Do you ever hear your own name and wonder who’s calling you? Or why?

Why are they singling you out?

I had that happen the other day. Between the South and North buildings at Gibson is a breezeway, and an outside smoking area. Two cigarette receptacle towers stood nearby. The base wider, waist-high, two holes on the side to drop your butts into. They keep the butts contained and work great if you put out your cigarette all the way before dumping it in. Otherwise, the butts at the bottom catch fire. As a reformed smoker, I know.

I walk through this corridor a few times a week. Residents smoke out there, hang outside, wait for the next group session. I do my best to hurry through, dodging conversations if I can help it.

This time, I was on my way to refill my water bottle.

“Joe! Hey, Joe.”

He walked towards me. I still didn’t recognize who it was until he stood in front of me. New glasses. That’s what was different. It’s why I didn’t notice him. I almost kept walking, not because I was in a hurry. Just because. That’s the most honest answer I have.

Now, I stopped, smiling at him.

Before, picking him up for his research visits, he was exhausted, wore the same clothes for days on end, pulled a trucker’s hat down on his head. His eyes were rimmed with dark circles. If you saw him on the street, you’d look away.

That’s not who I was talking to. This man was clean, dressed in a polo shirt and jeans, sharp tennis shoes, and new glasses.

He smiled, a real smile. “I’m doing great. Things are really good.”

I asked if he thought this was it, done with his old life.

“Yeah. I think so.” He grinned.

I gave him the same advice Kent gave me in Portland, more than thirty years ago. “You are a smart man. Go back to school.”

Go back to school. Get your undergrad degree. Let your Dad know it’s time. You are a smart man and I believe if anyone can do it, it’s you.

“You really think so?” He asked. I could see tears welling up in his eyes. But this guy? He doesn’t cry. “Thanks, Joe. That means a lot. It really does.”

He smiled and I patted him on the shoulder and headed back to my office.

I did get my water bottle filled, errand complete.

His life was out of control. Today he has a new trajectory. Was I instrumental in his journey? I won’t ever know. But his story connects to mine now that our paths have crossed. My responsibility: showing him God loves him just the way he is. I don’t have to do anything special. I just have to show up.

That’s loving him in the best way I can.

I spent an hour each week for several weeks with this man. Saw him on his worst days. Now I see him. Really see him.