Space Invaders

I saw him again today.

My heart is beat up over this lost soul.

Standing at the intersection, unwashed and disheveled, he holds up a cardboard sign with both hands firmly gripped to either side. I glance over the few words as I approach the green light telling me to proceed.

He is homeless.  He is hungry.  

No sooner do I commit to the turn, I find myself turning around in the parking lot to make my way to him yet again.

$16.00 leaves my wallet and into my hand as my heart beats rapidly.

We make brief eye contact as I hold out this small provision.

He says, “Thank you, ma’am.”

Each time I encounter him, he is coherent.  This is huge since he has a mind-altering, mental illness.

“Mom, don’t invade his space by putting his life out there.”

(Week’s ago I began this post about this young man, with whom I am heartsick over.  So, to protect his privacy, I will not include a pic of the cup I mention two sentences from now.)

Too late.  He had already invaded mine.

Fluid filled my dark amber eyes as my daughter handed me a disposable cup, which was filled with random words he wrote on the exterior until not a blank space was left.

The words of the empty cup spoke of a man void of reality.

I saw him earlier, and offered to buy him lunch; instead he chose to eat the residual waste in the trash can.

I think it was melted ice cream.  It was 90 degrees outside and he ate warm milk from a smelly trash container.

I offered again.

“I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

No.  He would rather eat garbage.

He grabbed another cup from the trash can as he walked away.  Another empty cup to fill with words that I conclude were ramblings in his brain.  Obviously intelligent by the one-word dissertation he displayed on the cup.

This is a ritual with him–to pick up empty cups and write words on them.

Maybe this is a peek inside his mind.

I hear he has family who cares, but he refuses to take medication.  He is so young–early twenties maybe.  Could be one of my children.  Could be the fact the initials woven throughout the cup, possibly his initials, are the same initials of the name of the boy we never had.

Anthony Joseph.  Yes, Hubby is all-Italian!  And, yes, Hubby wanted to call him by either the initials, A.J., or T.J.  I pictured them sitting side by side–daddy and son in their matching white t-shirts,  sprawled on the couch, glued to a ‘Rocky’ marathon.

I digress.  My daughter handed me the cup.  And I cried.  I am puzzled by my emotions.  Why does he bother me so?

If you offer them a cup of water…

But, what am I doing to help him?

So many times I attempt to avoid the person who is obviously emotionally off center.

I notice one word on the bottom of the cup:  Infini.  A quick Google search brings me to a science fiction movie.  But, a deeper dig describes a derivative of a French word meaning, infinite.

Infinite.

This lost boy roaming the earth is not lost by the one who is the First and Last.  I pour out petitions to my Savior—His Savior, on his behalf.  I am all over the place on this post.  Every time I try to put words to the feeling in my heart, I tear up.

I fix my eyes on a few words to pray that will penetrate beyond the ramblings–to the truth.

Jesus Great Physician Healer Savior Love You died for him Abundant Life Healing Wholeness Child Loved Eternity Hope Desire to be well Sovereign Author The Cure

These words are reminders to me also.  The One Who sees–sees our afflictions.

We are not too lost to be rescued.

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