Joey

I wrote this 7 years ago, but never published it. It was just a short, chance encounter but it really touched me and I still think back to it sometimes. I find something beautiful about the humanity and brokenness in Joey.


Joey came and sat down next to me, on a park bench during lunch. He likes to talk. He has been in prison most of his life (for theft among other things). He was released two weeks ago, and is homeless and hungry. He slept in the park last night, but he was woken up early by someone looking for drugs ("I don’t do that shit, man. I’ve been an alcoholic, but alcohol is a misdemeanor. That shit’s a felony"). His wife committed suicide ("You see that big tree over there, behind the bathrooms? That’s where she hung herself"). He still loves her, and misses her, he treated her well and never beat her and the restraining order was completely unjustified. He has a daughter, living with her grandparents, but he can’t go stay with them because they’re afraid he’ll steal from them. He would never do that. He shows me the scar in his stomach where a large black man stabbed him in prison ("he stuck me real good"). He’s on a first-name basis with the girl at the police station.

He believes in God, a vengeful God who punishes people. We talk briefly about sin and forgiveness. It is hard to get a word in.

Lunch is over. As I’m getting ready to leave, I tell him I’ll pray for him ("Right now, man? Are you down?"). I’m down. He scoots over next to me and takes my hands in his – the hands of a thief and alcoholic. Violent hands that may have beaten his wife. He asks me to pray for her, too. When I’m finished, to my surprise he starts praying for me ("Bless him, God. He’s a good man. I know he’ll do right, trust me").

Say a prayer for Joey.