Bartholomew

I remember the first day I met Bartholomew. 

Actually, the word “met” is stretching the encounter a bit.

I was taking the trash out and was getting ready to lob it into the dumpster when he raised up. In the dumpster. Surrounded by trash. 

I think I screamed. It wasn’t exactly something I was expecting that day. When I screamed it startled him. Then I immediately felt bad and apologized. He apologized and then asked if there were any cans or bottles in my trash bag. I told him no. 

We were living in an apartment in Michigan in the suburbs of Detroit. Doug and I had moved our family there to begin an apartment outreach ministry the summer of ‘93. Cans and bottles in Michigan had a ten cent deposit. 

As he climbed out of the dumpster, I looked at him. I mean really looked. He had a long flowing white beard that was stained yellow around his mouth from nicotine. He had smudges on his cheeks and a ball cap on his head. His hair was long and touched his shoulders. He was wearing an old checked shirt with a stained black T-shirt below. His hands were gnarled and rough and his finger tips on his right hand were stained yellow. His eyes were a solomn brown and you could see the edges of a cataract affecting his left eye. 

And guys. I’m not going to lie. He smelled bad. Really bad. Between old cigarette smoke and the smell of the many dumpsters adding to his odor, it was bad. But to give myself a little credit, I didn’t back away. 

But there was something about him. Something that made me want to get to know him better. 

I asked him when he would come back around and we would hold some back for him. 

He replied, “Wednesdays, unless the collecting is good then on Thursday. 

That next Wednesday morning, the kids and I got ready. I made Texas style breakfast tacos and wrapped them individually with foil. Then my oldest filled up a plastic container full of orange juice while my two youngest helped me put together hot coffee. I had a feeling he would like it with cream and sugar. 

Then the three of them on the floor and me on the couch…we watched and waited. A few minutes went by and this is what I heard: “He’s here! He’s here!” Shouted the kids. We had timed everything perfectly. 

We got everything ready, including a bag with bottles and cans we collected, and took it all out to meet him. 

“Excuse me!”, I said. “We have some stuff for you.” The kids told him we had made breakfast and it was already for him. He smiled gently, and then asked if he could eat right now. I nodded yes. 

He sat down on the curb and began opening packages. The kids explained what was in each and each time he would exclaim, “My favorite!” He gulped down the orange juice and smacked his lips. He couldn’t remember the last time he had orange juice. And he assured my two little ones that the coffee was exactly the way he liked it. Light and sweet. 

We made introductions and he said his name was Bart. Then he turns to me and takes his cap off. He plays with the bill and then looked up at me. “My momma named me Bartholomew. Since she passed fifty years ago, I’ve not heard my name said. Can you call me Bartholomew?”

I nodded my head as tears came to my eyes. I assured him it was dust. “It would be an honor to call you that,” I said. 

He smiled from ear to ear, his eyes lighting up. “Time to get going. Thank you for breakfast. It was the best I ever tasted.”

As the summer went on, we continued to give little things to him. Socks for his feet. A new Detroit Lions cap. And lots of goodies in togo bags found their way to him. The kids and I had fun pouring love into this man who had seen so many years. 

As the weather got colder, we went shopping for gloves, a new stocking cap, and some thermal socks. We couldn’t afford much but we shared out of our blessings to take care of this sweet friend. 

From the beginning, he was never a ministry project. He was our friend. And we delighted in serving him and loving on him. What many don’t know is that we gave not out of abundance but out of the last bit of flour in the jar. His first breakfast was made with the last of our eggs. The juice was a luxury. The empty cans and bottles we collected could have been used to replenish an almost empty pantry. But God blessed our gifts and there was always enough for another mouth to be fed. 

The months went by and it was all of a sudden time to move back to Texas. On our last day there, sorrow hit me. I had never shared Jesus with him. And because it was winter, he was probably being housed somewhere to wait out the cold months. 

A missed opportunity. So I prayed, “God, can you give me one more chance?” I looked up and from around the corner came walking Bartholomew. Before I had even thought to voice my prayer, God had already prepared the answer. 

I did share Jesus with him on that very cold, January morning. We kneeled in the snow together as he said yes. Tears streaking down his weathered cheeks. And I hugged this man. This friend. My brother in Christ. 

That was in 1995. Bartholomew was 85 years old…so I know he’s gone on to walking the streets of heaven, shaking hands and exclaiming that whatever he receives, it’s his favorite and exactly the way he likes it. 

And someday, I’ll see him again and let him take me to all of his favorite places. What a day that will be.