I sat on a bench in the park of Logan Square as I waited for my brunch companion to arrive.
Down the path from me was a saxophone player, piping out the melodies of various songs accompanied by recorded background tracks.
He was good.
'This will be a pleasant way to spend my time as I wait,' I thought.
As long as the few stray raindrops I felt didn't recruit more consistent friends...
I was about to start a search of alternative brunch spots in the area, not sold on the hour wait time for the original restaurant pick. But a nearby commotion quickly captured my attention.
I looked up to observe a group of young adults passing blindly by a homeless man, who was quick to call attention to their choice of deeming him invisible.
The group exited the park and the homeless man continued expressing his distaste for their behavior.
We made eye contact.
He then directed his comments towards me.
"Some people won't even give you a common courtesy of acknowledging you exist." (Or something along those lines.)
I expressed my agreement with him, that everyone should and deserves to be acknowledged. We are all people, after all.
He walked over towards me, stopping by the empty end of the bench.
"May I?" he asked.
"Of course," I consent and he sits down.
"What's your name?" I asked him.
"David," he answers.
David is in his mid to late forties, with grown-out curls, and a short graying beard. There are crumbs stuck in the hair around his mouth and his clothes are rather worn and torn. His two bandaged arms quickly catch my attention, but not nearly as much as his eyes. David has pale, blue eyes that surprised me.
Rather than the glazed view I've come to associate with the challenges of homelessness, David's eyes told a different story. They were bright and clear and unexpectedly pulled at me with the depth of soul they revealed.
I was taken aback.
"Hi, David. I'm Sarah," I responded.
"You have a Bible name, too," he commented.
We began a conversation.
David likes to read and enjoys perusing the Free Little Libraries in the neighborhood. There's an air of enlightenment about him and he is clearly on the path of evolving his level of consciousness. Something I would have missed entirely had we met before I went through coach training.
He shared his gift of song lyric knowledge and remembering all of the words to pretty much every song he's heard. 'A blessing and a curse,' he called it. The lyrics move him deeply, which makes sense as he, himself, is a poet.
Art has always been a part of his life. His dad owned a fine art gallery of 17th and 18th century American paintings when he was growing up. He recalled when he was around the age of 10, there had been an art show featuring a Georgia O'Keeffe work; a prominent memory for him.
I asked him what happened to his arms.
"I was attacked with a crowbar. My left elbow was broken and my right arm has deep lacerations."
As much as I tried not to, my eyes began to prickle with sole piercing tears. Horrified to hear the recounting of the cruelty he endured.
"I was over [assaulted]." Or maybe he said over beaten, I can't remember the exact phrasing. Whatever it was, it gave the impression he was justifying a small amount of harm towards him, but not enough to send him to the hospital. My heart pained at this. No person deserves to be beaten. I'm sure there was more to the story, but I chose not to go down that path. Instead, I blinked back tears and listened as he continued.
"There have been a lot of times where I could have died. But I'm still here."
'And very clearly for a reason,' I thought to myself.
He then shared his desire to do good in the world, through his art of poetry and the other skills and talents he has. The dedication to this mission was almost tangible, which is probably why I felt so compelled to learn more about him.
But our conversation got cut short when he saw someone nosing a little too closely around his stuff. (Which was scattered all over the park. I had wanted to inquire about that, too, but forwent the question in lieu of hearing more of his story.)
"Hey, that's mine - don't touch it!" he yelled from his seat on our bench.
"Leave that alone!" He warned again, then left me behind to guard his possessions.
It was a very strange encounter.
I've noticed I have deeply moving meetings (specifically with homeless people - interestingly enough) every few years.
Meeting David is definitely in a category of its own, though. For reasons I don't fully understand.
Perhaps it's because rather than having pity or sympathy and a desire to help, I instead had objectivity, openness and an intense desire to learn.
I think another factor coming into play is a somewhat spiritual one.
In what way?
I'm still unclear. But I would be lying if I said, upon looking him in the eyes, that I didn't have the passing thought,
'I might be talking to Jesus right now.'
