by Sara Miles
Chris was the very first person to volunteer at the food pantry at St. Gregory's, more than fourteen years ago. He lived under the bridge back then, but Chris would always show up at church on Fridays at seven-thirty in the morning, and he’d help unpack and break down boxes and do whatever else was needed. He was a hard worker, and generous, and the kind of guy who teases people incessantly. “Kiddo,” Chris always greeted me. “Hey kiddo, what’s new?”
We all rejoiced when Chris got housing a few years back, in a SRO hotel. But then he had two heart attacks, and things went south. He started drinking more and more, going under, falling, dying. But he still showed up on Fridays at the pantry. He and I were hanging out in back by the font one afternoon, tying up stacks of flattened cardboard, and Chris said, sort of abashed, “I had a fight last night.”
“Who with?” I asked. “Are you OK?”
Chris pointed up to the sky. “Him,” he said. “I was yelling at God, like, how come it has to hurt so much? I know I’m a screw-up, but what did I do so wrong? “
He looked at me. “I’m just scared, Sara,” he said. “I don’t want to die alone.” He splashed his hand in the water. “So, what do I have to do to get this?”
“The water?” I asked. “Yeah,” he said. “I want it.”
Chris was hospitalized a couple of times, and I thought he might not make it. He appeared at church on Easter Day, though, wearing a nice shirt, accompanied by a friend from his hotel, and he clung to our hands as the congregation processed out to the font. He said, shakily, “I guess if God hasn’t struck me dead yet, I’m OK with him.”
The service took a while, since there was a baby, a ten-year old, and a high school boy to be baptized alongside Chris that day. We sang and cried and stood there holding on to each other, and afterwards I asked Chris how he felt. “It’s like I’m part of something bigger,” he said. “I’m still scared. But I don’t feel alone.”
Chris was the very first person to volunteer at the food pantry at St. Gregory's, more than fourteen years ago. He lived under the bridge back then, but Chris would always show up at church on Fridays at seven-thirty in the morning, and he’d help unpack and break down boxes and do whatever else was needed. He was a hard worker, and generous, and the kind of guy who teases people incessantly. “Kiddo,” Chris always greeted me. “Hey kiddo, what’s new?”
We all rejoiced when Chris got housing a few years back, in a SRO hotel. But then he had two heart attacks, and things went south. He started drinking more and more, going under, falling, dying. But he still showed up on Fridays at the pantry. He and I were hanging out in back by the font one afternoon, tying up stacks of flattened cardboard, and Chris said, sort of abashed, “I had a fight last night.”
“Who with?” I asked. “Are you OK?”
Chris pointed up to the sky. “Him,” he said. “I was yelling at God, like, how come it has to hurt so much? I know I’m a screw-up, but what did I do so wrong? “
He looked at me. “I’m just scared, Sara,” he said. “I don’t want to die alone.” He splashed his hand in the water. “So, what do I have to do to get this?”
“The water?” I asked. “Yeah,” he said. “I want it.”
Chris was hospitalized a couple of times, and I thought he might not make it. He appeared at church on Easter Day, though, wearing a nice shirt, accompanied by a friend from his hotel, and he clung to our hands as the congregation processed out to the font. He said, shakily, “I guess if God hasn’t struck me dead yet, I’m OK with him.”
The service took a while, since there was a baby, a ten-year old, and a high school boy to be baptized alongside Chris that day. We sang and cried and stood there holding on to each other, and afterwards I asked Chris how he felt. “It’s like I’m part of something bigger,” he said. “I’m still scared. But I don’t feel alone.”
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