The wind was from the northeast. A cold wind blowing light and steady with the predictability of winter coming on. It was late October. You knew winter was coming hard and there was no escaping it. You just had to bear it.

The man was in his early fifties and needed a shave, the stubble just showing on his cheeks. His broad face and blinking eyes were set to the wind and had a curious look of detachment. He turned the collar of his wrinkled suit jacket up against the cold. The dark jacket hung shapeless. It was no longer paired with matching trousers but rough khaki pants cinched tight at the waist with a belt. The man fidgeted at the crosswalk. His horned-rimmed glasses sat awkward on his face as his eyes scanned the painted crossing and traffic light. He pushed his glasses up against his forehead with a finger. Clutching a clipboard with its paper rustling in the wind, he looked like some door-to-door canvasser. The pages were worn and the edges curled. Whatever he was selling, nobody was buying. A job like this could provide a little money. He clutched the clipboard hard against the incessant wind.

Harlen observed the man from the warmth of his Ford sedan. What a stupid ass, he thought. Just another street guy picking up the crumbs the rest of us leave behind. Looking at the man through his windshield, Harlen could see he had a nervous twitch in his behavior. There was something odd about how he stood so erect at the crosswalk looking apprehensively in one direction and then the other. And there he was clutching that ridiculous clipboard in the wind, his hair scattering carelessly in the breeze, and his eyes evermoving from traffic light to crosswalk to the other traffic light and crosswalk and back again. There was an almost kid-like quality to the rumpled figure of the older man. He seemed unsure of himself in a big scary world. Harlen smiled half amused. He concluded the man must be autistic or something. Harlen had read about those things. He didn’t know. But who cares anyway? The guy’s a discard. Harlen immediately checked himself. That isn’t right, he thought, I shouldn’t think like that. Some people are fine. The guy’s just simple, that’s all. Give him that. Harlen knew he should take a kinder look on those less fortunate. He should show a little compassion. Then the light changed and the figure shuffled by Harlen’s windshield with a jerking movement and a mechanical stride. He gradually disappeared down the block like so many other unwanted objects. The man was still clutching that clipboard and he was probably hoping for a sale. Well, that was enough compassion for one day, Harlen mused. He was humming a little song. We only hear his footsteps as a shadow on the floor. Dancing lightly. The tune sifted thoughtlessly between his thin lips. Time to move on, and he pressed down on the accelerator.

f h

Dick held his clipboard with all the hope he could muster, but it wasn’t much. Most folks did not have spare dollars. And he looked at the doorbell just to the right side of the white door. The paint was starting to peel at the edges. It was a nice door though. He could hear voices within. Dick’s right index finger depressed the doorbell and he heard the ring coming from within, and the voices went quiet. He had pressed the button just like Pastor Collins had told him to press the button. And he had waited like Pastor Collins had told him he should wait. Pastor Collins had told him he must wait for the kindness of the world. And he would do. Moments later the door opened and a man in a tee shirt and blue jeans was standing there looking at Dick and his clipboard in the cold of late October.

“Mister, sir. My name is Dick Avery, and I have come to ask for your help with the Everlasting Arms Mission downtown, sir. If you can spare a few dollars, it would help us feed and shelter others. It would be most appreciated. Yes, it would, sir, most appreciated.” And Dick was nodding to the sound of most appreciated for he could feel the rhythm of the words and it was needful to move to the sound of them. But he held his composure like he should, nodding only to the music within. And Dick had said things straight out just like Pastor Collins had taught him to say things. And then he did the other thing Pastor Collins taught him to do. He waited.

And the man in the tee shirt and blue jeans looked out at Dick standing there in his second-hand clothes and his full-expecting eyes, all the larger through his glasses, and his tattered clipboard and the October wind just beginning to bite hard, and he said, “Sure, I gotta a few. Hang on.” And he disappeared for a few moments back into the house, returning with a worn ten-dollar bill, and handed it to Dick. And Dick was looking up into the brightness of the man’s charity, and he was smiling his most wonderstruck smile, seeing the man’s generosity, and knowing that although he had called on many houses that morning and no one had a spare dollar, he knew the kindness was out there and he was beholding it just now. He was seeing it in a ten-dollar bill. It was the kindness of the world just like Pastor Collins had said it would be.

“Thank you kindly for your gift, sir,” Dick stammered as he clipped it to the board and began to fill out the receipt with his yellow Ticonderoga Number 2 Pencil, the ten-dollar bill flitting in the breeze. “I am so mighty grateful to you for helping us.” Then Dick carefully placed the bill into the envelope designated for contributions and looked up, handing the man his receipt.

“Hey, no problem,” the man said. “I’ve had troubles. You know, when things fall apart, and someone gave me a hand. So, I want to do my part in helping others. It’s only right.” And the man stood there a moment.

“Yes, sir,” Dick responded, standing particularly erect knowing the wonder of the moment and how special it was. But he was not sure what to say. Pastor Collins had not given him any other words to say. And so, he stood there quietly. After some moments the man stirred.

“Well, Dick, you have a nice day and keep up the good work.” The man smiled and stepped back into his house, closing the door. Dick was left standing on the porch steps looking at the white paint just beginning to peel at the edges of the door. He turned and walked on to the next house down the block. Winter was coming and you could sense it, but the kindness of the world was showing at the edges. There was hope even though winter was setting in, and Dick could feel it sure. And besides, the sun was shining. He nodded playfully to the rhythm of it all, because it was needful just now in the sun and the kindness showing like it was.

By three in the afternoon Dick had also received six one-dollar donations, two five-dollar donations, and one chocolate chip cookie, given to him personally. The woman had said he should eat it as a snack. And so, he did. It was time to return to the Everlasting Arms Mission. He took the bus.

It was time to see Pastor Collins and tell him of the day. Pastor Collins would want to know every detail. He was like that, he was interested and cared for folks. And then Dick would have dinner at the mission with all the interesting people that lived there and then return to his sleeping room a few blocks away. He did not sleep at the mission as others did. He had an allowance that provided for his rent and things, and his room was just right. It was his very own room.

Yet on this day in particular Dick’s thoughts kept returning to the man in the tee shirt and blue jeans and his ten-dollar donation. His thoughts were drawn to the man’s kindness. Dick didn’t usually see that. Most folks did not even open the door. Some told him to go away. At times they used curse words that Dick would not repeat, but they did. And through it all, some folks would help with a few dollars. It was Dick’s belief that times were hard and folks just had little to spare and that was most understandable. But no need to use curse words. That was most unnecessary. Yes, most unnecessary, for there was no music or rhythm in those words. There was only a harsh jangling in his mind, and he did not want to consider it any more. So, he set his mind on the white paint on the door and how it was beginning to peel, and it reminded him of the kindness of the world once again. Kindness was so needful just now and it was just beginning to show at the edges.

He stepped from the bus and walked two blocks to the mission. It always felt a little like coming home, but not as much as returning to his sleeping room on Washington Avenue. That was his very own. The day had turned calm by late afternoon yet there remained a cold dampness in the air. It chilled him to the bone. As he entered the front door of the mission, he could feel the warmth and it was comforting. It reminded him of when his father would hug him tightly, and would hug him for a long time. He felt so loved back then. But that was a long time ago and his father had passed away. Now he had his own sleeping room.

