Don't Want to Be Here
About 10:00 p.m. I was fed up to here.
I marched out on the sidewalk and stuck my finger in the face of some galoot named, ironically, Richard.
"What makes you do this every night?" I asked him, my sorrow and anger boiling over. This guy was smart, street savvy, and aggressive. At least with the little guys.
Richard pulled me away from his friends about 15 feet. "Pastor Rick, I'm dying of testicular cancer, and I want to die a man, on the street."
Suddenly I realized that we were co-travelers through the pains of life; he was grieving, I was grieving.
I apologized for embarrassing him in front of his friends, and told him about the death of my friend.
Richard laid his hands on my shoulders and said, "Pastor Rick, I'm going to say a prayer for you." He prayed for my comfort, the comfort of the family who lost a loved one, the tenderest of prayers.