and maybe here too.

• If death ends stories, the only thing worth putting hope in has to have defeated it.

My routine is broken. James doesn't tap my shoulder to get my attention on the way into Bible Study anymore, and he won't. But I've still got his bracelet and from where I stand, the belief that I will see him again. Here's to hoping he'll still have his "nose-picking finger."