Pastor Collins was waiting for him as he always was. Pastor Collins was such a caring man.

f h

Harlen thought of the other night when he had been out familiarizing himself with a particular location in town. It was very dark that night.

Cities like Minneapolis used to sleep at night, but that was years ago. Now they do not sleep anymore. There is no time for sleep but only the emptiness of thin dreams. The shadows of people moving all through the night, walking silently as they leave no trace. Steps quiet as breath. There is no time for sleep. Whatever dreams are held becomes a nightmare, a whimper, or a mournful cry. Things twist into a darkness that one would just as soon forget. It is black night and the unrelenting shadows move through darkness. Some look for shelter or food. Others simply drift unmoored through the hollowness of it all. There is nothing to hold firm. These are the dispossessed shifting aimlessly into oblivion, the hopelessness of a great sea of those moving and reaching for what cannot be given. In the night it is hard to distinguish what is real and what is fiction. It is a fantastical world of haunting images. And then the day comes and there is light, and there is relief from the terrors.

Harlen would sometimes walk for hours at night. He thrived in the emptiness of it all. There was a certain consolation in his anonymity, an invisibility in the night. He knew the darkness and it did not disturb him. In some ways it was comforting. Harlen would move in the shadows along with the drifting multitude. He would find his place in the black sea of empty faces. To move and yet never be seen. To deny reality and appear as nothing but a part of life’s flotsam on the drift, some discarded refuse. He moved unobserved in the black heart of dead dreams. And he preferred it to the light.  It was to move with the masses. You are a fiction.  The opportunity will find you. It is time to drift. You are an angel of darkness. And you are nothing but a sigh on the wind. There is always time.

Yet he could never reconcile the night with the day. The clarity of thought he experienced at night seemed small and inconsequential in the brightness of the morning. The light troubled him. It had always troubled him.

Then he thought of that odd older man at the crosswalk earlier in the day and his stupid clipboard. That really bothered Harlen. The memory seemed to gnaw at him. Something within Harlen wanted for kindness, but it was an alien thing. His natural response was unfeeling and coarse. Something told him he should be more sympathetic and caring, but he was a cold man. Calculating and pure ice. To trust others was to be vulnerable and that was not an option. Still, the memory was discomforting and it wrangled him. Compassion was unnatural.

f h

When Joe Collins caught sight of Dick making his way along the sidewalk that afternoon, he felt a quiet joy. Dick had that effect on people. He seemed to almost bubble out with goodness, and that was an important thing. This world could be wearying, but Dick’s buoyant spirit was always a light to anyone that met him. Joe himself benefited from Dick’s lightness of heart and his simple acceptance of everyone and everything. Joe could honestly feel Dick’s joy and he needed it. The days were hard.

“Dick,” Joe said enthusiastically as he guided him into the dining room and found a few chairs along the rows of tables where they could sit and talk. “How did your day go?”

“Oh, Pastor Collins, it was most a most special day. Yes, it was most special,” he said as he nodded energetically to the music of the words. It was needful just then. Dick’s excitement was rekindling the embers of Joe’s own tired soul. Joe wanted to hear the details and feel the warmth of Dick’s experiences that day. That would help. Yes, winter was setting in and you could feel the cold coming.

“Pastor Collins, I saw the kindness of the world, I did. Just like you said I would,” and he smiled.

Joe Collins was the lay minister at the Everlasting Arms Mission. He was just now engaged in one of the best parts of his day. He was talking with Dick Avery. Dick’s take on life was so pure it was truly childlike. And so rare. Sure, there were limitations. But those only served to emphasize Dick’s guileless nature and simple acceptance of those around him. It was always uplifting to have a conversation with him. Dick was so true of heart. Everyone enjoyed his company. And in so many ways, Joe aspired to the very qualities that Dick lived out naturally. Joe thought Dick displayed some of the qualities of Jesus himself, and he longed for that. Dick willingly undertook the most tedious or unpleasant tasks around the mission. Like canvassing for support throughout the local communities or assisting the visiting physician when he stopped in on Tuesday morning or cleaning the restrooms. Dick was always ready to help. Dick called it loving with his hands. To be honest, it was inspiring just to be around Dick. You could feel his goodness. It was that plain. At least, that’s how Joe saw it. Talking with Dick each afternoon was a special time.

Every afternoon Joe wanted to hear of Dick’s day. Every detail. Like every other day Joe had been looking through the glass at the front entry watching for Dick. And there he was ambling down the sidewalk with his characteristic innocence and joy. As Dick entered, Joe had led him into the dining room and found a few chairs where they could sit.

Dick repeated, “I saw the kindness of the world, I did. I saw it just like you said I would.” He was very excited.

“Tell me all about it,” Joe responded, and he sat back for the blessing.

Dick gave an account of the day’s futile beginnings. Few people wanted to open their doors or their pocketbooks on such a frigid day. It was understandable.

“It was getting awfully cold, Pastor Collins, I can tell you that. But I knew asking for help was important, so I kept going I did. I was watching and expecting, like you said, Pastor Collins, just watching for the kindness of the world,” he said as he nodded enthusiastically. Then Dick paused and rubbed his cold hands together.

Noticing this, Joe stood up and said, “Let me get you a coffee to wrap your hands around,” and he walked over to the serving window and poured a cup. He set it down in front of Dick who immediately wrapped his fingers around the warm ceramic mug and continued.

“But I came to one house with a nice front door and rang the bell. The man gave me a ten-dollar donation and I put it in the envelope like I should, Pastor Collins. But it was more than a ten-dollar bill. It was the kindness of the world like you told me it would be.”

“Yes,” Joe began, “we do our part and the Lord does his.” Joe almost sighed in exhaustion but caught himself adding, “The kindness of the world.” With that, Joe looked off across the dining room to the serving window. The volunteers were preparing the evening meal. You could hear the faint kitchen sounds of plates and pots clattering and the light conversation as they talked. At the mission they served up kindness three times a day and provided shelter to fifty adults. The weariness came over him.

Joe’s mind reverted to the years of struggle to keep the mission open. The simple call to feed and house the poor. Why was it so difficult? He remembered it was the Lord’s calling. So, why the constant hardship? And then he thought of Jesus. Treated as a criminal. It was beyond comprehension, but the Lord of the World had borne a heavy wooden cross and given his life. Such mystery, but telling. It was the Lord’s deep love of people. Well, he should do the same. He should bear the weight of it all for the poor and needy. It was the little he could do.

“Dick, we all have our part to play, and you’re playing your part just fine,” he said at last. Dick was sitting with his hands clasped around the warm mug of coffee and he was feeling good, like he had helped in some way. And that was enough.

Many of those living at the mission were veterans of war. So ironic. Having serving the country heroically they could not even afford a meal or housing. Some were disfigured having last limbs or bore the terrible scars wounds or burns. For others the injuries were not visible but horrors of the mind. These lived out in their torments of soul in a self-imposed exile. It was often hard to break through.

And then there was Dick who loved everyone like it was the best day of his life. He seemed unaware of disfigurements or scars. He would meet someone, listening with rapt attention to their story, and then give them the biggest hug you had ever seen. Joe loved that about Dick. He was focused on the person themselves and nothing more. Outward appearance was no more to Dick than some outer clothing to be set aside. Joe was always taken by this. Dick never gave a thought to the outer man but a person’s inner self. And he would hug them like he was their closest brother in all the world sharing in their life and shouldering their burdens. This simple man, thought Joe, was someone we could learn a few things from.

f h

It was late afternoon and Harlen was making good time. He was northbound on Interstate 494.

