“You’re a writer?” asked an eighty-year-old homeless man named George over lunch with a group of some of my friends who meet every Friday.
“I am,” I said.
“What do you write?”
“Devotional material, Christmas novellas, essays. Used to be a sportswriter.”
“What do you write about?”
“Love, loss, loneliness.”
“Are you married?”
“Ah, so you’re a ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ sort of romantic?”
“Yeah, I guess I am.”
It took George about thirty seconds to figure me out. His eyesight is failing but his heart sees just fine. That comes from his days as a plumber, he tells my friend Tom, who introduced George to our Friday group. According to George, you have to be able to read people well when you are a plumber. It’s a skill that comes in handy, no matter the profession.
George talks about his younger days in Milwaukee — its great pizza places and how the ones in Omaha pale in comparison. He moved to Omaha from Milwaukee three years ago. He lives in his car now — a car that doesn’t run. So he takes the bus whenever he needs to go somewhere.
The other day, when temperatures were in the nineties, he asked someone to help him push his car down the street so he could be in the shade. The person obliged. The incredible thing is, George doesn’t complain about his lot — at least, not from what I’ve heard. He’d rather offer his opinion about politics or COVID-19 or Milwaukee, and he does so as any learned man might.
Meanwhile, Tom shows him Jesus. He cuts George’s hair, shaves him, takes his clothes to the cleaners, picks him up for Sunday morning worship and asks our Friday group to pray for George. And we do. My prayer is that as George hears us talk about the implications of the gospel that it will cause him to consider them as well, and that ultimately, he’ll have eyes to see and surrender to Jesus. Will you join me in praying for George?