A Chance Meeting

His name is Grey Wolf Magic Dancer. At least that is the name his mama gave him as she left her teepee shortly after giving birth to him and her eyes landed on a grey wolf and the tribal mountain dancers in the distance. His father, a white man, named him Mark. It’s what his birth certificate reads, but he has resented that name ever since. “Just because you call a watermelon a peach,” he told me, “doesn’t mean it’s a peach.”

My daughter Charis was attempting to fill up her water bottle at the park, only to find that the water fountain was spraying water everywhere, making it near impossible to catch anything but a few drops in the bottle. Enter Grey Wolf, who kindly showed her his tricks and successfully filled the bottle. We thanked him and I marveled at how the conversation somehow transitioned naturally into a talk about cougar hunting.

I think you tend to take in the most details of a person when it is your first encounter with them. You notice things like interesting mustaches, crooked teeth, and a wheelchair full of simple belongings. You also walk a fine line of “Can I trust you?” and “Can I get to know you?” We were testing each other out, dancing that awkward first dance of a first meeting. But as I looked into his eyes, I could have sworn I had met him before. He reminded me of other people I have met along the way. People who are night and day different to me, who are watermelons while I am a peach. And yet who, just like me, simply long for the chance to be heard, the chance to talk, the chance to tell their story.

So we listened. We listened, my kids and me, as he taught us about shrieking cicadas and grey wolves and how to grow corn in sand. We listened as he taught us about reflecting light and homeless people and the Apache temper. We listened as he opened up doors to a world we have never been a part of, but one in which he was so graciously inviting us into. I thought in the back of my head, “This is homeschooling at its finest. This is what I love about being outside, about going on walks, about having no agenda but just heading out to explore.”

At some point I realized my kids had all wandered off to play, and I thanked Grey Wolf for his time. He asked if I wanted to hear a sermon. “I’m a preacher too,” he told me. Intrigued by this preacher who was lighting a cigarette and who told me he wanted to start a street ministry, I asked for his 1-minute sermon.

“If I had one minute, I would give you my testimony. I would tell you about how I found Jesus in jail, and how my life has been forever changed. I would tell you about how I got myself a good family, good friends, a good church, and how I’ve been lining up some honest jobs I could do, even if I haven’t decided to do any of them yet. I would tell you how it’s possible to live just as richly as all these people who drive around in these nice, expensive cars, and to even be more content then most of them, all because of how Jesus changed me.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and gave a crooked smile, nodding his head in satisfaction.

I’m not sure what it is about moments like these that leave me feeling hopeful inside, but as I walked away, I had this sense of connecting with humanity on a deeper level. Of seeing God, somehow, in the squinty eyes and the sun tanned face of Mr. Grey Wolf, and of liking what I saw.