There was the figure of a man half-seated on the guardrail with one foot planted on the pavement, the other tucked under and resting on the rail. A large backpack with a bedroll attached was sitting at his feet. Although he looked road-weary, he was clearly not homeless or living on the street. He was dressed in high quality outdoor clothing. He was a man of medium build and looked to be a hitchhiker. He was casually talking with a state trooper. All this Harlen took in with a glance. This was a situation to keep clear of. The busy eyes freeway traffic and the trooper were things Harlen judiciously avoided.

But he could not. What’s the matter with me?

When Harlen pulled off onto the shoulder of the interstate, the trooper was having a vigorous conversation with the man. The officer’s arms were gesturing energetically when Harlen stepped from his vehicle and approached.

The trooper looked over at Harlen and spoke, “We’re good here. Please return to your vehicle and proceed.” And he looked at Harlen expecting compliance.

“I may be of some help here, officer,” Harlen said stepping a little closer, not knowing why he would say such a thing. He just did. What am I doing? The trooper was momentarily distracted by the comment, turning back to the traveler.

“You say you’re headed north,” the trooper said, “whereabouts?”

“Not exactly sure. Thinking of Alexandria or maybe Fergus Falls. Haven’t quite decided,” the man replied unconcerned. Despite the trooper’s authoritative presence, the man seemed relaxed and without a care. This intrigued Harlen.

“It is not lawful for you to be walking out here on the interstate. Just walking like this. Not allowed,” the trooper stated with an official firmness, looking nervously at the traffic streaming by at seventy miles an hour.

“Officer, I’ll help him get where he’s going,” Harlen interjected. “No problem for me. I’m heading that way.” Of course, he wasn’t. But why not?

Just then the trooper’s radio barked with an urgent code as it dangled from his shoulder. He looked over to Harlen. “You’ll take him as far as St. Cloud?” he asked.

“Consider it done, sir,” replied Harlen, motioning the traveler to come to his vehicle. The state trooper was already walking away. He climbed into his squad, lit up the lights with sirens blaring, and was immediately speeding north on Interstate 494 to attend to something more urgent than a drifting hitchhiker.

“Guess you’re stuck with me, traveler,” said Harlen to the man with a faint borrowed smile. “Climb in. I’ll get you where you’re going. I have time.” The man tossed his belongings into the backseat and climbed into the passenger seat of the Ford sedan.

“Appreciate the lift,” the man said casually like he’d taken a thousand rides before, and he probably had. Harlen drove in silence, his eyes on the road. It was the hectic traffic of the late afternoon rush.

Those words, appreciate the lift, were carrying Harlen back over thirty years. The memory always there. Never shrouded by anything. Cold, crisp, and calculated. A vivid image of that deserted road in Nebraska, and his passenger, a young college student like himself. It was blowing hard that night.

“You let me know if you’re heading to Alexandria or Fergus Falls. I’m heading north of Fergus for a meeting,” Harlen said.

It was a fabricated story. He had intended to go to St. Paul and stroll along Grand Avenue, blending into the evening crowds. He could get the feel of the place, making note of the restaurants and nightclubs, alleyways and private homes, anything afterhours. Harlen was a careful man, wary and alert to details most others gave little thought to. It was those details that often made the difference. But he’d take that stroll another evening.

f h

Dick was thinking of the warm cup of coffee and his warming fingers snugly cradling it. Such a kindness, radiating a warmth of comfort. Hugs are like that, he thought. When Pastor Collins spoke about kindness, Dick had a clear impression of its reality. When his father had died, he had been so very heartbroken and angry, and he had acted badly. His mother had come to him then and said, “Dick, dear, dear Dick.” He could tell she had been crying, and she touched his forehead tenderly. “My sweet Dick, I cannot care for you anymore. I cannot care for you as ought to be done, but there is a place that will look after you proper.” It was then she had told him about the hospital, Anoka State Hospital, and the care that would be given. Although Dick was reluctant, he wanted to do right. So, he accepted the change and went to live there. He had been sixteen at the time.

The staff at the hospital were kind. Dick noticed that right away. He had a comfortable bed and good food, and because he was largely self-sufficient, he had the freedom to wander the grounds, and he knew them well. He walked them every day. Unlike many residents at the hospital, he had liberty to roam freely. He knew it was important to come to meals and be in his room by six in the evening. But otherwise, the staff did not seem to care. They were so busy with the other residents, many confined to their beds or wheelchairs. He enjoyed the freedom most particularly. He could sit on a park bench and watch the squirrels and birds playing. And sometimes he would have a conversation with Mr. Duprey, a much older resident who had lived at the hospital many years. Mr. Duprey did not have but a few phrases which he would repeat continuously, but it was pleasant to talk with someone.

The hospital grounds were quite large with numerous buildings. They were called cottages which Dick thought gave the large red brick residences a homelike feeling. Anything that reminded him of home was good. Occasionally in his wanderings Dick would become disoriented. Then he would listen for the music of the piano and follow it. His most good friend Jim played the piano. Jim had many words, unlike Mr. Duprey. And there was a piano sitting along the pale green corridor of Cottage One. There Jim would sit and play beautiful music and Dick would listen for hours. And he would be transported. It sounded so professional. Jim was another resident at the hospital and had been there about a year. He was about Dick’s age, but he could really play piano. In the empty long corridor, the music would seem so big and expansive. Dick could listen forever. And sometimes Dick and Jim would talk. Jim had so many words. Dick liked that very much.

“What do you like about the music?” Jim asked one time.

“It carries me, Jim, it carries me,” Dick had said dreamily. He was just then leaning back having enjoyed one of Jim’s longer pieces. The music did carry him. It took him home. The hospital was fine, but he had a longing just to be home wrapped in the familiarness of his mothers’ embrace for he knew she loved him. She would come on Saturdays when she was not working.

“There are eighty-eight keys to choose from,” Jim said. “And how we arrange them sets a mood. If they are played randomly, there is confusion. If played with structure and intention, they give delight and convey deep feelings. Confusion disorients, but delight is healing.” Jim had so many words, and he said things that made Dick think.

“What are you thinking about, Dick?” asked Pastor Collins, interrupting Dick’s thoughts.

“Music, Pastor Collins, I am thinking about the music of eighty-eight keys. They must be played in order. Yes, in order,” and he smiled as he basked quietly in his memories. Then suddenly, “Do not play them out of order, not that way. It is confusing. We do not play them that way,” and Dick was relieved that he could stop thinking of the noisy clamor of someone randomly pounding the keys of the piano in the pale green corridor of Cottage One. When they did, it had brought him so much distress. It was better to remember the beauty of Jim’s playing for Jim understood how it was.

Others were beginning to drift into the dining room for the evening meal. The long rows of tables were beginning to fill. Some were gathering at the serving window for food. Others had grabbed a coffee and were clustering in small groups talking among themselves. There was a growing hum in the room.

Pastor Collins rose from his seat and spoke in a loud voice.

“Thank you everyone for coming tonight. It is our pleasure to serve you in the name of Jesus. Let us thank the Lord for His blessings tonight,” and he bowed his head.

Some of the guests bowed their heads while others sat silently and waited. Then he prayed a simple prayer of thanks. At that point, Pastor Collins had to go and attend to other things and Dick was left sitting alone. He rose and got in line for the meal.

