July/August 2002
Preacher
by Tim Brotherton
Water seeped through the refrigerator box Preacher called home. It was a cold night in Chicago, and the rain brought agonizing pain deep into the old man's arthritic bones. Preacher attempted to stay warm by wrapping himself in an old army blanket covered by a torn sheet of plastic. Preacher did not bother to take off his tattered, damp coat, hoping that somehow the extra layer would stop his teeth from chattering.
Preacher's eyes closed, and he began his nightly ritual of giving thanks to God. "My dear Jesus, I praise thee for today. Thank you for the bluest sky I remember in years." Preacher opened his eyes as his face sparkled. "Oh yes, Jesus, I give thee thanks for the best cup of hot coffee I ever had at the shelter. It really hit the spot," Preacher said with the enthusiasm of a child on Christmas morning.
Preacher paused as tears began to slide down his frozen face. "Dear Lord, I pray for Becky. She is so young, and she needs your help to get her off the streets. If I can help in any way, please give me the wisdom to lend a hand."
Preacher was cold and exhausted. Drowsiness began to take hold as a result of yet another incredible day in the life of the man people called, "Preacher."
"Lastly, dear Jesus, thank you for the rain." Preacher soon fell asleep as drips of water from a leaky box fell on his head.
"Preacher! Preacher! You're sleeping a little late this morning," officer Mike McCarthy shouted as he peered into the refrigerator box. "What are you, on vacation?"
Preacher slowly slid out from the place he had called home for ten years. Preacher's bones cracked as he stood to meet his old friend.
"I hope you have room service this morning, Mike."
Preacher began to stretch and moan, but never complained. "I'm going to have to get me one of those pillow top mattresses for my place."
Mike laughed, as he hugged Preacher. "Why don't you let me help get you off the streets? I could get you into an apartment."
"And leave all this!" Preacher interrupted with his usual gentle smile that Mike loved so much. "Besides Mike, you know I have the Lord's work that needs to be done."
"You're impossible," Mike said, as he pulled out his thermos of coffee. "Black and hot, with no sugar!" Mike said, as he sat on an old crate.
"How did you sleep last night?" Mike poured his friend a cup of coffee, waiting for Preacher to reply.
"The sound of the rain was music from heaven," Preacher replied with a smile.
Preacher began to sip his coffee as if it were fine wine. "OOOO WEEE! Mike, that is the best cup of coffee I have ever had!"
"You say that every morning, Preacher." Mike suddenly remembered he had a surprise. "Hey, my wife made her famous cinnamon rolls for us this morning.
Mike unwrapped the still warm cinnamon rolls and handed one to Preacher.
"You better love these or my wife is going to kill you," Mike said as he slapped Preacher on the back.
"You give your wife my love and thank her for me."
Preacher slowly began to eat his homemade treat as if it were his last meal. When Preacher finished the roll, he licked every single finger until there was not a crumb left.
"Mike, I am sorry, but I have to get going. I have a very special friend I need to see today. You know, some of us have a job to do. I just can't lie around all day visiting and getting fat," Preacher said, his face reflecting a gentleness that Mike had never seen in any man before.
Preacher grabbed his old guitar and threw a duffel bag filled with New Testament Bibles over his shoulder.
"Mike, I love ya! Now you be safe out there today."
Preacher walked down Michigan Avenue as Mike watched his old friend disappear around the corner.
Preacher marched to his usual spot; a picnic table right next to the shore of Lake Michigan. Preacher began to belt out old hymns with even more joy and enthusiasm than usual. Today, Preacher needed money to help his young friend, Becky.
Many of Preacher's regulars came by to say hello, listen to their favorite hymns and drop money into Preacher's open guitar case. There was a strangeness in the way people were drawn to Preacher. Despite his smell, old clothes and the stereotype of being homeless, people weren't uncomfortable around him. Preacher would sing, gently proclaim Jesus' love for them and always offer a New Testament Bible from his loving unwashed hands. Nobody knew where Preacher got his Bibles, but his bag was always full, despite giving away a hundred or so a day.
Today, Preacher's guitar case quickly filled with quarters, dollars, tens and twenties. At noon, Preacher gathered his wages and headed to meet his young friend. He walked faster than normal, singing a bluezy version of "How Great Thou Art" and giving a friendly "hello" and a "God loves you" to everyone he passed along the way. Even though Preacher was well past middle age, his steps had a bounce and joy of someone much younger.
