Crazy, Maybe

He was seated on a makeshift bench - two milk crates pushed together with flattened cardboard for some cushion. His elbows rested on his knees, his big hands clasped together and his head lowered, as if in prayer. I stopped my bicycle at the curb and waited for Prophet to look up.  When he did, he smiled and held his arms open.  I smiled but stayed put.
"Where are you going to be later?" I called out to him.
"Good morning!  Why you not come here?  Your first words are where will I be later?  I am here now!"
"I'm sorry. Good morning, Prophet."
"I miss you." He motioned to me.  "Why you not come here?" 
"I'm on my way to church and I'm late." It was true, but it felt like an excuse. "I'm going to come by later."
"I will be here. I love you!"  I shook my head and waved as I pedaled off.

When I returned a few hours later, he was right where he said he would be, lying on his back with his eyes closed. I cycled up onto the sidewalk in front of him, the spokes of my wheels tick, tick, ticking as I slowed to a stop.  He turned his head towards me and smiled, his beautiful white teeth contrasting against his walnut-black skin.

This giant man deftly spun his body around to a sitting position and again, opened his arms wide, but I shook my head. "Oh no, not yet.  I'm upset with you from last time.  That wasn't okay."
"I love you."
"Only my husband loves me like that.  That made me uncomfortable."
"You are safe with me."
"Huh, well both of us have to feel that way and I sure didn't feel that way. That's not the love I'm looking for."
"Come,"  he said, slapping one of his thighs to offer me a seat on his lap. I made a face.
"No, I'll sit right there next to you," I pointed to a spot of cardboard on the crate.  He slapped his leg again and I pointed again.  We continued this battle of gestures and wills until finally I sat cross-legged on the sidewalk in front of him.
"Listen, I came because I want to talk with you, I want to hear what you have to say, but you have to let me feel safe."
"You do not trust me, you do not trust God."
"God is not a man who's trying to get me to sit on his lap. God and I are just fine." 
But somewhere I felt that must be a lie, otherwise why would I be looking to a homeless man for a message? For a sign?

I have an... unusual... friendship with this homeless man in my neighborhood.  I realize that sentence is loaded.  I can actually hear my father yell, "Jesus Christ, Stephanie!" from over 1,000 miles away.  I understand that this defies a lot of logic.  But Prophet has been on my radar for almost three years now.  I wave, and stop, and sometimes share a hug with him.  He has a presence and an openness that I can't describe and he actually smells warm and comforting, like cinnamon or allspice.  His skin glows, his eyes are bright, his teeth are beautiful... not what you might imagine when draw a mental image of a homeless guy.  He has never asked me for anything.  The only thing we have shared is kindness. He told me his name is Prophet.


For months I have been wanting to stop and hear his story, but it always seems I'm rushing somewhere.  I'm always in a hurry.  I don't quite trust the sanity of my curiosity or the sanity of my friend.

Better judgment be damned (a lifelong pursuit of mine, apparently), there I was, sitting on the pavement, wanting to talk with him. The problem was, we were at cross purposes.  I wanted to hear his story and he wanted me to prove that I trusted him wholly before he would tell me. It was a frustrating hamster wheel.  He said my proof to him would be to go somewhere together, out off the street.  Once I had proven I was open to him, I would be ready to hear his message. I shook my head firmly and pursed my lips.


"See... now, that doesn't sit well with a woman, a married woman, a woman in New York City who has had enough life experience to know better.  If I can trust you, I can trust you right here in the open. Why would you ask me to do anything that didn't let me feel safe if you really have something important to say?" It was about this time that I noticed the guys at the bodega on the corner taking turns to peek out check on the two of us.  Churchgoers walked by in their Sunday best.  They all greeted Prophet and he answered with, "God is good!"

Finally, Prophet answered some basic questions for me. He told me that he's been in New York for 19 years.  He lived in Paris before that and he is originally from Senegal. I asked about his being homeless.  He said he's not.  


"I have nothing and I have everything. I worry about nothing because God gives me everything I need.  All we have is time."

I tried to ask him more questions and he broke into a running monologue that I couldn't understand.  His accent was so thick and his thoughts were so fast, I couldn't keep up.  For a while he spoke his native French and I responded in kind to say my French sure wasn't helping me understand him.  He rambled emphatically and I managed to catch about 1/5 of what he was saying. Each time he paused, I'd say, "Here's what I think you said," and I would repeat back the gist.  He would then shake his head NO, NO, NO and say, "You are not listening!  You must listen to what I am saying!" and I would protest, "I AM listening, I just don't understand you.  I'm really trying to understand."

This interaction sums up my whole life.  I feel like I spend so much of my time trying to be open, letting people in, trying to understand the very core of who we complicated beings are, only to understand about 20%... I always feel like I come up short. I'm fumbling along but sense that I've somehow failed, that I've missed the mark.  And at this moment, I feel lost and stupid.  I'm looking for truth in the idea that this guy might just have a piece of insight to give me some clarity, some peace.

Prophet acknowledged my frustration.  "You go for now.  You are tired."
I nodded defeatedly. He vigorously shook my hand and laughed as he pulled me to my feet.
We faced each other and Prophet said, "Look me in the eye. You look at me in my eyes and you know me.  I know you and I love you." I looked him in the eye and I welled up with tears. 


"Be well, Prophet," I choked out.
"God is good.  I will be here."


Call it crazy.
IT IS.  
But...
Prophets are usually considered crazy, aren't they?  
The answers are often where you least expect to find them, aren't they? 


I don't know any other way but to spend my life being open to all prophets.