Dinner at the mission was good. They served a slice of roast beef and mashed potatoes with green beans. There was bread for those who wanted it. It was much better than most evenings. It was more typical to have a thick soup with sliced bread on the side. Either way, it was always tasty, and Dick appreciated it. It was always enough and it was plenty.

He was sitting in the dining room on a folding chair among the other guests and he was smiling. He was sitting next to Lieutenant Monahan and that made him very happy. He had met Lieutenant Monahan when the lieutenant first arrived three months ago. The lieutenant had suffered much in Afghanistan. Dick had carefully listened to his stories. Of his men who were lost, of the bombs and artillery and gas, and the terrible death. It was all so horrible, and Lieutenant Monahan seemed broken by it all. But that was several months ago. The lieutenant seemed better now. He was more relaxed and settled. And occasionally he would even smile. Dick was glad to have a friend like Lieutenant Monahan who knew that the real world could be a very ugly place. Why, Lieutenant Monahan had seen hard things and suffered, and now he was feeling better, and Dick was so happy because the real world could also be beautiful.

When Dick stepped into his sleeping room later that evening his thoughts returned to his life at the hospital. They had released him when he was twenty-four and told him he could take care of himself. He returned home to live with his mother. It was so long ago but he would never forget. He had loved living with his mother.

He walked over, turned on his bedside table lamp, and sat on his bed with his hands clasped together. The memories had caused a surge of loneliness to overcome him. His room felt hollow. It lacked the warmth he had known at home. He thought of Jim’s music and the piano along the long green corridor. It sounded so wonderfully loud and beautiful when Jim would play. And the conversations they would have. Then he thought of his mother and how things had shifted over the years. When he first returned home, she had cared for him like when he was young. Yet as the years advanced, his mother’s vigor faded away. She became frail, and then he was caring for her. Caring for her made me so happy. But it all came to an end when she passed in death. Then he knew what loneliness felt like. There was no one to love anymore. Tonight, he felt a twinge of loneliness but it would pass with sleep. Long ago he had been adrift on the sea of life’s uncertainty but not now. Tomorrow was fresh with light and love, and he would have it. Yes, he would. And he lay down and fell asleep.

f h

Things were moving along as planned. Harlen drifted silently, a nondescript person in the evening’s growing crowds. It was Friday evening and the streets were packed. It was perfect. He was in the heart of Minneapolis moving in the stream of people on the Nicollet Mall, and there was nothing but the noisy gaiety of the evening.

Harlen was humming a little song he had conceived many years earlier. He dances with death. And we only hear his footsteps as a shadow on the floor, dancing lightly. And then he smiled.

The Nicollet Mall passes through the center of downtown with towering office buildings on either side. Most of this wide pedestrian mall is well lit in the evening. There is one short length dominated by a shadow falling across the pavement. In the noise and bustle of the Friday night partiers, no one noticed the subtle pop and the slumping figure. He was assumed the unfortunate victim of too much alcohol. Others passed respectfully by him as he lay on the sidewalk, their own celebrations continuing into the night. Harlen had fulfilled another contract.

He shifted noiselessly, inconspicuous in the crowd, quietly pocketing his 22 Beretta, and was just turning to the left when he felt a pressure on his right side. He turned to look in the smiling face of a man. He then realized the man had knifed him. Ironic, to kill is to be killed. The man leaned forward casually and whispered, “Favor returned,” and strolled casually away.

Harlen was a mechanic, a contractor in the dark world’s commercial wars. His target must have held more significance than he had assumed. He should have been more careful. It was always the details.

He pressed his side and felt the warmth of a moist patch on his jacket. He was bleeding profusely. He moved quickly knowing there was a limited window of consciousness. Taking a side street, he walked with decisive steps getting as far away from his original act as he could. As increasing darkness began to cloud his mind and disorient his reason, he scanned the street for some alleyway to duck into. He needed somewhere to get his strength back. Somewhere to hole up just for a little while. He was humming his little song. He dances with death. And we only hear... and then there was nothing.

f h

The Everlasting Arms Mission had served up some of its delicious thick soup with as much bread as you wanted. Dick had enjoyed the meal and had talked with some of those living at the mission. He most preferred listening because he learned so many things. Most people’s lives were so interesting. They were good people trying hard to get things right and Dick could see that.

He was heading home, but he was restless. He just felt like walking. So, he set out down the street to the corner beyond his building and waited at the crosswalk. The red light meant Do Not Walk and the green light meant Walk. But the light was red, so he waited like he had been taught. When the light changed, Dick proceeded along the sidewalk. The traffic lights and crosswalks were all a curious game. After perhaps five blocks he was coming along the sidewalk and glanced into an alleyway. There was a shoe lying on the ground.

He stopped and thought a moment. They always needed shoes at the mission. Maybe there are two, and he walked over.

There was a man lying in the alley. At first, Dick assumed the man was drunk. He had seen that plenty of times, and people like that just need to sleep. Yes, they do. “Just sleep,” he repeated nervously, glancing down at the man, “Just sleep.” But on closer examination, he realized the man was injured and bleeding. You must take care of folks. He could hear his mother’s voice. You must do for them as you would have done to you. And he knew he would do for the man what he could. He knew things. He knew a lot of things. Why, he helped the visiting physician on Tuesday mornings, and he had seen how things ought to be done. He would do his best for the man lying injured like he was. Yes, he would do.

When he raised the man up, the man moaned horribly. But he got him to his feet and draped the man’s arm over his shoulders as he slowly made his way back to his room.

It was getting late.

f h

When Harlen awakened the next morning, he was stretched out on a small bed. There was an older man sitting in a chair looking at him intently.

“Mister, sir, it’s okay. Everything is okay, sir. I fixed everything fine,” and the man blinked as if to clear his eyes of tears. It looked as if he had been crying.

“Where am I?” Harlen asked weakly as he glanced around the tiny room. A drawer, a nightstand, a lamp, a chair, and a bed. There was not much. He fingered his right side and could feel the bandages and dressings. It seemed secure.

“My room, sir, my very own room,” the older man smiled broadly, removing his glasses to wipe his eyes. “I found you, sir, injured in an alley. I brought you here to care for you until you get better. Yes, until you get better.” The older man remained seated and spoke simply. “You must rest now and get better. Yes, rest now and get better,” the man said as he nodded.

Harlen found it all so curious. Harlen, you dodged the big one. He stirred to a slight seating position feeling a sharp pain. The injury must have been significant.

“I’ve brought you soup from the kitchen at the mission. Soup to build your strength, sir. You lost a lot of blood and the soup will build your strength. Yes, it will.” The older man was nodding just then and repeated “You must rest now and get better. Yes, rest now and get better, sir.” The man seemed intent on helping Harlen. I should be dead. It was obvious the man had no idea of the other events of the evening. No matter. Harlen would take the help as offered until he had the strength to slip away.

The soup was good to him. He could feel the warmth and strength of it coursing down through his body. And then he slept.

f h

That Saturday morning had been particularly trying for Joe Collins. Joe could not remember the last time Dick had not arrived at the mission by eight in the morning. It was ten and Joe was worried. This dear man, this tender old soul called Dick, was unaccounted for. What could have happened? Was he hurt or had he fallen ill? Joe was troubled. He had consumed four cups of coffee in his anxiety over it all and was just pouring a fifth when Dick walked quickly into the dining room.

