Street Smart

Old Ray, the One-Legged Wino “Then a despised Samaritan came along, and when he saw the man, he felt compassion for him” (Luke 10:33). Friday nights on High Street were rarely quiet for Jennie and me. Jennie, one of my all time favorite witnessing partners, was fearless, joyful, and for reasons known only to heaven, she and I carried a strange anointing: we attracted the pukers. If someone had spent the evening “celebrating life” a little too enthusiastically, odds were good they’d end up decorating the sidewalk right in front of us. But not tonight. Tonight was peaceful. Suspiciously peaceful. We were strolling past the UDF, talking like old friends, when I glanced over my shoulder—and froze. There he was. Old Ray. The One Legged Wino. He was sprawled against the base of an eight foot chain link fence like a rag doll someone had thrown away. Ray always looked older than he was. Decades of Boone’s Farm had carved deep canyons into his face. No one knew how he’d lost his right leg. Ray didn’t even know. His crutches lay several feet away, as if they’d tried to escape him. His clothes were filthy, soaked, and stiff with things I didn’t want to identify. Gnats hovered around his beard like they were holding a family reunion. But the good news—the great news—was that he was unconscious. We were going to get past him without incident. A miracle. And then, as if the devil himself said, “Not so fast,” Ray woke up. He pushed himself up on one elbow, blinked around, and then—“Blah!”vomited straight down his beard and shirt. I felt my own stomach lurch. My only prayer at that moment was, “Lord, how do I get out of here?” Then Ray did the unthinkable. He wiped his beard with one hand, smeared it across his shirt, and held that hand out toward medripping, shaking, pitiful. “Help me,” he whispered. I froze. I mean froze. I stood there like a petrified tree in the Petrified Forest. I wish I could tell you I was full of compassion and Scripture and the love of Jesus. Nope. I was full of nausea and the desire to run. Then God dropped a thought into my spirit so clear it might as well have been audible: “Does his hand look any worse to you than yours looked to Me when you held it out and said, ‘Help me’?” That was it. The line in the sand. If I couldn’t reach out to this man—this filthy, broken, foul smelling man, I wasn’t worthy of the call of Christ. So, I stepped forward. I took Ray’s hand. I pulled him upright and leaned him against the fence. Jennie ran into UDF and came back with a roll of paper towels. Together, we cleaned him up as best we could. I’d love to tell you the 700 Club rolled up with cameras, or that a bell rang and an angel got his wings. What actually happened was that I walked behind the UDF and threw up. But that night, something in me crossed a threshold. A point of no return. I understood mercy in a way I never had before.