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I lie in my bed, eyelashes close over tired eyes, shades of blue and a speckle of green; an observation; not important, but full of character. The husband and friend sit out on car seats removed, stuck on metal frames, gracing the veranda in a manner unique. I snuggle in closer to my bed, cuddle it, the warmth lulls me to snooze.
Dreams overtake me, I am teaching a sweet potato the yodelling. Never taught one before, sounds come forth, I roll over and husband stumbles out of bed; stomps the floor. No more yodelling sweet potato. He mumbles, “Only two cats fighting.”
I doze; he tosses; 12 am. Clock ticks, I am immune to sound.
I startle, he is removed from bed, yanking the door open and growling at a figure in the shadows, stumbling towards a bed on the car seats. “Can’t stay here mate;” man’s drunk, says he’s homeless but we doubt him. Husband closes door and sinks onto bed while I stir from the embrace of bed and sleep.
We check, but he is not gone, fast asleep curled up against the other door. On hard concrete he sleeps in a stupor, probably better than us in our warmth and comfort.
What to do? Not safe to give him the same. What would Jesus do? I’m not Jesus.
Oh, we didn’t pray last night for protection of our home, that no wanderers would come by. Motorbike had been stolen, dumped in a murky flow of water a block from us, the river. Other issues had arisen. We always prayed since, but not this night.
Un-seasonally cold weather pricks at our soul, we pray for his.
Light dawns; with it our memory. We check; he is still there, a dark man, a child’s pillow, patterned with a character of cartoons, a purple quilt shrouds him as the sun creeps towards him. Warmth, but he does not stir. Time ticks by, this time I notice. Husband speaks to him about moving on, mumbled response.
What would Jesus do? No clear response. I’m not Jesus. I do my washing, breakfast, cleaning. The sun stands high in the sky. We call the police; 3 times, set a smoke alarm set off near his head, loud music, the cd plays through twice, the mowing out the front. No results. A lone beer bottle lays at the bottom of the stairs, perspective on his night.
Husband speaks to him again. He stirs at the mention of police, a glass of water please. We give it him, recognition stirs like water he sucks up to clear the mind. Situation is awkward like the last; he had stumbled into church, smoking, swearing, Communion taking place. Remember Christ; and a cup of water to our drunk friend. He staggers away, we pray for him. Our souls have met, they are troubled. He has not Christ, we do with such recognition the thought lingers. What would Jesus do?
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