“Pastor Collins, sir, I need your help,” Dick spoke hurriedly.

“What’s going on, Dick? How can I help?”

“I’ve been caring for someone in need and wonder if I might have a little bread and sliced meat to bring back,” Dick said, blinking searchingly at Joe.

“Why, sure you can, Dick. It’s a little out of the ordinary, but I’ll make an exception for you. I know you have the needs of others at heart,” and Joe began walking towards the kitchen. He was so relieved that Dick was okay. Joe had no idea what was going on, but it seemed like Dick had stumbled into somebody in need and wanted to do what was most helpful. Joe could not but admire him. It was yet another example of Dick’s abiding concern for others. Joe was just so thankful that Dick was fine. Nothing else really mattered.

A man’s span of days was limited. You had to love when the opportunity presented itself. To wait was to fail to love. Joe’s own life was a mixed bag. Sometimes he’d been slow and other times he’d been quick to respond. Yet the chance to express your love to others ended at the grave. The old litany echoed in his mind, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.... He had been to numerous funerals and had officiated many himself. The feeling was always the same. Someone’s life had been written. They could not go back and redo a single moment. What was done was done. It was important to love when you had the opportunity. Today love looked like sliced meat and bread, and Joe would make good on it.

Dick followed Joe into the kitchen. Joe opened the large refrigerator and pulled out a slab of meat, loading it into the meat slicer. He sheared off about ten slices and looked over to Dick.

“Think that’s enough?” he asked.

“Sure is, Pastor Collins, sure is, sir. Thank you,” Dick said enthusiastically.

Joe slipped the sliced meat into a plastic bag and walked over to the bread rack. Grabbing a loaf, he handed it to Dick.

“There you are, my friend,” he said and smiled. Sometimes it was so easy to love.

As Dick hurried out from the kitchen and through the dining room, Joe watched his awkward gait navigating around the folding chairs making his way to the door. Dick was such a sweet soul. Unconcerned with what people thought of him and very much taken with the needs of others.  There was a kindness in the world after all. It looked like Dick Avery. A friend to anyone and someone who loved without restraint or judgment. Someone emanating the radiance of Jesus to a tired world. Life was a troubled road, and Joe was glad he had Dick to share the journey.

f h

The images floated by on a carnival carousel with its gaudy taunting, almost grotesque shapes, flashing hideously in his mind. Harlen was dreaming. He could hear the words spoken by a half-dozen people, appreciate the lift. He could feel the Beretta in his hand as he drew it subtly from under his left shoulder and pressed it against the side of their chest. And the confirming pop with its easy recoil. Often, he was looking in their eyes. They were smiling. It was always an empty pleasure, so unsatisfying.

The professional life of a mechanic was different. There was variety. He enjoyed the puzzle of things, the complexity and care that must be taken. In his dream he savored these recollections, but he felt cold. So very cold. Empty as the night, his steps as quiet as death. Life was so cheap.

He could feel the pain of his injury. It was sharp and piercing. He knew he was teetering on a knife’s edge between life and death. He wanted life. How bent, how strange and perverse. He wanted life having brought death to so many. In his dream his hands felt icy cold and he could not warm them. He could not shed the numbing feeling in his hands, the cold callousness, and the stain of evil. He felt forsaken. Forsaken by whom, Harlen? His thoughts wrangled him in whispers and he was wearied of them. Just now he was nothing but a shadow of a person drifting through a dreamworld, haunted by the nightmare of himself. It was hard to distinguish what was real and what was fiction. He was reaching, but the dream was shifting aimlessly and he was falling in an oblivion of darkness. And then he slept.

f h

The icy wind pressed Dick as he hurried back to his room. It was approaching eleven in the morning. There was so much to do. He turned the key and entered his room quietly. He did not want to disturb his guest. He carefully closed the door behind himself and rotated the deadbolt, turning to the room within. There lay the man he had found. He was sleeping.

Dick crossed the room and quietly placed the sliced meat and bread on the windowsill where it was cold this time of year. That would keep things fresh. And he took his seat next to the man to watch over him. He would do what needed to be done. It is time to pray, Dick. He bowed his head for it was particularly needful just now with the injured man lying there like he was, and Dick attending to his needs as ought to be done, and the angels watching like they were. His mother had taught him about prayer and Pastor Collins encouraged it. And he would do.

It was like so much paint peeling at the edges, it was. When Dick’s father had taken ill and lay slow dying away in their home, Dick had stood by holding his father’s hand and prayed. But now the paint was peeling back at the edges, and Dick could catch a glimpse of the kindness of the world. Why, it was Dick himself standing there at the edge of it all holding his father’s hand and loving him so. That was it. It was the way he showed love by the caring. You go take care of folks, Dick. You do as ought to be done. It was true you could not always see the kindness for most people did not open their doors to Dick and sometimes they used words that ought not be spoken, but now and again the kindness could not be contained. It would break through for all to see. And Dick looked down at the sleeping man and loved him.

But what was to be done? What would his father have done? Dick’s thoughts went back to his childhood. He remembered the late afternoons when his father would arrive home from work and they would play in the yard. Those were good times except when he skinned his knee. Then his father would tenderly cradle his injury and apply some ointment and a bandage. Dick remembered the warmth of being cared for. It was like Dr. Johnson at the mission on Tuesday mornings. The doctor dealt with numerous aliments from the mission’s residents and the others that would stop in. And he would carefully hold someone’s arm or foot as he examined them. Dr. Johnson was soft-spoken but his words gave hope. At least, most of the time. Sometimes the person’s problems were too far gone, and Dr. Johnson would come to them and hug them like he cared, for it was too much for them. Dick could tell it was something hard to bear, and he felt sad as he bore the weight of it. But he was glad Dr. Johnson held them so.

The man on the bed stirred.

“How are you feeling, sir?” Dick asked. He was anxious to know.

The man opened his eyes. “Got some pain, but okay,” he said in a weak voice, and then, “who are you?”

“I am Dick Avery, sir. Dick Avery. And I’m watching over you ‘til you get better,” and Dick leaned over tenderly tucking the blanket more snuggly around the man.

The man sighed and fell silent. He seemed to be resting.

After some minutes, Dick rose from his chair and leaned over the man. “Let me have a look at the dressings to see if things are okay,” he said as he began to gently roll the man to his side. He was being very careful to delicately shift him not wanting to cause further injury or discomfort. The man moaned.

Dick studied the man’s side with the dressings he had applied just like Dr. Johnson would have done. Dick had used hydrogen peroxide to clean the wound and a good amount of antibiotic ointment, pulling it closed with tape, covering it all in a large gauge patch and tape. Things looked secure and there was no evidence of infection. Dr. Johnson had taught him to watch for infection. The skin looked healthy. Everything looked good and there was no additional bleeding. Dick thought Dr. Johnson would approve of his work.

Warm rays of light were coming into the room and the man stirred again. “Thirsty,” he said dryly as he began to struggle to sit up.

“Right here, sir, I have water right here for you,” and Dick leaned over the man with a glass of water to sip. “Lots of fluids, sir, lots of fluids,” he repeated, nodding to the rhythm as he spoke. The man lay down again seemingly exhausted.

