He is there, sitting sentry by the door entrance garbage can of the Safeway on 19th and R. Sitting silently, not quite meeting your eyes, or so you think, until you take the time to really look for his eyes. Jesus’s eyes are soft with compassion and resignation as he carefully reaches up to pat his matted afro, and yawn, and settle into himself once again. In the past three months I have never seen him beg.
He is not emaciated. He is not seemingly, mentally ill. He is observant, the personification of quietude, and willing to accept gifts of money and food. Offers of companionship, company, or physical human solace have never been seen by me on any of these mornings.
I am his witness. I feel his spirit, and believe him to be one of the myriad eyes of God, set among us to watch, and smell, and feel our rushing preoccupied otherness.
I am his servant, and brother, and pledge to listen, watch, and feel for what he can show me on these cool distracted matins.