Sebastian

He was interesting, the way he sat there on the bench with his border collie mutt, devouring some sort of local cuisine wrapped in butcher paper.  Something about him was mysterious and intriguing, in the way you watch a scene unfold from an artsy, indie movie.  The day was chilly for New Orleans weather; overcast and blundry, a nice reprieve from the sticky, muggy humidity yesterday's rain showers left behind.

He watched me as I drifted aimlessly between buildings, searching out unique textures and anti-cliché shots of the French Quarter culture.  Meandering around foreign streets by myself is a freeing experience.  I find I become a stranger when I enter into new cities; it's only when I began to meet other strangers do I begin to find out who I am myself.

Perhaps that's why it was so easy to talk to him.  He called to me, politely and not vulgar, like you'd anticipate from someone that was seemingly-transient and just a couple blocks off Bourbon Street.

Do you like art? he asked; a rather vague question, but with great potential for conversation.  I told him I did, and he said he noticed I had been photographing things with intentionality.

So, what sort of things do you like? he inquired. Textures, I told him. I love textures. Things that don't necessarily stand out as beautiful until you seem them alone, in their all-created glory.  He told me he liked textures too, and prefers the texture of the sand of the east-bank of the river, the way that it photographs.  He sometimes leaves little treasure behind, hoping that others would find beauty in the objects or be inspired (I would later receive a message from Leah that she found one of his poems tacked to a board at a coffeshop in the Quarter; and a quick google search yielded a little peace he left behind on the sidewalk).  He dug around in his little messager bag and asked if I would sit so he could share a treasure with me.  He handed me a small, coupon-sized booklet with a fake-money, "ticket to hell" cover, which caused me immediately to revert to internalizing small prayers warding off evil spirits, voodoo, etc.  but he seemed harmless, and the words typed on each small leaflet of colored paper were soaked in beauty.  I flipped through it, careful of its fragility,

Textures, he repeated.  I've written something about textures; do you mind if I share it with you?  He dug around a bit more in his bag, opening up a large journal I nearly mistook for a Bible.  His debit card was free-floating in his bag and nearly slipped through a crack in the bench. Careful! Don't wanna lose that, I said. 

It's the least important thing I own, he confessed as he found an entry scribbled down from August in New York.  I closed my eyes as he read it; his speech eloquent, saturated with color, and texture, and drenched in the pseudo romance of the moment so that one completely blind would have created a scene so rich in their own head, no visual could compare.  I sopped up every word like a world-famous beignet dipped in cafe au lait, both soaked in sweetness.

He asked if I liked words. Oh, absolutely, I responded.  He fumbled few a few more pages with the same intentionality of his speech. Im certain even the most stoic, rigid, cold-hearted person would have become like liquid beneath the fluidity of his words.  It was true beauty, if beauty is able to be something that lacks a tangible, quantifiable worth.  There was no excess in his word choice, each chosen with purpose and weight, more than enough to be illustrative, too few to seem verbose and over-compensatory.

He spoke of peace and tranquility and zen, and said that there was something light and joyful about me, that it exuded from my persona.  Yes, my friend, that is Jesus.  I didn't say that, although I wish in hindsight that I would've.  But it did open me to ask the Spirit to speak and lead.

Somehow there was a segue from art to zen to peace to doing nothing and simply existing.  I told him that's what I did this morning, well, sort of.  He asked what it was, and I told him I spent the day at a cafe writing and reading my Bible.

Oh, so you're religious? he asked me.  I responded with a hesitation with the world religious.  Protestant Christian, I responded to answer him formally, a Bible-believing Christian. I believe in the trinity: God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit.  And that peace you talk about, it comes from God, from His Holy Spirit.  It's a peace that surpasses all understanding.  It transcends the circumstances that dictate that moment should be anything but peaceful.  Its in those moments that I realize it is His power in me and through me.  

He knew what I was talking about, to an extent at least.  oh, I just LOVE God.  He is so much more than we can put words to.  In fact, trying to describe Him, trying to wrap our finite mind around His infinite being does Him an injustice.  We limit Him when we try to use our words to describe Him.  He's bigger than we will ever understand.  I've written something else about Him, if you don't mind I'd like to share it.  He flipped right to it.  The pages, chock-full of words and poems and thoughts and the crowded clutter of revelation revealed between ink and lines.  His words danced amidst the imagery of his poetry once again.  He spoke with resolve and wonder and trembling and peace.

Our conversation continued as he asked me if I had ever been in love.  Yes, I answered him.  I believe I have.  He wrote this poem about love a few weeks ago while in New York, before his girlfriend in New Orleans broke it off with him.  it was as beautiful as i can remember love to be.

at some point, i asked him his name.  Sebastian, he replied.  That's the name of my dog! I said back to him, to which he laughed and said he bet my name wasn't Buck Mulligan.  I told him my name and we continued to converse until Leah called and tried to make her way to where I was.  I asked if he would mind if I could pray with him, and he ever-so-zealously agreed.  As he reached out to grab both my hands, he asked what he should do with his eyes; open, close?  I told him that God hardly cares about His eyes; its his heart that He's looking at.

I prayed a simple prayer asking the Father for encouragement and favor to be poured down on Sebastian that afternoon.  That He would experience His holy presence and fall more in love with Him today.  I thanked Him for the divine encounter we had, and for the sweet gift that Jesus is for us.  Amen.  and Amen.

He kissed my cheek and thanked me with sincere gratitude as i fumbled through my purse.  I hadn't much with me, but I did have 5 Haitian Gourdes to exchange as my piece of treasure to leave behind with him.  Aside from a kid outside of Deli Mart, i've never seen a person so excited to receive a coin so low in value.  but i could tell, the value of the currency was nothing in comparison to the value of the interaction we just had.

with giggles in my heart over the exchange, i joyfully went about my afternoon thankful for my chance encounter with Sebastian.  as a Christian, seeing someone that shares the same awe and reverence of our Creator excites me.  speaking truth to him, yet in love and not in any way to sow discord or thinking I have the right to speak pretentiously as if I have all the answers, he needs me to pray for him.  I find that there is a fine line between loving a person where they are at, and not speaking truth in order to not offend.  however, I also believe that once you offend someone in the name of Christ, very little there after will hold much worth to them.  maybe Sebastian knows Jesus.  maybe I should've asked.  but as Christians living in a world that is not our home, we need to make sure we are being light in the darkness, and pointing to Christ when asked where that light is shining from.

Shine your light. You never know how it may brighten someone's day, illuminate someone's path, or reignite the spark in someone's heart.

Sebastian allowed God's light to shine in him whether or not he realized it.