Dick knew the body would heal itself given time and proper attending. Dick would do what he could. Everything was in God’s hands like his mother had said. And he was there as the kindness of the world for he so wanted it just now.

f h

Harlen had been sleeping for who knows how long. He had no idea nor did he care. He was utterly fatigued. He had awakened several times, and it was all too puzzling. It was like an awful dream. He lay there with his eyes closed and he was trying to make sense of it. He just wanted to forget. He was not sure of anything.

He could see the face of a smiling man coming up to him whispering favor returned and walking away. But Harlen could not place the image. It was like a snapshot from someone else’s camera. There was no reference to anything. And then the bizarre images of a strange older man sitting in a chair nodding repeatedly, and talking to him and watching him. Always watching him. It was disorienting and he did not want to open his eyes. He wanted to sleep and not wake up.

A voice interrupted his thoughts. “How are you feeling, sir?”

Harlen opened his eyes. “Got some pain, but okay,” he said, but who was speaking?

“Who are you?” Harlen asked.

“I am Dick Avery, sir. Dick Avery. And I’m watching over you ‘til you get better,” the strange voice said quietly. Watching over me? What’s going on? he thought as he felt the blanket being tucked more securely around him. Ah, no matter. He was too weak just now. He would skip out when he could.

He was drifting again in more crazy dreams. It was another carnival carousel of images more terrible than the first. These memories were haunting things, roots of evil buried deep within and he could see them. They were frightening.

In one he was intimidating a younger boy at school, pushing him to the ground and enjoying the feeling. He saw the boy’s fear and it excited him. But now, for the first time in his life, his depraved behavior disgusted him and he was ashamed. In another he had lied about a schoolmate. And the guilt of Harlen’s actions had fallen on the other person. Harlen had reveled in the deceit and had enjoyed thinking of it throughout his life. But now, it was all so degraded and evil. There was no way back.

But the carousel turned again and another image rose around him. It was a tomb. Harlen was left alone sitting on the stone floor amid the parched bones of others as his mind filtered through the thousands of deceits and countless killings. He was all alone with his accumulated evil, and he was terrified. It was so dry and so very cold. He was dying and could not get warm.

Now a thirst gripped him. His throat was so dry he could not breathe, and he pleaded with his unknown captors for a drink. “Thirsty,” he gasped as he began to struggle to free himself from the nightmare. But he could not. He was lost.

“Right here, sir, I have water right here for you,” the man named Dick floated in front of him with a glass of water. “Lots of fluids, sir, lots of fluids,” the man repeated as he nodded.

Harlen had no energy but to lay there. He could not even think. He could not make sense of it. Who was this older man anyway, and why was he so set on caring for Harlen? Why would the man show him so much kindness. He deserved none of it. He was the discard of the world. A filthy thing to be thrown away and destroyed.

Harlen glanced over at the man named Dick sitting calmly on the chair next to the bed. He looked familiar but he could not place the face. The nodding was familiar too. Wait a minute. And then he thought of the crosswalk a few days ago. The man waiting at the crosswalk with his clipboard had nodded in that way. Harlen brought the memory into focus. Yes. This was the face of the man at the crosswalk. They were the same man. There was no doubt.

Harlen remembered thinking of the old guy as a useless street person, some trash to be thrown out. I should have been more thoughtful. Harlen had considered him less fortunate, and himself as the better. But now everything was twisted. The older man, Dick, wore second-hand clothing and lived in what appeared to be a sleeping room. Yet he was content with it all. I wish I was so content. The man had qualities that Harden usually exploited as weaknesses. The old guy had shown kindness and tenderness. Harlen had used those very things to his own advantage. Now all Harlen’s self-interest seemed cheap and tawdry, and profoundly wrong. The older man may wear second-hand clothing, but you have a second-hand heart. Harlen was feeling worthless and confused. You are torn beyond repair. This simple-minded man named Dick was helping him to recover from his injury with rare compassion and mercy. Who are you, old man?

“I have brought sliced meat and bread for food, sir. Would you like sliced meat and bread, sir?” Dick asked and smiled. He seemed so untroubled, almost serene. Harlen wanted the same calm and tranquility. But he had to admit he had never known it, not really.

“Sounds good, Dick, thanks,” and he struggled to a sitting position. He could feel his injury but the pain was less now. Dick must have done a good job. It was like the hand of an angel. Dick, are you an angel? And then Harlen smiled at the thought. It had been a long time since he had smiled an honest smile like that.

It was then that Harlen began to relax. Maybe Dick was not an angel but he seemed a simple, thoughtful man. Just leave it at that. Dick seemed harmless, and he did not know the whole story of Harlen’s actions preceding his injury. If he did, why, who could love such a man? Dick had no idea of who Harlen really was and Harlen was thankful for that. Just now he did not want the stigma of his true self. Yes, he was nothing but a cynical, cold mechanic. But for the first time in his life, he wanted something finer, something pure and good.

He was not sure what that was. Some kernel had awakened within. It was this awkward old man extending mercy to him without regard for who he was. This Dick just seemed to give out caring and affection as easy as one breathes. He may not be an angel but he was good. He may not be an angel but he was a messenger from God. You’re not religious, Harlen, forget it. He hadn’t thought of such things for years. And he lay there defeated, his black heart longing for light. It’s too late.

Dick had been standing near the window fixing a sandwich for Harlen. He walked over and handed it to him. Harlen took the sandwich in his hands and held it. As he looked at it everything stopped. In that moment the held breath of the world waited. As Harlen held the sandwich it became the most loving thing he had ever seen. The brightness of the midday sun flooded the room and the older man was quietly sitting there watching him. Dick had cared enough to make a sandwich for me. It was so simple, so basic, and so beautiful. There was a radiance in the act. It touched Harlen deeply and he could not stop the flood. His head fell forward and he wept. He wants me to get better. He wants to help me, and I deserve none of it. He could not control the tears. He did not know why, but he had to weep. The limitless love was just too much. He had never seen such raw simple charity. It was too overwhelming and he sobbed uncontrollably.

“Mister, is everything okay? Are you alright?” Dick stammered.

“Yes,” he said, “yes, I’m fine. I just appreciate what you’ve done, that’s all.” Harlen sat up a little and tried to pull himself together. The hardness and cold ice were gone. After a few moments he took a bite of the sandwich.

Dick watched him with fixed attention. His steady gaze made Harlen a little uncomfortable, but he knew it was just Dick’s way. It was kind of charming really. He’s such a sweet old guy. Harlen had to admit he felt an affection for Dick. He could not recall when he had last felt such a feeling. It was something uncommon. Yes, and it was something good.

Harlen took a few more bites and sat there in the quietness of Dick’s attentive gaze. He could hear the remote sounds of activity beyond the window out on the street below, and he began to feel vulnerable. That is not a good thing. I have got to get out of here. He tried to reconstitute his former dispassionate soulless self, his cold isolation and disregard of others and life itself. But he could not. Something had changed. In that moment he could not believe he had lived as he had and done the things he had done.

He felt adrift and alone, and his memories took him.

You do what’s right, do you hear me little man? It was the voice of his mother. She was leaning over him. He was maybe six years old at the time. He had been happy back then. I mean, honestly happy. He could say that. She was a good mother. Full of hope and comfort and all the tender things he could think of. She was the world of goodness. She had called him her little man and he could feel the strength of it. It made him stand just a little straighter and more erect. And it made him feel confident.

