You aren’t that different from Henry.  You may think you are more sophisticated, responsible, hygienic, but Henry is all of us.

“Where are you trying to get to today?” I holler out of the passenger window.  The Subaru is pregnant with items for the recycling center.

“I need you to call a cab.”  His eyes avoid me.  Stained nails and fingers dart into pockets for warmth.

“Are you trying to get to the bus station, or where are you going?  If you are headed north, I can get you there.  Besides, I haven’t talked to you in a while.”  I smile and look at his dark eyes.

“I am going to the center.  Please take me to the center.”  He opens the passenger door and sets a plastic bag of lumpy clothes on the floorboard.

“Did your mom do your laundry?”

“Yeah, her water was turned off for a while.  It’s been tough.  I didn’t take my meds because I didn’t like the people at the other place. They were always talking and starting things, you know?  I just can’t stand it.  The people there weren’t nice.  One lady said…”  The hands escape their pockets and are beginning to gesture when I interrupt.

“Henry, I want to hear all about what’s happened since we last talked, but two things.  First, I don’t know where this knew place is.  Do you know the exit?”

The man who hasn’t driven in years responds, “Yup!”

“Good, I’ll head north and you point it out.  Second, have you started taking your meds again?”  I haven’t left the parking lot, and I think there is still time to abort the mission.

His black hair lands on his cheek as he nods.  “They are nice at the center, and they give me my meds.”  He stares blankly forward as I pull down the driveway.  I don’t bring up the topic of people Henry doesn’t like.  We talk about his life and upbringing.  He even shares glimpses of having some plans and goals.

“Henry, you know I am rooting for you.  But, last time we talked you told me you see things, things that scare you.  Do you remember what I said?”

He pauses long enough for me to notice the smell of cigarettes.  Then he answers, “Yeah, I remember I was seeing all that shit.  I still sometimes see spooky stuff.  I don’t like it.  But I believe in Jesus.  I was raised in church.  My mom took me to church. And…”

“What did I say about God and the things you see?”  I take my eyes of the road for a second and look at his eyes.

His hands rest on his thighs, and he answers, “You said God is bigger than that shit.”

“I didn’t say it just like that, but no matter what, God is in control.  Any of that dark and spooky stuff is not in control of the universe.  Even if it were to kill you, Jesus is boss of the resurrection.  So yes, God is bigger than that shit.”  I feel a rush of excitement and dread at the opportunity to curse in a theological conversation.

At the center, I ask Henry to let me pray for him.  He lets me put my hand on his shoulder but not hug him.  I pray for many things.  When I am done, he nods and says amen.  I encourage him to take his medication and to stop by my office on the days I am in.  As he turns toward the center I offer my hand.  His dirty fingers entwine my clean hand.  His hand is cold.