Preacher made two stops. He left a brown envelope with fifty dollars at his church and stopped again at the soup kitchen to put some Bibles in an old basket that sat next to the front door. Before each donation, Preacher bowed his head in prayer and thanked Jesus for giving him so much. Never a day passed that Preacher didn't share what he had with others, and usually returned to his refrigerator box without a penny in his pocket.
Finally, Preacher reached the home for unwed teenage mothers. He jumped the front steps two at a time and opened the front door.
"Hello, beautiful lady," Preacher said to the girl at the front desk. "Could I please see Becky Saunders?"
"You must be the man that Becky is so excited to see," the girl said as her eyes gave Preacher a disgusted glance from head to toe. "You know you can't stay here past three."
"That's fine. I wouldn't want to break any rules," Preacher said to the girl. "Could I interest you in a copy of the New Testament?" Preacher asked as he reached in his bag and attempted to give a Bible to the girl.
"No thanks. I have a Bible," she said coldly as she led Preacher to Becky's room. "Is that how you rip off people for money? Sell them Bibles?"
Preacher stopped. "No Ma'am. My Bibles are free. You can't sell a Bible. Bibles are meant to be given away -- from the heart."
The girl turned and looked at Preacher for the first time. Suddenly, she didn't see a bum. She saw a strangely, kind man, and she felt shame.
"I'm sorry, sir." The girl continued to look at Preacher and finally said, "Yes, I would like a Bible."
Preacher reached out and tenderly placed a Bible in her hands.
"Be careful when you read this. It will change your life," Preacher said as he smiled.
"Thanks," the girl said. She took a deep breath and whispered, "I lied to you. I don't have a Bible."
The girl admired her gift and carefully put it in her front pocket. "Thanks again," she said as she opened the door to Becky's room.
"Why don't you come to Thursday service at the church two doors down from here this week?" Preacher yelled as the girl headed down the hall.
"I think I'll do that. See you there," came an echoed reply from the girl.
"Preacher! Preacher! I knew you would come," Becky shouted as she jumped into Preacher's arms. "You need to find a shower soon," Becky said as she laughed. "You smell like the Chicago River."
"I'm going to do that soon," Preacher said. "But this here dirt and me are kind of like old friends. I would hate to part with it," Preacher said as he chuckled.
"Becky, you know what we talked about yesterday." Becky nodded and looked down at the cold tile floor. "You need to go home to your parents. They love you, Becky."
"I can't go home, Preacher. I'm fifteen years old and pregnant!" Becky crumbled into Preacher's arms as tears trickled down Preacher's dirty coat. "I'm a loser. My parents don't want me around. How can I face them, Preacher? How? I ran away from home. I became a crack head and a prostitute to support my habit. How can I go home? Preacher, can't you see that I'm pregnant?"
Preacher lifted Becky's chin with his right hand and looked deep into her eyes. "Becky, are you on crack or still a prostitute?" Becky shook her head and cried.
"No, Preacher, I'm not."
"What are you, then?" Preacher asked.
"I'm a child of God."
Becky looked at her friend as Preacher expected her to continue.
"And I'm special because God don't make no junk," Becky said.
"And who are you?"
Becky's radiance filled the room. "I am a Christian, Preacher!"
Preacher sat down, put his foot up on the table and took out a crumbled envelope he had hidden in his sock. He handed it to Becky.
"What's this, Preacher?" Becky asked.
"Just open it," Preacher replied as his eyes sparkled.
Becky opened the envelope and discovered over two thousand dollars. "I can't take this, Preacher. You need it, not me. Look at your shoes. Your toes are coming through. And I hope I don't hurt your feelings, but you live in a box, Preacher. You need this money."
Preacher smiled and his eyes locked on to Becky's. "My little angel girl, I don't need much and besides, I've been saving this money for a special friend. And you are that special friend," Preacher said as he stood and gave Becky a hug. "Now you get dressed, call your parents and we'll take a cab to the airport. Becky, you need to go home."
Becky cried as her words became more difficult to say. "Preacher, you are the greatest man I have ever met. You never judged me. You accepted me for who I was and then gave me this little Bible." Becky said as she took out her New Testament from the nightstand. "And, you brought me to church, Preacher."
Becky took Preacher's dirty hands and held them tight. She did not say a word as she gave him a hug and his shoulder caught her tears. "Preacher, would you pray for my baby?"
Preacher began crying, "Every day, angel. Every day."
