If you added up the minutes I sit waiting to turn left at the corner of Westheimer and Dairy Ashford, it would amount to almost nothing. It would be a relative fraction of the months this one man must sit on that same corner's concrete median in his wheelchair—day after day. I assume he's homeless, though he never has a sign. He never attempts to make an appeal. But I always attempt not to make eye contact, his face uncomfortably close to mine, until today.
My route takes me past him almost daily, but only on Sundays do I see him donning a reflective orange vest, "Houston Chronicle" emblazoned across the shoulders. It's his robe of legitimacy. For one day only, that vest and a nearby stack of newsprint give him a reason to stake his claim on that corner. The other six days, he's just borrowing uncertain space.
This morning I watched a girl hop out a few cars behind me to trade small bills for his wares. He held the cash in his teeth while he fumbled to untuck a wallet from layers of coats—in Houston, in May. When the turn signal allowed her to drive past, he waved a clumsy, gloved hand in her direction. It made me smile. It made me sad I hadn't bought a paper. It made me wonder if she really wanted to read the news or if she had merely hoped to brighten his day. From the looks of things, I doubt he can boast many customers.
But in his garish orange, I saw something of myself. He made me think of Jesus' righteousness. That vest—it doesn't belong to him. It isn't his own name he bears. When he wears it one day a week, he's bestowed with validity, credibility. It gives him purpose. With it, he can hold his head a little higher—without it, he's forgotten.
Tonight, I again landed the second spot in the turn lane, my wheels directly aligned with his. I waved, windows rolled up, making an effort to acknowledge, remembering the girl a few hours earlier. But I quickly averted my eyes. I waited. I took a deep breath. I looked his way again and rolled down the window, just seconds before the green arrow.
"Hi, what's your name?"
"Julius Quinn."
"Hi, Julius. I'm Meredith. I don't need a newspaper, but I just wanted to say hello."
"I need a lot of help."
"May I pray for you?"
"Yes, see I owe a lot of money to the Chronicle—think you could help me out?"
The ill-timed light changes.
"Julius, I'm sorry, I don't have any cash right now. I have to go."
I felt trite. Why did I hand him an empty offer of prayer? What good did that do from his perspective without something tangible attached? I don't know what I'll do next time I see Julius, but at least now I know his name, and he's already taught me something.
I'm an awful lot like Julius Quinn. I've been given a great name, a kindness I can never repay. The new identity I've been given in Jesus is a robe of righteousness I should wear every waking moment, though I often choose to go without.
Without Jesus—and his righteousness—I'm homeless. May I continue to find my home in him alone.
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