Opening the door between the buildings, it’s the smell. Before I can walk outside, it hits me. Cigarette smoke. Like walking into the Rude Dog. Nicotine. Stuck thick to the walls. It was like an oily slime you can’t quite scrub off. After a night inside the Rude Dog, you came home, straight to shower off the night. That’s what walking between the buildings at Gibson is like.

And that smell? It’s stuck in my nostrils.

Wrapped up in a whitish bathrobe with fuzzy slippers on his feet and blue scrubs, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips, he appears defeated, shoulders hunched over, heading outside with a nurse. His hair is unkempt, falling into his face, shivering, not from the cold. He’s undergoing treatment, suffering the effects of withdrawal.

I smile and nod, walking past him and the nurse, lighting their cigarettes at the same time, bluish smoke wafting through the space between buildings. It’s a familiar sight for me at Gibson, and it made me think of a scene from the movie, Wonder Boys.

Terry Crabtree is sneaking a peek at James Leer’s manuscript, still warm from James’s last few keystrokes, held tight to the platen under the paper bail of the typewriter. He reads aloud: “It was a shock to see him shuffling into the room like an aging prize-fighter. Limping. Beaten. His heart, once capable of inspiring others so completely, could no longer inspire so much as itself. It beat now only out of habit. It beat now only because it could.”

I stopped a few feet after entering the building, thinking about that scene. That patient reminded me of the staff here. There are those who wear a small golden medallion around their neck, the image of their patron saint etched on it, worn close to their skin, reminding them that everyone is made in the image of God. They look at people differently because they see God staring back at them. Not just a person. They are made in God’s image. It shifts how they see the world.

And softens their heart.

Inside these walls at Gibson, staff who either have their own substance use disorder or have someone connected to substance abuse know what Leer is describing. It’s a look. A feeling. Something etched on their God-given face, connecting each patient to their own pain, like the man in the bathrobe. In those few seconds that I stopped, I wondered what brought him here.

The same thing happens in Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back. Before Yoda reveals himself to be the Jedi Master Luke Skywalker is seeking, he asks, I am wondering. Why are you here? The answer isn’t as important as Luke’s self-discovery. Yoda’s question is more rhetorical, less in need of an answer. Does Luke know what brought him here? Does he know why his heart is beating to learn to be a Jedi? Maybe that’s why he doesn’t tell Luke who he is. At least not right away.

Jesus asks easier questions. He asks the one cutting straight to your heart. Why are you here? What do you want me to do for you? I’m at Gibson because someone is always in need of a ride. That’s it. I drive people to and from their research visits. I listen to what they choose to share with me, recognizing them as people made in the image of God. I just show up, meeting them where they are, with a car and a route and enough windshield time to start paying attention. Time enough to listen. And somewhere between the pickup and the drop-off, my heart is softening.

Crabtree noticed.

Yoda asked.

And me?

I’m walking through the halls, hearing my own heart beating in my ears.

Showing up for people barely able to show up for themselves.