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His voice began to crescendo, slightly preacher-like. His tone was prophetic. "Heaven is real, man. I'm telling you. So you gotta' keep on doin' what you're doin'. It's all worth it. Keep on doin' what you're doin'."

You could have driven a truck through my slacked jaw. The picture he painted of heaven was so vivid and somehow strangely resonant, and his enthusiasm was infectious. Call me naïve or softheaded, but I didn't want to relegate this man's vision to the effects of a substance or mental illness, even if that were the case. I didn't care. I chose to suspend my rationality and enter into the imaginative promise and hopefulness of what he shared. After all, the birth of Jesus sounds a little crazy, too.

The man next to me spoke first. "Have you written this down for your family?" Our prophet looked blankly at him, but with a twinge of interest while buttoning his old Navy peacoat.

I broke in and said to him, "You know, I really needed to hear you tell me this tonight. I've been worried too much about dying. Thank you. It really helped me." He looked at me and again said, "Just keep doin' good. Keep doing what you're doin'." Again, my church friend said to him, "You really need to write your vision down."

Then it hit me. I am a writer—sometimes.

I looked up at him and asked, "What's your name?"

"Derek," he answered, by now prepared to go out into the weather, his backpack in place and holding a piece of cardboard.

"Thanks, Derek, for telling me this. I'm pretty sure I was supposed to meet you tonight. I'll write it down for you."

Those of us from church swept up, got our coats, and headed downstairs to the back parking lot. I was still a little stunned and wasn't able to tell my friend Connie what had happened yet. We crept up the alley in my minivan, and ended up right next to the sidewalk in front of the shelter. Among many of the others we'd just served, there stood Derek, right next to us at the passenger window, holding a cardboard sign.

For some inexplicable reason, I very consciously and quickly looked away from him, focusing instead on the approaching traffic to my left. I just felt so useless all of a sudden—and ashamed of my self-importance and tightly wound brain. But maybe that was a good starting-over point, a way for faith and hope to come back to life. I also may have avoided any eye contact because the scary truth about our common humanity—especially on a 12 degree F. night—hit me hard as I saw him there. That may help too, to nudge my earlier misdirected intentions about good works into a more true line, and action. "Just keep doin' what you're doin'."

Once I pulled out into traffic, I did catch a glimpse of the sign he held: HOMELESS, PLEASE HELP.

I keep thinking about Derek's vision, letting my imagination take me there to see those buildings we're promised, trying to distinguish the faces in bronze that I may know, to hear the flow of that river. God knew I needed Derek's vision. I'm glad for whatever selfish reason or Spirit-led impulse that prompted me last Christmas season, so I could be in the right Freedom House at the right time minding the cornbread to hear about it.

Lee Knapp is the author of Grace in the First Person: Growing into Life and Faith (Revell).

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December 2003, Vol. 47, No. 12