Greg

“Do you have 65-cents?” he asked me as I placed my last quarter in the blinking meter off Coalfax.

“I don’t,” I said apologetically. I glanced at my phone. “Hey, but it’s only fifteen minutes until six. They stop ticketing then.” I called back to him, “I’ll bet you can make it.”

He seemed a little confused at first, as he looked at the car next to him, and then back at me before nodding, “Okay, sure.”

He was of average height with the frame of a blue-collar worker, built almost as if he was made for labor, the way he swung his green army bag high and confidently around his broad shoulders. I noticed his hands as they gripped the straps. They were large and callused, proof of the day’s work still lingering under his fingernails. His eyes, however, made a perfect contrast: soft, almost angelic, the deep crows framing his light baby blues like arrows, pointing right to the window of his soul. Their beauty intensified against the backdrop of his dark features. The brown scruff of his hair and beard, the deep rose on his nose and cheeks, his leather-like skin weathered from age, the sun and perhaps something more. I knew that complexion, it matched my father’s. Maybe that’s what spurred my immediate attraction to him.

As we both walked toward the intersection, we became subtly aware of each other’s presence. Him a little in front, me a little behind, timidly, but heading in the same direction. It was then that I realized he was likely homeless. He paused as if waiting for me to catch up and shot me a shy smile as I did, interlacing his hands under the straps of his green olive bag so it lifted a bit higher on his back. It was a sincere smile, jolly even. I couldn't help but smile back almost immediately. As we crossed the street, I realized we might be going to the same place. “I’m going to get some wine,” I said, as I gestured toward the corner store. “Would you like a beer?” I asked.

That smile widened immediately.

“After you,” he said, holding the door open for me. The bells hanging from the convenient store door clinked as we walked inside together. He proceeded to guide me down the store aisles, speaking of different bottles like a librarian recommending old books. I heard him rambling, but I wasn’t particularly listening. I was distracted by the rich smells of bourbon, stale beer and dirty water settled in the mop bucket by the vending machine. It made it all the more spectacular as I enjoyed his excitement in showing me around. He was in his element, but it wasn’t all that different from mine.

“Bare feet,” he said. I glanced down at my boots and then at his.

“No,” he laughed. “The Australian wine. That one’s real good. Your friends’ll like that.”

We searched until we located it. I grabbed a nine dollar bottle of the cabernet, and we headed to the counter to pay, both of us setting down our drinks of choice in unison. He had selected a tall boy, some type of artisan beer with an artistic purple drawing of a man’s face on the front.

“I like the label.” I said.

“Me too,” he agreed. More smiles.

“Separate?” asked the mousy Asian man at the counter. He was short, in height and in patience.

“Together,” I replied, as I handed over my credit card. The bells clinked once more as we exited the tiny shop, brown bags in tow.

“May I ask you your name?” he said extending his hand.

“Sure,” I said, but I paused just slightly as a flash of irrational fear struck my conscious mind like a whip. No, I told it defiantly. Keep going. He’s just a nice man. I exhaled and extended my hand. “I’m Jessica. And you are?”

“I am Greg,” he said casually.

As we shook hands, he used his left to cup over mine, as if fighting his own mental battle, a desire for physical touch, yet not trying to overstep his own boundaries. We stood there shaking hands in front of the store, a few moments past what is probably considered ordinary.

“Thank you, Miss Jessica. God Bless you,” he said with a playful laugh.

“Thank you, Mr. Greg. I enjoyed your company and your recommendations.”

“My pleasure,” he said humbly, looking down at our hands.

Fear kept its presence known in the back of my mind, like waves crashing on rocks in a storm. Stranger danger. What if he’s mentally unstable? What if he hurts me? But what if he doesn’t? I fought against the urge to be scared of the unknown. To pull my hand away. To cower at his innocent touch.

“God bless you,” I repeated his own words back to him and he looked up at me. Those three little words, reserved for Christian pleasantries and sneezes had transformed in front of us to a simple prayer. When our eyes met, my soul begged for Greg’s to be flooded with unconditional love, not the romantic kind, but the simple truth that you do matter. It was a pure, yet simple moment. There wasn’t time to think or speak, it all happened so fast and in the same instant; but as our eyes locked, we connected and a mutual appreciation radiated between us. We had become friends the way children do, innocently accepting each other in this fleeting moment. No judgement. No expectations. Just love in its rawest form. I was so grateful to have met this man. I felt a fierce intensity in the pit of my stomach, but at the same time an odd, but gentle calmness, like there was something more than just the two of us here.

As I stared at Greg intentionally, I began to notice the details in his crystal-like eyes. I had seen those colors before. The shades of blues and white surrounding his pupils brought me back to a picture in my own mind of myself just a year earlier, standing on a fishing boat in front of a massive waterfall, staring in bewilderment at the power and majesty of the rushing water in Milford Sound. I remember it vividly. I was transfixed by the experience. The round mountains, covered in rich green moss. The seals waddling over big rocks on the sea banks. The sensation of being gently kissed by nature from both the warm sun and the cool mist from the waterfall as it crashed violently into the sound below. The rainbows. I remember being amazed by the duality found in nature, as I found it both inconceivably powerful and immeasurably peaceful as I pondered my own place within it.

That same feeling was back. It was coming from being with Greg. The mystery of his soul and the way it somehow connected with my own. As I looked at him, I felt the presence of something powerful, yet tranquil here. The energy dancing between us was almost tangible, holy even. He looked at me as if to say, “I feel it too.” Maybe my fear was right and he was insane, but then again, that meant so was I. But maybe we weren’t crazy at all. Maybe we were experiencing a rare, but precious glimpse of the gossamer of life. A realization that we are all connected and there is something more. While not logically explained, something was undeniably felt and I wasn’t about to waste it.

As I stared directly into Greg’s eyes and he stared back into mine, I began praying silently, but boldly. I focused all of my energy into being present in this moment, shooting my words like lasers, through my squinty eyes to his. Please let him feel it. I cried out in my mind, all of it. Right now. Your strength. Your grace. Your wonder. You did it for me once. Do it for him too. Give Greg a glimpse of his worth in Your eyes through mine. Give him Your peace, Your forgiveness, Your unconditional love. Give him dignity. Take away his shame. And give me that too. Take away my desire to judge him. Take away my inclination to be proud. Take away my fear. Humble my heart so You can touch his.

We dropped hands. Greg shot me one more bashful smile before turning away from me and heading toward the Beacon Place Shelter, cracking open his beer to enjoy on the walk there. I fought back the rush in my nose to cry as I realized I would likely never see him again and how badly I longed for him to feel loved. The tears did eventually come, but only much later when I finally admitted to myself that the deep love I was craving wasn’t just for Greg. I wanted that grace and acceptance too. I think maybe we all do.