Jesus is in this northern mining town he walks the street at night beneath the streetlight’s muted glow missing a few teeth.
He’s always alone, and when he finds my eyes he breathes easy, relieved, as though I am a lifeline.
Often he’s had a few drinks he bobs flowingly while he walks his pants hanging off his backside, old, worn leather belt dangling away like a safety harness carelessly draped on the hip.
He is always happy —or hopeful— even delighted, when he sees me and he remembers my name —Michael, he calls me— and I am ashamed because I have forgotten his.
The wind blows cold from the northwest right up the avenue, and I shiver. He seems immune to the wind but he carries the emptiness and loneliness of this sidewalk and the way cars and trucks race past like a deep-seated ache in the bones.
I ask again what his name is, with the traffic rushing and hushing past, the headlights reflecting off his smiling face and his glasses —but he didn’t hear me— I think— a name is a sacred thing, and for now it is probably better if I just leave it be.
He calls me by my name again —Michael— and I feel so terribly honoured. How are you, Michael? he asks me.
Shoot, I’m doin’ fine—how’re you? Good, he says. But the word trails away, because there’s something momentous, earth-shattering, going on, and I don’t have the courage to ask what it is.
You been home lately? I ask. He is from far away, from the end of the rail line from a place lost in a sea of trees and bog that lies before a wide, endless river.
No, no I haven’t been home in a while. No plans. So, how are you Michael?
If he asks me that one more time my heart will break, so I toughen up and laugh. You take it easy, I say. I wish him peace as I part but he overcomes my attempt at control, bowing his head and looking to the ground, accepting my good wishes, assuming I would only speak truth, from the heart.
Good bye, Michael. He is alone and his good bye sticks in me like a shard of glass
I love him and trust him, but I wouldn’t eat supper with him.
He smells, body and clothes unwashed and he might have drank a bit too much and be unpredictable, and he might carry germs.
If he asked me to, I convince myself I’d walk with him till the end of the day, or lace his shoes.
I’d serve him a meal at the soup kitchen— I could do that—I’ve done that. But I can’t sit and eat with him.
Why can’t I eat with Jesus?
There is a line in front of me only the Saints can cross in a predictable fashion, for circumstances have placed me at the dinner table with Jesus before, and I have endured.
The circumstance is grace. Anything is possible with Jesus.
Michael Buhler is the chaplain for the Northeastern Catholic District School Board, in Northern Ontario. He is the author of a collection of short stories, The Burden of Light.