I shared this experience during last year's testimony meeting, about Mr. Dire. It was an experience in which Holy Spirit was very real and present:
It was Palm Sunday, 2011, and our family was on vacation for my husband Mark's conference in San Antonio. A homeless man (who I didn't entirely trust--I felt uneasy around him) asked for money, and I gathered the kids and rushed by, completely ignoring him, leaving Mark to deal with his request.
Immediately I felt ashamed of my behavior, and was convicted--I did not even look at this man to honor his humanity. About twenty steps later, I asked Mark if we could turn around and offer this man breakfast. Mark, bless him, gave the "if-you-really-want-to" response, which I love about him. We turned around, and suddenly this man was gone--we couldn't find him anywhere. But I felt better knowing at least that I had fixed that part of my heart that had been so dismissive and closed. And I prayed that God would help me be a better person.
I should have known better.
God likes to mess with me.
It wasn't five minutes later when we emerged from a bridge crossing the Riverwalk to find a very filthy, emaciated homeless man in an army shirt, a hood that had been cut and knotted all around the edges, and stained pink pants walking along with all he owned--a bag attached to a rickety walker.
Oh no, God. Please, not him.
I'm ashamed to admit it, but these were my initial thoughts.
But I knew exactly what God was telling me to do. And when I asked Mark's permission, he gave me the typical "if-you-really-want-to" response. This time, it wasn't exactly what I wanted to hear, and all the same, it was exactly all I needed to hear.
"Sir, would you like to join us for breakfast? Just down there?"
I don't know who was more surprised by the words that had fallen from my mouth. The man agreed, and I helped him maneuver his walker down the stone steps to the Riverwalk (actually, I tried, and then he took the walker back from clumsy me--there's a special way to fold it). Then I requested a table at the Republic of Texas, right on the river. I had no idea how the restaurant (a nice one, at that) would handle the situation, but all the same we sat down--the kids, Mark, this man and me.
I asked him his name.
"Mr. Dire," he replied, in the gentlest, barely audible voice. I spied on his army green shirt, just above the pocket, this very name, etched in blue pen, which confirmed I'd heard right. The name spoke to everything about him.
We ordered food and endured several curious stares from passersby--not rude, just baffled.
Mr. Dire immediately took a small vial of scented oil from one of his many pockets and rubbed it on his dirty cheeks, as if trying to cover the smell of not having bathed for I-can't-imagine-how-long. It smeared away just enough dirt to show his skin tone through it, a leathery tan. He offered Mark the oil as well--Mark refused kindly--and then reached into his pocket to grab a massive supply of peppermints to litter the table.
It was his way of thanking us.
He told us he gives peppermints to people when they give him money.
And he gave us all that he had.
I wanted to learn about Mr. Dire's life, so asked him about his story. I leaned in and tried to listen the best I could, but his voice was so soft, and his words were so warped by his mouth, not a single tooth in it. And so I just stared into his eyes--beautiful, locked-in hazel blue eyes that seemed so grateful to gaze into the eyes of another human being.
Just as soon as Mr. Dire finished his huevos rancheros, which took little more than fifteen minutes, he tried to give Mark a dollar (Mark wouldn't accept) and immediately excused himself with an ample supply of thanks. I asked if we could take him to CVS for some supplies to help him along, but he wouldn't let us do anything for him.
As he left, I said, "God bless you," and felt tears welling up.
Then the waiter, a young Hispanic guy who had been so graciously attentive to us, walked over to our table and smiled. The hostess was smiling, too.
"Another customer saw," he said, "and he's paid for all of your meals."
By this point, I had to bury my face in my napkin, overwhelmed by tears. My thoughts just spilled from my mouth:
"And that's how our God works," I said, crumbling into a mess.
"You taught me a lesson today I will never, never forget," he said so sincerely, as I thanked him for being so kind to us, so ready to fill our waters and treat us, and especially Mr. Dire, well--I told him I was worried the restaurant might turn us away, but instead they were unusually hospitable.
We left him a big tip as we got up, still deeply touched by the generosity of some anonymous stranger who had been sitting nearby.
Five minutes or so later, this time two blocks away on the street above, we just happened to emerge at the same place Mr. Dire was walking again.
"Mr. Dire!" I yelled down the sidewalk near a street full of traffic. Three boys sitting on a bench nearby looked at me like I was mad, because now I was running after this homeless man. "Mr. Dire, thank you for eating with us today. It really blessed us."
He put his hand on my shoulder, looked into my eyes again, and nodded, and then we parted ways.
He probably went on just the same as he had before, but not me. I felt like heaven had suddenly intersected earth, and was a blathering mess the rest of the day.
And all day long, I could smell the fragrance of Mr. Dire's very distinct, woodsy oil--on our hotel elevator, on the Riverwalk, gusting at me like a breeze as I wandered alone on a long, evening stroll. I could never find the source of it on my clothes or in my hair. But it was clearly there, and it seemed to be following me.
I think this was Holy Spirit.
And it was beautiful.
