person born blind. If this man were not from God, he could do nothing.” There was silence. Then the crowd started to clap. Slowly at first, then growing in volume and intensity. And they started to whoop and laugh and cheer. The gathering of leaders stared back at me with a level of hatred I wish I hadn’t been able to see. Over the sound of the crowd they condemned me, “You were born entirely in sin, and are you trying to teach us?” They motioned to the guards, and then they turned their backs and left. The first punch doubled me over, left me gasping for breath. The second broke my nose. I was dragged out of the Temple and thrown into a van before being driven out of the city. I don’t know how he found me, but that night I was sitting by the fire I’d built in the scrub, too scared to go back to my house and too sore to try going anywhere else, when Jesus walked up and sat down across the flames from me. He opened his pack and took out some rolls and a thermos. We sat and ate. My jaw was killing me, but I ate. He looked up and asked, “Do you believe in the Son of Man?” It sounded like an invitation. I answered, “I don’t know. Who is he? Tell me, so that I can believe in him.” He smiled. “You have seen him, and he’s the one speaking with you.” I was done. There was nothing left for me and nowhere that was safe. I looked up at him, and I stared into those weird eyes of his. The ones that seem to search out what you most want and what you’re most scared of. But all I saw that night was a depth of compassion that told me I was safe and that there might be a place where I could belong. It’d been a miracle being able to see. But this was something equally important. I felt seen. Seen and wanted and welcome and worthwhile. 82
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