and he wept

I will not give you his name. It is a short two letter name. Easy to remember, but few remember him. He moves to often. Today he pulled me aside, asking me to talk for a couple minutes. So we walked down the only hallway in the coffee shop, leaned against the wall, and talked. I knew only a little bit of his story. The truth is that he only has a history that looks like a thrift store puzzle. He asked to talk because just today a little more of that story was taken from him. "In the last year I have lived at 5 different homes." He is only 18 years old. Registering that my face was drawn in disbelief he elaborated, "Oh that is nothing, by the time I was 13 I had lived in 28 different foster homes." 28 homes! And he was being honest. After years of working at the Coffee Oasis I can tell the difference between a gloating tale, the knotch-in-the-belt type, and a tragedy. This was the second kind of story. "Today I found out that the last guy who had the house I last stayed at burned my stuff. About a thousand dollars worth of stuff. I can get that back, but not the two pictures of my mom. I have never seen her before, and I only had two pictures." So he told me his story and I listened. The man who burned his belongings was once his foster-parent. After this man abused him physical and emotional my friend was again moved, but since he was taken at school he was unable to retrieve his belongings. He is taking two extra years to finish school because he has never been at one school for a whole year. "I know my mother's name," He continued to tell me, "but the place for my father to sign on the birth certificate was left blank. I know what it is like for a guy to need a father figure. I just don't know what it is like to have a man in my life." I will not try to make my friend look impressive. He is small and has a quirky personality. Sometimes at school, he say, kids taunt him calling him gay because of the way that he acts. I asked him if we could pray together. So in that one hall in the lower-level of the coffee shop, with people periodically passing us to use the toilets, we prayed. I would like to say I cried, but I did'nt. He cried. While his heart was a little mended after talking I left thinking that I want my heart to heal a little more by breaking a little more for guys and girls like him. If you have not read the last post, take in the quote by Lewis. It is easier for me to keep from hurting if I do not care. I want to notice and to care.

Jesus wept.