Everything he had was in a shopping cart.
I watched as the old man shuffled across the plaza at the Kennedy Center to a place where he could sit in the sun on a cool September day in 1987. His unbuttoned coat exposed his bib overalls.
He watched me as I crossed the plaza and introduced myself. His name was Ross. I told him about the plans our youth group had to begin a ministry with homeless people in DC. He listened intently. For the next 10 minutes we had a delightful conversation filled with good information about where people camped and what areas to avoid. He also shared a little about his life. Ross was the first homeless person I ever talked to.
Things were going well, and I was enjoying our back and forth when Ross reached in his pocket, pulled out a bottle of cough syrup, and took a swig of it.
“Do you have a cold?” I asked.
“It’s how I get my alcohol,” he answered matter-of-factly.
Right after he said that, his expression changed. One eye narrowed into a squint and it seemed like he was looking through me and not at me. He then launched into a long narrative about how he was the “father of the Indian nations” and how his “blood ran through all the steam tunnels and gave life to all the federal workers.” At the time, many federal buildings were heated by steam. Tunnels under the streets carried the steam to the buildings. I didn’t know what to say.
After a few minutes of silent prayer about the situation, I decided to go along with his delusions so I asked him how long his blood had been flowing through the steam tunnels. He launched into a detailed account about how that strange phenomenon came about. As soon as he finished his explanation, he stood up, told me how much he enjoyed our conversation and walked away.
For the next several years, we saw Ross often. When we noticed his overalls were wearing out, we got him a new pair. Every time I saw him was like the first time, ending with his delusions.
I lost contact with Ross for about a year. Then one day, I saw him on Virginia Avenue near the State Department. He saw me from a distance and called my name. We talked for about a half hour. I waited for him to dive into his delusions, but that never happened. After we caught up on everything, he said goodbye, grabbed his shopping cart, and walked away.
It was the last time I saw him. Sometime later I heard he passed away. But I’ll never forget the lesson I learned from my interaction with him. When we witness for Christ through our words and actions, we have to meet people where they are. It’s a lesson I have carried with me for nearly 39 years.