forty-seven thursdays have past since the first time i met him.

once a week, i volunteer with a ministry program that meets thursday evenings on a military base. the ministry is a chaplain sponsored outreach program to soldiers in training; its mission to give the soldiers a break from their stressful training. we often have live music from local churches (sometimes from the trainees themselves), serve pizza, coffee, cookies, and an ear or shoulder to lean on when necessary. i’ve been helping out, on and off, for a little over three years. our attendees are mostly young, married or single soldiers in job training, and occasionally the civilian who straggles in.

for three years i have seen many faces come and go, a few return, and made some forever friends in the process. but this particular night there was a man there that no one had ever seen before.

it was November 15, a week before thanksgiving. i was sitting at the welcome table watching a music video on the television, while waiting to greet and sign folks in. the table i sat at was a tall round table with equally high chairs, it’s top smattered with hand-outs containing church information, a sign-in sheet for free pizza tickets, and then my own assortment of ink pens, Bible, journal and my battered (i’m a tad on the clumsy side. okay, okay, maybe a large tad.) red cell phone. from my seat, i had visual access to both entrances of the pizza joint that we meet at, one door guarded at all times in my peripheral vision.

it was then, out of the corner of my eye, that i first saw him…

i spotted the man the moment he walked in. he stood out, not only in appearance, but in mannerism and simply in presence. an older black man, most likely late fifties, early sixties, he was undoubtedly a war veteran and looked homeless. he was a heavier-set man, of medium height. beyond this, his description was downright bizarre: he wore thick glasses, yet still appeared to have difficulty seeing, and his walk veered as if his equilibrium were off. around his neck was a colorful assortment of plastic beaded jewelry, mardi gras style. also, mixed in with the beads, were at least half a dozen empty and de-labeled pill bottles- topless, strewn together and worn as a necklace. odder still, the last item adorning his neck, was a container on a string, full of toothbrushes. yes, TOOTHBRUSHES. dingy, black sneakers laced over his unbalanced feet, and he wore the newer style camouflage army pants, yet they were very broken in and dirty. to top this interesting ensemble, he wore a heavy winter jacket and a black veteran’s hat sat upon his head.

he came over to the table i was sitting at, and i told him about the free pizza and showed him where to sign in. he seemed a bit confused, and instead of signing in on the attendee roster, he grabbed the volunteer sign-in, saying it had “bigger blocks for him to see”. i didn’t quite know what to say, and just let him sign the volunteer sheet, which had a large block for each: your name, address and phone number. after picking up the pen, the man lended his weight to the table for support, got down very close to the paper and began to write. in all capital letters, across the entire width of the page and all three blocks, he recorded his full name and the name of the military base we were on- no other address, phone number, or further contact information. when he was done writing, he pulled his head back far from the paper, as a far-sighted person might do without their spectacles, and appeared to inspect his work. he then nodded to no one, and it struck me then how oblivious he seemed to be of his peculiar behavior and appearance. thinking about it in hindsight, perhaps he was just disinterested as to what the world thought, only caring what The One thought.

i found myself lost in thought for a moment, before coming crashing back to earth and the pizza joint. i lifted my gaze from what he had written on the paper to his eyes, and asked him where he lived. he repeated what he had written on the paper- simply the name of the military base we were on- no street, no house number, nothing more. finally, i just picked up a ticket for a free slice of pizza, and passed it in his direction. he returned the gesture with a confused look, as if he had no idea what he had just signed in for or what i was handing him. i explained again why we were there. he asked me if i wanted money, i said no and handed him his ticket.

i pointed him in the direction of the pizza counter, and also the table with free books, Bibles, crosses and reading materials the chaplaincy provides. he hobbled over to the table with the sign reading ‘free stuff’ first. his back was to me then, but i still saw whole body respond with excitement as he picked something up from the table.

next, he turned around to where his face was visible again. i could then see, that the something he had picked up, was a small cross. he began digging in his pocket for something before finally pulling out a handful of change and other small items.

as he was sifting through the items in his hand, he began to walk back towards my table, finally stopping in front of me and trying to hand me some change. i told him no yet again, and stated the program was free, it’s purpose, and to please take what he wanted or needed. even though, he continued to jiggle through the pennies and some silver change before finally deciding upon a nickel. my protest this time was halted mid-declination when the man held the nickel up high and began to speak- “stop. read it.” he proceeded to read the nickel aloud, ” ‘in God we trust.‘ ” he paused a moment, perhaps to let the urgency and importance of the words preceding stand on their own, then continued on, “take this nickel. take it home. get a hammer and a screw (he actually said screw). put a hole in it, place it around your neck and never forget who you trust in.”

i smiled and took the nickel. it was everything i could not do to hug this man.

i watched him walk over to the pizza counter, and then must’ve gotten busy because next thing i knew, he had disappeared. i began to wonder about this man, his life and where he came from. did he have family? or was he alone in life? children? a love story? a tragedy? had he escaped from the psyche ward at the base hospital? i wondered about his peculiar attire and if i’d ever see him again. this last question would be a feeling i would come to know well.

soon after, Randy, the civilian gentleman who runs the program, stopped by the welcome table to see how things were going. i excitedly told him i had a story that would make him smile. i gave him my account of the homeless veteran, ending by revealing the shiny nickel in my palm.

a cheerful look crossed over Randy’s face, before sticking his hand into his pocket, pulling out a nickel and telling me that, he also, had experienced an encounter with the odd man and been given a nickel. i felt a cheerful glow wash over my own face.

we did see the man one more time that evening: at some point, he had re-entered the main room we gather in. when my eyes fell upon him, he was sitting in one of the plush chairs in front of the television, watching music videos. he was crying, a waterfall, shameless and wild, cascading down his leathery, worn face. there was nothing sad about this man’s tears; in fact, it was beauty in a place i would never have looked for it, his tears’ naked honesty stirring my soul in a way i still don’t think i fully understand. i walked over to his chair and knelt down beside him. i told him we gathered every Thursday, and we would love to see him again. he gripped my hand, still crying and replied simply, “thank you.” there was a sincerity to those words, that like his tears, surpassed my comprehension.

forty-seven thursdays have passed since the last time i saw him.

i never noticed the strange vet leave that night, which was odd, as i was acutely tuned in to his presence. it was as if he were there one minute, and gone the next second. that night, i went home and wrote in my journal, everything i could recall about this man. i had planned to present him this story the next time we met, and perhaps learn more about the mystery of his life and identity. i wanted to ask him if i could share this story with the world, his name, his story.. but we never did cross paths again.

later, i shared the story of this encounter with a friend, who in turn told me of a similar meeting she had experienced, with an equally peculiar man.. a man who also seemingly vanished, never seen or heard from again. in her story, the man’s name was actually Emmanuel. our story exchange was then followed by a goose-bumpy, heart swelling conversation about angels and a mysterious God who loves us so.

i remember quite clearly the name of the man from the coffeehouse- not sure i could forget it if i tried. but for privacy to this man and the inability to ask him for permission to use his name, i’ve chosen to keep his real name tucked inside my heart until the day we meet again. until then, i will call our beaded, visually impaired, angel friend- Emmanuel.

as for my nickel, it hangs upon my car rearview mirror. daily, i am reminded of Whom i put my trust in, and every-time that shiny piece of metal catches the sun, i am humbled by the memory of a mysterious meeting with a man i would meet but once, yet would change my life in ways i’m still discovering forty-seven Thursdays later.

happy anniversary, Emmanuel. i love you so.