But he knew the day everything had changed. Franky was his pal and Harlen was the leader. They would have adventures together and fight against the bad guys in countless make-believe battles. One day there was a disagreement over some trivial thing and Harlen would not budge. Things turned nasty and they fought. And it was during this tussle that Harlen inflicted real pain on Franky, and Franky had cried. It should have been terrible. The thing was though, Harlen found he enjoyed it. Up to that point they had been forever pals. But that incident had changed everything. Now Harlen was the leader by force and not by the strength of shared adventures. Looking back, Harlen felt disgust and shame. He had discarded a valued friend in exchange for some pathetic sense of dominance.

To be honest, he never viewed his mother the same after that either. All her sweetness was as so much unnecessary noise to him. She had no idea what real power felt like, but he did. And he liked the taste of it. Now, these memories just made him sad and full of remorse. There was nothing to be done. He was beyond redemption.

He was lingering now on the rim of a great chasm, the fragility of life so loose, his thoughts dangling between two worlds. To fall into profound darkness, into the oblivion of death, or to pull back into the light of day. The backside of his evil and cruelty was a torment of hellfire. He could let his appetites consume him, gnawing him in slow death, or he could choose to pour out his life for someone else. It was simple. To take or give. To hoard his days in death or give himself away in life. There was no other choice.

But he could not imagine the hell of agonies and ice-cold night. He could not imagine it now for he had glimpsed something truly good. And his heart was rising as the sun filled the room in overwhelming light. And in a raw clarity borne out of the evil of his days, Harlen understood his complete and utter depravity, and he was lost. There was no hope.

But there was Dick. He was sitting quietly on the chair watching Harlen.

“Sir, do you need anything?” Dick finally said, “Can I get something for you?” Dick was sitting there in his innocence unaware of the evil that Harlen knew he was.

In the brightness of the sun Harlen saw the stark simplicity of the sleeping room and felt the warmth of Dick’s tender affections. It must be something to be as blessed as Dick. He had to admit Dick was one of the richest people he had ever met. He was so full of goodness and so very content. Harlen had not seen that in others. Dick made him feel wanted and loved, and he gave Harlen a glimmer of hope. Dick’s whole demeanor spoke to his giving nature and his hopefulness. These were such unknown qualities to Harlen he could not reconcile them.

He lay on the bed thinking of his dark past and the cold cruelty of it. But it all seemed so far away now as he felt a warmth and wholesomeness in the day. He had previously spurned the light, but now he wanted it. He could not explain it. He was just not the same. He was not who he had been. Not anymore. His hideous former life was nothing but a horrible dream, and he wanted to forget it. It was all so much fiction in the healing light of Dick’s charity. Leave it.

He wanted the light, and that was all he wanted.

f h

Dick was returning home to his room. Yes, his very own. It was Thursday evening and he was back to his normal schedule. He was helping at the mission every day. But now there was the added joy of caring for his friend Harlen. There was so much to do but it made him very happy.

His friend Harlen had been injured and Dick had fixed him up. Dick had done just what Dr. Johnson would have done and everything was healing nicely. He would check the injury every evening and reapply the dressings as needed. But Dick did not talk about it because Harlen was a very private person. His friend Harlen had asked him not to talk about it, and that was understandable. Why, Harlen was a troubled man just like Lieutenant Monahan. The lieutenant was a very private person too and had asked Dick not to talk about his life. But the lieutenant was much better now. He had endured terrible things and awful memories too heavy to bear. Dick knew his part was to be a faithful friend and quietly listen to the lieutenant’s stories. Just let the terrible darkness come out easy. Then Dick could carry it too. That is what a friend does.

His friend Harlen had heavy burdens too. Dick could tell for Harlen would be staring out the window in the evenings and then begin to cry quietly. The tears would fall on Harlen’s shirt and Dick saw them there. But Harlen did not talk about his tears. It made Dick sad to see his friend so troubled. But Dick would wait quietly and listen like a good friend does. You wait now, Dick. And Dick was waiting for the kindness like he should. Dick knew that everyone had burdens and dark thoughts for he knew his own heart. But there was kindness too. And a friend waits quiet to let the dark things come out easy, and then they can be carried together. That’s what a good friend does. For now, they would talk of little things. And that was understandable. Dick would wait.

Sometimes he would ask Pastor Collins for a little food. But usually, he would purchase what was needed from his modest allowance. And he bought a few extra blankets at the Goodwill to fix up a small bed for himself along the wall of his room. He wanted Harlen to have the comfort of a real bed. His very own.

Harlen had gradually gained his strength back, and within a few days was sitting by the window regularly when Dick returned in the evening. Tonight, Dick had splurged and bought a pizza. He thought Harlen could use a change from the usual sandwich fixings he would come home with. When he entered the room with the pizza in one hand, he saw Harlen’s eyes light up. That sure made Dick happy to see his friend so delighted. He was glad he had spent the extra money.

“Dick, what have you done?” Harlen asked with a broad grin.

“Why, I brought us dinner,” Dick said and smiled back. “Mr. Harlen, sir, I hope you like pizza.”

“I love pizza, Dick. You shouldn’t have,” Harlen said.

Clearly Harlen liked the change. Dick was hoping to lighten the mood. The evenings had been filled with small talk and childhood memories. Yet they remained largely somber discussions. Dick knew that friends try and help each other feel better. And that’s what Dick was aiming at. Harlen’s injury was healing fine, but Dick was praying that Harlen’s sadness and tears would find relief too. The truth was, Harlen had been sitting by the window again looking out when Dick arrived. And Dick knew he had been crying for his eyes were moist and sad. But Dick was doing what he loved. He was helping someone. And today he had bought a pizza for dinner. He was sure that would help a little. Pizza always made Dick smile.

Harlen got up slowly from the chair and moved gingerly to the bed as Dick set the pizza down on the end of the bed. Dick dragged the chair over to join Harlen for their pizza dinner.

“Let me say a blessing, Mr. Harlen, sir,” and Dick bowed his head. “Thank you for this pizza, Lord, it tastes so good, and we are mighty grateful. And thank you for healing Mr. Harlen, Lord. Amen.” And he looked up to find Harlen sitting there with his head bowed still. Then Harlen began speaking.

“And, Lord, thank you for Dick, a real friend to a weary and terrible man,” and he looked up to meet Dick’s tender eyes, Harlen’s face showing the wet streak of fresh tears.

“That was most kind, sir, most kind,” Dick said as he was nodding to the music of the words for he was seeing the kindness just there at the edges. It was showing just a little. And he was much more grateful for the kindness than the pizza, though the pizza was most fine too. Then Dick added, “We best enjoy this pizza while it’s still warm.” And he smiled again.

They each pulled a slice of the pie and began to eat.

“I fixed up your injury just fine Mr. Harlen because I know how things ought to be done, yes, how things ought to be done,” Dick said, his head nodding as he spoke, “and you will get better soon. You will not hurt so much when you get better, Mr. Harden.”

Harlen was finishing his slice just then and said, “Dick, you’re a nice guy to help me like you did. I was hurt and bleeding bad and you came along, and that was something. Really something, Dick. You’re special, I can see that. I was injured and you helped me. But I am more broken than you know.” At this Harlen went quiet again and looked soulfully sad. “I’m a worthless man, I really am.” And he sat slumped back and utterly forlorn. “I should be dead. Why, I deserve to die. You’ve no idea,” and Harlen sank into his dark thoughts looking across into the sparsely filled sleeping room and the emptiness of his own soul. “Truly worthless,” and he sighed.

