Yesterday afternoon, some friends and I were driving through downtown Kansas City as I noticed a homeless man sitting on a bench on the side of the road. Was he holding a “Homeless—Need $--Anything will help” sign? No. Nor did he have a grocery cart with all of his belongings, or a body-sized bag strapped to his back. But there was a homely, hopeless air about him that said so. I immediately searched my bag for my camera, not because I make a habit of taking pictures of the homeless, but because I love pictures of adorable old men, and he most definitely fit this description. I successfully captured several pictures while at the red light, and then contentedly glanced through them as we drove away. And then I got a kick in the gut. As I looked through my pictures, suddenly this adorable old stranger of a man was not so adorable any more—he was broken. He was cold, in his layers of all the clothes he owned. He was hungry, for more than food and water and boos. But at least I got my picture. At least later I could show off my completely candid black and white and tell the story of how I didn’t stop and help a hurting man. As we drove, I ached. We arrived at the Jerusalem Café and as we ate I kept an almost constant gaze out the window, ½ hoping he would round the corner next, so I could have another chance and touching him, ½ pleading he wouldn’t, so I didn’t have to. And then, the 6 of us walking to the Tea Bubble—we passed him, sitting on the steps with another homeless man, just a few doors down from our destination. Damn it. As we walked inside and began to look at the menu, my very first taste of the famous ‘bubble tea’ was the absolute last thing I could keep on my mind. My aching heart seemed to be pounding more fiercely by the minute, as God and I got into quite the argument. AmyRose. What???! You know what. Go talk to him. No. Go talk to him. I don’t want to. Didn’t you ask me to open your eyes to the broken? Maybe. Did you mean it? (insert annoyed sigh) Go talk to him. Why?? Because I told you to. No. Go—TOUCH HIM. This conversation went on for several long, intense moments, until finally my answer was an irritated “Fine!” Rather than a deliberate “No!” Without much of an explanation or really without any at all—I exited the Tea Bubble, hugging my gray pea coat close to my chest as I briskly walked down the street back to the steps where I had seen the man, who now had another homeless friend sitting beside him. Screw standing up and looking down on them as I spoke. “Do you mind if I have a seat here with you, sir?” If you could imagine, for a moment, a nearly toothless, gray-bearded old homeless man, who had just been approached by a 23-yr. old/young woman on the busy streets of Kansas City, and the overwhelmingly thankful smile that I saw, I assure you, your heart would have broken into a million little pieces. As scattered as the conversation that followed was, it is nearly impossible to recount exactly what was said. Partly because as the man and his friend talked, it was often at the same time, and I could only pretend to understand all that they were saying J But I will tell you that my absolute favorite part was when my picture-perfect old man sang the Lord’s Prayer to me, accapella, hands half-raised, nearly toothless smile shining, nearly blind eyes squinting. I have no idea how that hymn actually goes, but I made quite a fetal attempt to sing along. What was at first a delicate serenade, soon became a melodic/harmonic duet; and though at first my off-pitch voice was barely audible, by the time we got to the ending “AMEN”—I was literally belting the harmony at the top of my lungs. Again, an absolutely priceless smile—as he gently punched me on the shoulder and grinned, “Look at you, girl!!” I explained moments later that I was actually with a group of people that I needed to get back to, and asked if they minded if I pray with them before leaving. I don’t know that I have ever seen any Christian as ecstatic as they were that I was willing to go before Him on their behalf. They were more excited about the prayer-to-come than they were when I first approached them on the steps. There is a difference between grabbing the hands of a fellow-believer during a prayer, and grabbing the hands of a homeless man. The ‘Christian’s grasp tends to be weak, and limp. And it is usually only done during house-church communion, mission trip meetings, or group dinners; and only because it seems to be the Christian, unifying thing to do. There is a complacency there—a lifelessness. A homeless man’s grasp, however, is strong and passionate, and sure. Because he grips as if he is holding on for dear life, and for Hope that he yearns for but has not yet seen. He holds on firmly, because he knows this moment, with this stranger on the street who saw that his heart was bleeding, may only once happen, and never again. After embracing them both and thanking them for allowing me the opportunity to sit and talk with them, I quickly walked back to the Tea Bubble, graciously thanking Him over and over again for moments He had just blessed me with. I thanked Him for opening my eyes to the broken, and for breaking my heart for their need. I thanked him for my candid photo and street-side serenade. But mostly, I thanked Him for a man named Moses. 
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