I’m not known for my compassion, but finding a homeless person sleeping on my doorstep this morning moved me. He was dressed in a very worn, yellow parka and torn Levi jeans. He wore what once were white sneakers. I shook him awoke, I was amazed that he smelt neither of tobacco or alcohol. He grunted a few times before getting up. He was a foot taller than I was.

            “Thanks for the doorstop. I’ll be leaving now,” he said in a low, rumbling voice that reminded me of my father. His teeth, when he smiled, were yellow, but not rotting (how often had I seen the poor dental hygiene of the despondent in this city!)

            “No,” I said, surprising myself, “There’re some eggs left over from breakfast. Come in.”

            That smile of his also reminded me of my father, rest his soul, who had passed on twelve years past.

            “You’ve got a good heart,” he said in his rumbling voice, looking me in the eye. Those eyes, not glazed like those of an addict, but the darkest, warmest shade of brown I have ever seen. His beard descended to his chest, grizzled but still very dark brown with streaks of gray. He shuffled past me on that sad pair of sneakers. I remembered that I kept an old pair of running shoes in the closet beneath the stairs, old but not worn. He would have those before he left. I closed the door, wondering at the mercy I was showing this man. I followed him through the corridor to the kitchen, passing the two dead orchids I kept in vases. They were the favourite flower of my father, for his memory I did not throw them away.

            “Um, you can wash your hands if you like,” I said. He had the plate with eggs and a spoon in hand.

            “You want to spare me your eggs and your water? Thank you,” he said with what I thought was genuine gratitude. The water bill was a tad steep in this area, after all. He washed his hands thoroughly, remarking that he hadn’t used soap for three weeks.

            “Don’t you stay at the shelters down the West side? They provide food, shelter and a bath, you know.”

            “Them?” the man said, and grunted, “Colder than snow. No warmth at all. I stay away from them.”

            He shoveled the eggs and downed a mug of coffee I had prepared for him. He sighed happily and leaned back in my wicker chair, stretching his arms.

            “Thank you, sir. You are a most gracious host.”

            “Stay a bit longer, I have something else for you.”

            I went straight for the closet and, after rummaging for a bit, found the sneakers. My aunt had bought them for me a few months ago, blue and gray athletic footwear that was three sizes too large for me. They would fit my new ‘friend’, I supposed. I went back to the kitchen. He was not sitting at the table, and this caused me to panic. Maybe he had stolen something, my radio perhaps, and had shot out the door. Then I heard a laugh come from the living room, through the partly open door beside the kitchen counter. I walked through and found my friend throwing a pencil at the sofa. Every time the pencil hit the upholstery and bounced off, spinning through the air, the man would laugh with delight and go to retrieve the pencil, repeating the process. After watching his curious antics I wondered if he was one of those mental cases, whose minds were simply gone after living on the streets for extended periods of time. I pitied him, but he had to leave.

            “Um, what are you doing?” I asked. I didn’t want to cram him outside all at once, which would be rude.

            “I’m sorry,” he said, chuckling a bit after the pencil bounced off the sofa again, rolling under my desk. He went on all fours and scrabbled under there for a few moments until he procured the pencil (it was not mine, it was painted red with black lines).

            “Why are you amused by that, throwing the pencil at the sofa?” I prodded. He smiled (why did his smile remind me of my father so much?) and explained.

            “The pencil never rebounds the same way twice. Each different way it flies, I’m reminded of a conversation I had with him.”

            “Him? Who?”

            “You know, God.”

            “Ah.”

            I was convinced that the poor man was mentally challenged. I showed him my oversized sneakers.

            “These are for you.”

            “No, please, you have already given me breakfast.”

            “I insist. I can’t wear them anyway, you certainly need them more than I.”

            He stood there, grinning at me. He put his pencil away within a pocket of his parka.

            “A most gracious host,” he repeated, and took the sneakers. He immediately removed his old ones and sat on the sofa to tug the ‘new’ ones on.

            “Perfect,” he said, sounding very pleased and satisfied, “Plenty room for the toes, and it’s wide enough. Haven’t had big enough shoes for two years, you know.”

            As he rose to leave, I held out my hand. He gripped it without shaking; his own hand felt firm and warm.

            “Thank you. I’ll have a talk with God the next time I see Him, and mention you.”

            I could not find any trace of sarcasm in his voice. He honestly believed that he talked with God, the ‘Almighty’ (or so the local priest claimed).

            “I am grateful, mister…”

            “Emess, E-M-E-S-S. I know it’s a funny name. I have no last name, I don’t need one, you know.”

            We walked down the corridor, passing the wilted orchids. I opened the door, waved to him and he was gone. I went through my house, ensuring that everything was in place. I felt a little ashamed for not trusting that kind person, though he was touched in the head. I noticed that he had left his old sneakers beside the sofa, but did not bother to run out the door and pursue him. I’d just put them on top the trashcan by the sidewalk, where he could find them if he remembered and came back.

I went to work, taking the bus as I always do. When I came back home the sneakers on top the trashcan were gone. Upon closer inspection I saw the red and black pencil resting neatly on the lid. Upon the lid were written the words:

“For as you do unto the least of these, you do unto me.”

Wondering that such a message should be scrawled on my trashcan, I opened my front door and went inside. I stopped dead in my tracks. The two dead orchids, which had been dead for nearly a month, had bloomed into life. They were a vibrant orange and brown, exactly as how I remembered them. Why, the second orchid even had that slight curve to it to catch the sunlight coming through the small glass window in the door.

Then I knew. Emess, who had reminded me of my father so much, had been an emissary of God. Clever, angels are, I thought.