My Friend, John

I met John in 2022, but I had seen him around town long before I learned he was homeless, had been sleeping on the streets for years, and had almost no community in his life.

Funny enough, the first time I remember seeing John, I was at E-City Java meeting a friend from church for coffee. John was sitting alone at the table across from us, shuffling through his Nintendo Switch games. What struck me was that he wasn't playing them. He was simply taking each game out of its case, looking at it for a few minutes, putting it away, and moving on to the next. He did this for nearly an hour. I remember thinking it was odd, shrugged it off, and went on with my day. I had no idea that a few years later I'd know him by name.

Very early in my time at The LOT Project, I met John and realized he was the same man from the coffee shop. Back then, he was quiet, kept to himself, and somehow managed to wear a different brand-new hat every time I saw him. He would come for food and clothes, say very little, and head back out.

Over time, some of our volunteers and staff got to know him. As conversations slowly turned into friendship, we learned more of his story.

John is in his mid-fifties. He has an intellectual disability that makes reading and comprehension difficult. He's diabetic. He manages to hold down jobs remarkably well considering he sleeps outside or in abandoned buildings most nights. When I first met him, both of his parents had passed away, and he had spent much of the previous decade trying to survive completely on his own.

One of our case managers, Bethany, developed a friendship with John that has now lasted more than four years. Hilariously, after these past four years, John still calls Bethany "Becka."

For years, Bethany drove all over Anderson looking for John so he could make a Social Security phone call, get to a doctor's appointment, replace important documents, or work through paperwork that would be difficult for anyone, let alone a man experiencing homelessness with a learning disability. She helped him budget, celebrated small victories, and simply kept showing up.

Eventually, Bethany connected John with an apartment owned by one of our volunteers. We were thrilled to see him move off the streets and into a place of his own. For months, he did well. He met consistently with Bethany, stuck to a budget, saved money, made it to his appointments, and spent every spare moment he wasn't working playing video games.

After several months, John experienced a mental health crisis and decided to break his lease. We were heartbroken. We encouraged him not to make that decision, but we also made it clear that our friendship wasn't dependent on whether he took our advice. We loved John before the apartment, and we loved him afterward.

So John found himself back on the streets.

Bethany kept showing up.

John kept showing up.

And we kept believing there had to be another path forward.

Last week, that opportunity finally came when we were able to welcome John into one of our Village Homes.

I had the privilege of sitting in the room when Bethany called to tell him he had been accepted into the program. Later that day, John and I went to pick up a couch that one of our neighbors had generously donated, and I got to hand him the keys to his new home.

On the drive to pick up the couch, I asked John where he'd been staying. He matter-of-factly described the abandoned building he'd been sleeping in and casually mentioned that someone had only stolen his belongings once over the previous few weeks, which, in his mind, was actually pretty good.

When we arrived at the house, both of us immediately noticed the owner's garden.

After loading the couch, she offered to show us around.

She walked us through an incredible permaculture garden filled with honeybees, fruit trees, vegetables, chickens, and flowers. John and I wandered through it together like two little kids, marveling at everything we saw and eating as many figs and muscadines as we could reach.

Halfway through our tour, I became aware of how remarkable the moment really was.

Here I was with a generous stranger and my friend John, standing in a beautiful garden, eating fruit and marveling at God's creation. It felt undeniably poetic that this moment would happen just as John stepped into a new season of life.

As I write this, I still find myself thinking back to the man quietly looking through Nintendo Switch games at E-City Java years ago. I never imagined we'd one day be laughing together, moving couches together, and certainly not standing in a garden together.

On the drive home, I asked John about his Nintendo Switch. He told me he'd sold it a few months earlier to cover some unexpected expenses, but he hoped he'd be able to buy another one once he got back on his feet.

That evening, I posted a picture of John standing on the porch of his new home and asked people to pray for him. At the very end of the post, I casually mentioned that if anyone happened to have a Nintendo Switch collecting dust in a closet somewhere, John would love one.

Forty-eight hours later, someone from a local church had donated a Nintendo Switch, controllers, and two games.

This afternoon, we got to surprise him with it.

I'll include the video below.

As I drove over with the console sitting in the passenger seat, I caught myself wondering whether this really mattered.

After all, John has plenty of real problems to solve. There are budgets to manage, goals to accomplish, appointments to keep, and new routines to establish. Part of me wondered if my time would've been better spent helping him update a résumé instead of delivering a video game.

That's when I felt the Holy Spirit gently remind me of something Jesus said:

God knows the very number of hairs on our heads.

It struck me that knowing the number of hairs on someone's head doesn't solve any practical problem. Yet Jesus tells us that God knows because He cares.

In the same way, giving John a Nintendo Switch didn't solve homelessness. It didn't eliminate the work that still lies ahead. But love isn't measured only by efficiency.

Sometimes love looks like helping someone apply for Social Security.

Sometimes it looks like driving them to a doctor's appointment.

Sometimes it looks like handing them a set of house keys.

And sometimes it looks like giving your friend a video game because you know it will make him smile.

The more I thought about it, the more overwhelmed I became by the kindness of God.

I don't think this story is ultimately about The LOT Project.

I don't even think it's primarily about homelessness.

I think it's about a God who delights in His children. A God who faithfully walks with us through years of setbacks and small victories. A God who not only meets our needs, but often gives us unexpected gifts simply because He loves us.

I don't know exactly what the next year will hold for John. There will probably be setbacks, difficult conversations, and days that are harder than others.

But tonight he'll sleep in a safe home.

He has people who know his name.

He has friends who love him.

And somewhere in his living room sits a Nintendo Switch, reminding me that our Father delights not only in providing what we need, but sometimes in making His children smile.

Someday, when Christ makes all things new, I hope John and I find ourselves in another garden together, eating fruit, laughing, and enjoying God's creation once again.