Dick was listening and knew the words before they were spoken. Why, sure he did. He knew about such things because he knew Lieutenant Monahan and how the lieutenant had held his darkness for a time before he could let it come out easy and then the lieutenant was better. But more than this, Dick knew his own experience and he was remembering.

It was after his mother passed away and he was left to wander the streets on his own. He remembered it so clearly now. The wandering itself was enjoyable. It was like living at the hospital again yet not being restricted to the grounds. Why, he could wander wheresoever he might please. And he did. He walked everywhere. And it was most enjoyable. But the loneliness overcame him and made him sad. Mr. Duprey was not there and Jim was not there and there was no beautiful music.  But only ever loneliness. Yet not just loneliness. He knew he was not wanted. People would avoid him. He could see that. And some would say unkind things. And that was understandable for he knew he was different. But it made him sad. He knew he was just some trash to be thrown out. People thought he did not understand but he did. And his thoughts would grow darker every day. Some days he just wanted to go home to live with his mother. But he could not do that anymore. She had gone to live with Jesus. But sometimes Dick wondered if she had gone away because of him. Why, he thought, maybe he had even caused her to die somehow. He didn’t know. But the darkness hung over him and he could not escape his thoughts. Then one day he walked into the Everlasting Arms Mission and Pastor Collins was there. He listened to Dick like Dick was a real person and not something to be thrown away. And he explained things clearly. And Dick knew once again that he was loved and wanted because Jesus loves everyone regardless. That is just the way he is. And Pastor Collins was like that, too. There is a place for everyone at God’s table, Pastor Collins had told him. And he knew it.

“Mr. Harlen, sir, you are not worthless to me,” Dick said at last, his eyes showing a sweetness and tenderness coming from a fountain deep within. “You are precious to me, sir, yes so very precious.” Dick was restraining his own tears as he added, “I am blessed to know you, Mr. Harlen.” Dick was feeling the incalculable joy was tending to the needs of another. It was the immeasurable pleasure in succoring the needs of another traveler through a hard world. Dick knew the trouble of the world. He had tasted its bitterness. But he would spare his friend Harlen the pain that he had endured. He would tend to Mr. Harlen’s needs until he was strong enough to make it on his own. That’s what friends do for each other.

f h

Harlen was listening intently to Dick and his words were crushing him. You are not worthless to me... You are so very precious to me... I am blessed to know you. Harlen could not reconcile these things. He knew his own soul too well. The dark evil hung there as a grotesque image. A rotting thing. A disgusting reminder of his heinous crimes and his wanton disregard of others. Empty of any sweetness or purity of soul. The years were swallowed up in appalling depravity, iniquitous horrors, and unspeakable evil. He knew he was beyond redemption. All was lost.

Dick had told him he was not worthless. He had even said Harlen was precious. But Harlen did not feel precious at all. He had no redeemable quality. Not even a little. Dick had no idea what he was really like. Harlen was a cold-hearted man. It was that simple. He had felt no remorse for his past actions. But since Dick had come into his life things were different. He did care. He cared a lot. In fact, he could feel the finger of accusation for all the darkness of his soul.

He remembered at times feeling he should be more compassionate. But that was to become vulnerable. And it was not enough just to feel like it occasionally. He could not allow himself such a weakness. It was too risky. But maybe that was it. Maybe that was the point. Could vulnerability be the place to turn over control of one’s life to someone else? To be willing to lose one’s life in exchange for something good? Being with Dick made him feel somehow there might be a way back, that there was a place for him. There is a place for everyone at the table, Dick had said once.   But could it be?

“I’m a bad person, Dick.” He just said it. Said it straight out. He wanted to be clear.

“Sure, Mr. Harlen, I know what you mean,” Dick replied softly. Then he said, “We’re all broken, Mr. Harlen.” Dick was sitting there quietly pushing his glasses up to his forehead with a finger. Dick was thinking hard and Harlen wanted his words. “Why, the smallest little thing shows our true self, Mr. Harlen. We’ve all thought bad things and felt sad for even thinking them. And sometimes we say bad things. I’ve done that plenty. But it makes me sad and I don’t want to be that way. No, I do not,” he said with a firm nod. “And, you know, some people have even hurt others or killed them. It’s terrible to think, but it happens. It happens because we are broken inside. But it is all the same, all the same it is, Mr. Harlen, for it shows what’s in us. We are all broken, all broken.” And Dick went silent for he was remembering.

The atmosphere in the room had grown heavy. Harlen was thinking of his life. It was shattered all through. Was every person as evil as he was? He thought it unlikely. Yet Dick was saying that to offend in even the smallest way was to show the state of a man’s soul. So, was everyone broken? Was Dick seeing this right?

“So, every person is by nature broken inside?” Harlen asked.

“They are. The littlest and the biggest wrong come to the same thing, Mr. Harlen. We were made for something beautiful but we are broken. We are all the same,” Dick said sitting back somewhat subdued. And then suddenly his eyes brightened as he shifted to the edge of his chair. He spoke hurriedly. “I can’t stay broken. It makes me too sad, Mr. Harlen. So, I go to Jesus and talk about it. That’s what I do. I talk to him about it and he makes things right. Why, Mr. Harlen, you’ve no idea how broken I am. But Jesus sets things right, he does, because he wants me to be the person he intended. He wants me to be nice. That’s what he would want.”

Harlen was hearing the words. He was feeling a mixture of both confusion and hope. Dick was such a sweet man. Harlen could not imagine any darkness in Dick’s life at all. He seemed so pure and undefiled. But I guess you can’t tell by looking. It was an issue of the heart. Harlen was beginning to accept that everyone was dark at the root. But it did not justify his own crimes. Not in the least.

The pizza lay there half eaten as the two sat in silence for a time.

“What do you say to Jesus, Dick?” Harlen suddenly asked.

“Why, I tell him how it is. How I did wrong things or spoke unkind. You know, I tell him I know it was wrong but I still did it, and I’m not able to do the right things unless he helps me. And he does. Why, right then I feel the joy come back to me, because he’s already paid for the wrong.” Dick was quiet then as if he was treasuring the thought.

“Dick, I want to believe like you. But I don’t know. I feel the weight of the things I’ve done and it’s heavy,” Harlen confessed.

“Sure, it is, Mr. Harlen. Every wrong comes as a weight. It’s a burden sure. But I can help you carry it to Jesus. Then you just lay it down for him. I can help you carry it, Mr. Harlen,” Dick said. And then very quietly a moment later, “That’s what friends do, you know.” Harlen looked into Dick’s guileless eyes and knew it was true.

As they talked, Harlen told Dick of his life. Dick listened quietly as Harlen let his darkness come out. Once he had begun, the evils and perversity seemed to drain from him freely, and Harlen felt release from the weight of horrors and the hell of his life. To Harlen’s surprise, Dick just accepted it all saying, let it all come out easy, Mr. Harlen, and Dick was holding Harlen’s hand to strengthen him. Dick was there to help him carry his burdens to Jesus. And Harlen laid it all down, for there was nothing else to be done. Dick explained in his simple way how light had overcome the darkness and that Jesus had paid the price for all the wrongs done. It is finished, Dick said. And they sat in quietness.

As they prepared for sleep, there was a calm that had come over the small sleeping room. And Harlen for the first time in his life felt true peace within.

It was something very special. And it was his very own.