One evening last week, when the stars were beginning to glimmer overhead and the frogs were excitedly croaking about the appearance of the moon, I emerged from my hole in the library desperately in need of a change of venue for studying. You see, sometimes, the austere towers of musty books and the hushed solemnity of the place get a little…nerve wracking. And this was one of those nights.

Thus it was that I found myself lovingly tucking my textbooks into the back seat of my car, like so many sleeping children. And thus it was that I found myself, sometime later, sitting on a park bench beside a stone table in the quaint, pedestrian section of Lynchburg’s downtown, reading about the marvels of human procreation and studying the developmental process of the embryo.

I hadn’t been there very long when a rather shaggy looking elderly gentleman with one whole tooth and one tooth that was merely pretending to be a half came sauntering up to the table where I was situated.

I glanced up briefly to see just what sort of a person it was who had graced my table with his presence…which he interpreted to be an invitation. So he plopped himself down across the table from me, and began, in a very good-natured sort of way, to tell me about himself.

I laughed quietly to myself as I listened, marveling over the fact that humanity is so delightfully quirky at times—and also quietly wondering if there’s a scientific reason that I seem to meet an extraordinarily high percentage of humanity’s quirkiest cases.

He informed me that he was sixty-three years old, and that his name was Gregg, and that he lived in a camper down by the river. He was feeling particularly proud of himself that night, because he had just finished fishing in the dumpster and had found a birthday gift for one of his friends—he told me happily that he is “very good” to his friends. I told him that he really didn’t look a day over sixty-two, and that he did, indeed, appear to be a most thoughtful friend.

He told me that he loves to meet people around town, and makes it a habit to speak to anyone and everyone (obviously)—but that he finds people become progressively less-friendly the longer they’re married. I wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to that, so I just smiled and kept silent, which he didn’t seem to mind.

We sat like that for probably ten minutes, with him talking, and me just smiling and nodding, and making random side comments if he seemed to expect them. One of my friends called just then, and asked if we could walk together, to which I said yes. I told Gregg politely that I was leaving, but his face looked almost wistful as I rose to go, and my conscience smote me.

Thea, here is a living, breathing, human soul…one who is longing to be loved, valued, respected, nurtured—just like everybody else on the planet. And probably all his life, people have come into his life and left again…just like you’re doing now. And he’s dirty, and smelly, and greasy, and unattractive, and so he’s ignored, and treated as if he’s not valuable, not desirable…not human.

I stood there for a split second as these things went through my mind.

I bet no one ever touches him.

I couldn’t give him a home. I couldn’t get him a job. I couldn’t undo all of the hurts in his past that had been perpetrated over the past sixty-three years. But I could touch him…and let him know that I viewed him as a fellow human, a man worthy of respect, a man with intrinsic worth and dignity.

I placed my hand on his arm, and smiled. “Greg, it was nice to meet you tonight. I appreciate your time. And your friends are lucky to have someone like you who looks out for them.”

His face lit up.

“You remembered my name!” he exclaimed. And then he reached up both arms to hug me.

I kinda smelled like a homeless person for the rest of the night…but somehow, it didn’t really matter.