Becky wiped the tears off Preacher's face and said proudly, I'm going to name my baby Preacher."
"What kind of name is Preacher for a baby?"
"I'm going to name my baby Preacher unless you tell me your real name," Becky replied with a giggle.
"My real name is Gabriel," Preacher proudly proclaimed. But no one has called me that in years."
Becky's eyes gleamed as she lovingly took Preacher's hands and brought them close to her heart. "Gabriel is a great name. I hope my baby grows up to be just like you."
Preacher was tired after he walked from the airport toward home. He sang songs of praise as he walked in darkness and headed for his box. Preacher turned into the alley where he had lived for ten years when he noticed his few possessions and his box were scattered.
Suddenly, four kids from the neighborhood gang surrounded him.
"Where is the money, old man?" a tall muscled boy shouted. "We heard you got a fortune and now it's time to share with your neighbors," the boy laughed as he pushed Preacher to the ground.
A short boy with the word "hate" tattooed on his fingers pulled out a knife and held it to Preacher's throat. "We ain't mess'n with you. We want the money!"
Calmly, Preacher looked at the boys as the knife was pinching into his throat. "All I have is yours, but I don't have any money. I gave all that I had to a friend."
A boy wearing a tank top grabbed Preacher's guitar that he still held in his left hand. "Is this yours?" the boy yelled as he broke the guitar over Preacher's head. "Where is the money?"
Preacher reached into his bag and pulled out a New Testament Bible. "I have something worth more than money," Preacher said as he handed the tall boy a Bible.
The boy snatched the Bible out of Preacher's hand, ripped pages out of the book and threw them at Preacher. "This ain't worth nothing!"
Preacher stood up, even though his head was throbbing and blood was running into his eyes from the blow he received.
"It will change your life if you believe it," Preacher said with a smile of compassion.
Preacher felt a sharp pain in his stomach as the knife blade entered. Preacher brought both hands to his wound, attempting to stop the bleeding.
"He don't got no money," a boy said, as he pushed Preacher back to the ground. "Let's get out of here before the cops come."
"The cops don't care if this guy lives or dies. He's just a bum," the tall boy said.
The boys left, laughing as Preacher lay in the alley bleeding to death and gasping for air.
Preacher struggled to speak. "Dear Jesus, it's old Preacher again. I would like to say my night prayer for the last time." Preacher coughed up blood, but continued. "I want to thank you for a great day. And Jesus, I thank you for taking care of Becky."
Rain began to drop lightly from the sky. Preacher looked up, paused, then finally said, "And Lord, thank you for the rain."
The cool rain felt good on Preacher's face. Preacher's eyes closed, he smiled and took his last breath.
It was a beautiful Chicago morning as officer Mike McCarthy strolled down the street with his thermos and a plastic bag full of homemade chocolate chip cookies. Mike always loved to start the day by sharing coffee with his friend. Mike turned the corner and headed to the alley when he stood dead in his tracks. The thermos and cookies hit the ground as Mike gasped. Mike ran to Preacher.
"Preacher! What happened Preacher?" Mike gently took Preacher into his arms as he sat on the dirt. Mike rocked Preacher as tears flooded from his eyes. "Preacher, I brought coffee. And my wife made your favorite -- chocolate chip cookies."
Mike held Preacher for over an hour before he made the call to the station. They wrapped Preacher in a body-bag and took him to the morgue as Mike sat on the wood crate. Mike got up and put the old duffel bag with just a few New Testaments left from Preacher's last day over his shoulder and slowly walked away.
An attractive young woman with a handsome five-year-old boy walked down the immaculate cobblestone road of the cemetery. The sky was blue and the birds chirped as if praising this glorious day. The lady and boy stopped at a gravestone. The young woman noticed an old cup of coffee lying next to an old duffel bag filled with New Testament Bibles. There was a small note attached to the bag that read: "Please take this little book. It will change your life."
The lady began to cry.
"What's wrong, Mommy?" the little boy said.
"Nothing, son, Mommy is just visiting a very good friend."
The lady bent down and pointed to the simple tombstone. She used her index finger to trace the name found on the stone.
"Do you know what it says?" the lady asked as she looked at her son and smiled.
"No, Mommy," the little boy said, as he tugged at his pants.
"It says, Gabriel."
The little boy looked up at his mother and shouted with excitement, "Hey, mommy, that's my name!"
Tim Brotherton lives in Pueblo, Colorado.