I saw Christ yesterday. He walked into my office. He was old, worn down from all the living. His skin had that fragile, transparent look, like the slightest touch would draw blood. Everything had taken its toll, including the booze. Whiskey mainly. I don't know what they thought I could do. He talked and I listened. Stories of delight, hope, despair, betrayal, friendship, love, hate, all meshed into 67 years of life. He had died and come back maybe six or seven times. Back from prison, being homeless, countless lost jobs, three marriages, three divorces, estranged children, a bleeding ulcer, damaged liver. Back from promises unkempt and nightmares turned real. Each time saved he was thankful, but not enough to quit drinking. What could I do for him but listen, say thank you for sharing, help him to the door, give him a tap on the shoulder, and wonder how you tell Christ he's Christ. Maybe it's best you don't.
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