Last night I sat with my new friend Jacob beneath the twinkling string-lights on the porch of Cafe Coco. Having previously conversed with him about life and spirituality, I started curiously prodding him for conclusions he had come to about the universe since reclaiming the faith. I use the word "reclaiming" in place of the word "renouncing," because I do not feel this is appropriate for his journey. But I was interested in the deconstruction of his once-baptist belief system and how it translates into his views on everything from polyamory to the connection of the human race.
In short, Jacob believes we are all united. I used to hate when I found something to be true that did not clearly fit into my theology. But my goal is to get to the place where I don't internally flinch when someone has a different perspective than I have heard regurgitated in the church. In this case, I do not disagree. We are all made in the image of God. All from the earth. And it's true. The earth does unify us.
I am currently reading Rob Bell's "Sex God: Exploring the Endless Connections Between Sexuality and Spirituality". Bell defines sexuality as our deep need for human connection. I find when the Lord is trying to teach me something new he reiterates it through a series of experiences. Last night was no exception.
As Jacob paused in his speech a shirtless man appeared out of nowhere.
It is not abnormal for the slumping stoop of Cafe Coco to attract many of our homeless friends. One in particular I have connected with goes by Badger. That is his real name. I say this because I truly believe he has forgotten his birth name. Badger travels the country collecting roadkill and making art out of it. Sometimes we exchange mediums. Recently, he gave me feathers to add into an abstract piece I am working on. We share art and stories. We are in the business of bringing the dead to life.
Enter Jonathan William Dickson.
If you're wondering if he is a tweaker, the answer is no. He is simply a sad man who chooses to tweak more often than the average bear. We made eye contact. He came and pulled up a chair across from me.
Jacob looked hesitant. Because he was on the clock, he offered the man a cup of water. I could discern his underlying intention was to alert management. Others around looked concerned. There was a collective energy deciding this man needed to be escorted off the property. I could feel it on my skin and in my hair.
But something happened after Jacob got up to find an escort.
The man looked up at me, and said,
"I am sorry if I've offended you. I am just lonely."
Immediately, I felt a supernatural peace fall on me and I said,
"Sir. You have not offended me in the least. I understand. I am lonely too. I think we all are."
He paused for a moment and started to cry.
"I just can't stop punishing myself!" He groaned.
"What did you do?" I asked.
With complete ownership, he did not hesitate.
"I killed someone. I am a murderer."
I did not flinch. I felt the Lord asking me to press in.
"How old were you when you killed someone?"
"I killed someone as a drunk driver twenty-five years ago. I've gone to prison. I've done a lot of things. But I just can't forgive myself. And I am very lonely."
Suddenly, our conversation was interrupted by management who came outside with a group of cooks and a baseball bat.
"YOU!"
They yelled.
"Get up! Get the hell out of here. You can't be here without a shirt on!"
I calmly looked at him and continued our conversation with authority in my voice as they approached.
"Hold on. We're talking," I said.
"Sir, what is your name?" I asked.
"Jonathan William Dickson."
The tone in his voice shifted like a small child being asked about their name and age. There was a sense of innocence, a sense of identity, a sense of pride. And I wondered how long it had been since this man had been asked who he was. He responded as if he was being invited into the warm, cozy, house of himself. Like he was coming home. In that moment he wasn't shelterless. In that moment, he wasn't an orphan.
As management began to pull at him and urge him out of his seat with the bat, I reached for his hand. This was his moment of dignity despite a world around him that was trying to strip him of it.
"Jonathan William Dickson. My name is Autumn Jade. It was a pleasure to meet you. Please forgive yourself. I am twenty-five years old. You have grieved every day that I have been alive. Release yourself. Forgive yourself. Have peace my friend."
Management pulled back, feeling awkward and uncertain in their decision to force him out.
In hindsight, I wish I had said something further, urged them not to take my friend. If being shirtless was their reasoning, I wish I had taken off my extra flannel and just given it to him. I am ashamed of my cowardice in the moment. However, there was a certain feeling of closure that sealed our time. I felt him sink away inside his head again. In a flash he was lost in his own eyes as quickly as he had appeared.
I still believe our encounter was not coincidence.
Human connection.
Last night Jonathan William Dickson was an interesting puzzle piece in my existence. Today, I take my sabbath in rest praying for him. And praying for myself. I needed him just as much as he needed me to fuel the journey.
So, we forgive ourselves.
We forgive each other.
We strive for connection.
We keep moving.
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