Faith

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“Mom, Jesus is at the door! “

“Boy, What have I told...”, Mom froze. To this day I am not sure if that was from fear or shock.

At the front door stood a young man in his late twenties or early thirties. He had long brown hair, a short-cropped beard, and slightly delicate features. He was the living, breathing counterpart of the gold-framed portrait that hung on the wall at my Grandma’s house. Older and wiser, I now know that Jesus looks nothing like Max von Sydow in “The Greatest Story Ever Told”. But at 12 years old, the guy standing in front of me could have well been my Lord.

“May I help you?” Mom inquired while examining the stranger. Mom didn’t see Jesus, but a young man with long dirty hair, a scruffy beard, wearing leather, and smelling of gasoline.

“Your old man, I mean your husband, told me I could stay here for a few days.”

“He did?”

“Yes’m”

Understanding came quickly to mom as she examined the stranger closer. His hands explained why my dad had invited him in. On his knuckles he had prison tattoos. Love, one letter inked on each knuckle of his left and Hate tattooed on the right. But the “Tat” that got him invited in was the scarlet “A” in a circle on his right hand. This tattoo was the fraternity ring of a select few lucky enough to have lived through a term in Angola State Prison.

“Come on in”, Mom directed, steering the young man to the kitchen table.

“You hungry?”

“I could eat, it’s been a day or so”.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, please”, the young man eased his wariness while mom eased her apprehension.

“So what’s the story?” Mom asked, placing the ham sandwich in front of the stranger.

“Hey guys, I’m home!”

My brother and I ran to the front door to greet our dad. He had been in Baltimore working for the last month. He had left last night, drove all night and most of today to get home in time for Christmas.

“Hey Hicky”, my mom greeted her husband. In my twelve years, I never heard my mom call my dad anything but Hicky or Baby. Lil’ Hicky was the nickname his fellow workers had given him in honor of his dad who was of course “Big Hicky”.

“Hey Shaky”, my dad offered his hand to the stranger. As they grasped hands a pair of scarlet A’s were in full view. In that moment the past was the past.

“So why do they call you Shaky?” Mom asked realizing that she was willing to feed, warm, and board a man of whom she didn’t even know his name.

“I ride a Harley to work in Kentucky. When you ride a bike that shakes and its 10 degrees outside, what else could they call me?”

“So, what is your Christian name?” mom asked.

“Brian.” Shaky answered struggling hard to remember. The last time he had heard his real name out loud was when had left home so many years before. In prison he was a number, in the brotherhood he was Shaky, in the world he was nobody.

Judging from the longing in his voice, Mom didn’t pursue it further.
“So what brings you to these parts on Christmas Eve?”

“Shaky here, is going to be a papa!” “First one, right Shaky?” Dad offered, sensing his shyness.

“Yes sir.” Shaky answered with a sense of pride mixed with absolute fear.

“My old lady, I mean my wife”, Shaky corrected, noticing the stare my mom gave him. She would put up with a lot of things but disrespecting the mother of your children wasn’t one of them.

“She is in the charity hospital down on South Grand.” “I got the call last night and headed home.” “Hicky, picked me up around Little Rock.” “I’m glad he did, I was as cold as a well digger’s a…," Shaky stopped short, once again incurring the cold disapproval of my mom.

“So he picked you up?” Mom continued for him.

“Sure did, put my bike in the back, handed me some coffee, and then asked if I was just going to stand there.”

He had to get going to get home for Christmas.

“So, here I am.” “Where can I pitch my tent, out back?” “I need to get some sleep before I go to the hospital”.

“You are sleeping where you are sitting.” Mom had already retrieved the sheets from the linen closet.

“I don’t want to be any trouble, I will just stay outside.”

“I won’t have a tent set up in my yard!”

Dad smiled and instructed Shaky to take his shoes off. There was no arguing with my mom.

The next day as we sat recovering from ham, turkey and the other fifty or so items mom had prepared for dinner, Shaky called.
He had had a son, Christopher, named for the holiday. Mom and the baby were doing fine.

A few days later, Shaky, Gail his wife, and baby boy Christopher were at our home preparing to leave for Kentucky.

“Hick!” familiarly had shortened my dad’s nickname even more. “I want to thank you and your family for your kindness.” “I want you to check my bag.”

“Why?”

“Just want you to know I didn’t take anything.”

“Don’t need to.”

“Man, I don’t get it?” “You invite me into your home, you treat me like family, and now show me respect.” “Why?” Shaky’s voice cracked.

”Shaky, 20 years ago, I was drunk, a felon, broke, and alone.” “A young lady, felt sorry for me, gave me a reason to get sober, helped me find a job, and never left my side.” “I married her.” Dad beamed as he looked lovingly at mom.

“Twelve years ago, I was blessed with my first son and 2 years later with this little rug rat”, daddy laughed hugging my little brother.

“Shaky, I never understood why, I could be so blessed.” “Then one day my car broke down coming home from a job,” dad took a moment to collect himself, “an old man just pulled over, opened the door, offered a ride and took me home.” “He didn’t ask any questions, instead gave me fifty dollars and told me to get my car fixed.”

I asked, “Man, why?”

“What you do onto the least of these, you do unto Me.” “He rolled up his window, started his car, and I never saw him again.”

“A few years later, I was helping an ex-con build a halfway house”. “ I asked him why he was spending so much time helping convicts”. He smiled and said, “What you do onto the least of these, you do unto Me.”

“What does that mean?” “ I have heard that in the past and to this day it confuses me.”

“It’s from the Bible.” “Mathew 25:40 to be exact.” “Jesus was kinda reprimanding some guys for being uppity.” “It means whatever we do to the very least of His flock we do the same to Him.” “So simply, if we hate our brother, despise them, treat them bad, or harm them, we might as well be doing the same to God.” “Then the old man, asked ‘Hick, have you been blessed?’”

“It got me thinking, I’m not a religious man, I only go to church on Christmas and Easter and then the ‘Old Lady’ has to drag me.” Dad quipped at mom.

“But, I do believe in paying what is owed.” “I have been blessed and there is something to this Jesus thing, I am still trying to figure it out.” “So, you ask me why? I don’t know just trying to pay back something I owe.”

“Shaky, take this,” dad gave him a small bible.

“I don’t understand all of it and probably never will.” “But it sure seems to help when I want to go back being the tired, lonely, ex-con I use to be.”

Shaky took the Bible, shook my dad’s hand, hugged my mom and herded his new family into an old beat up car my dad had gotten from a friend.

My mom and dad are gone now, but this story has become part of our family’s Christmas tradition. We tell it to the grand kids every year while we celebrate our Lord.

Shaky and Gail are still together. They never had another child, seems like Chris was a miracle baby. Shaky rode to many bikes and things didn’t work like they should. Shaky and family send us a Christmas card every year with a picture of Chris. He came to my dad’s funeral in 1999 and sent a moving letter to us when my mom died this year. Shaky, Chris, and Gail now are part of a Prison Ministry appropriately named “Less than the Least” Ministries. As He puts it “I can’t pay back what is owed, but I can thank the One who paid price.”

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