It’s official. I can now say that I have met Michael Jordan. I had no idea that things had gotten so tough
for him, but he is an elderly black man who lives in a flop house on the south
side of Memphis. I have to confess that
I don’t truly believe that the man whom I had the gift of meeting today was in
fact THE Michael Jordan. But that is the
name he gave me as I was giving him a ride home today, so that is what I will
call him until he trusts me enough to tell me his real name.
I met Michael at a
service station not far from the seminary when I stopped on my way to class to
get my afternoon Diet Mountain Dew fix.
He was in the parking lot as I got out of my car, and was asking passersby
for a little bit of food to eat. He
smelled of alcohol. His eyes were
red. His clothes were ill-fitting and
torn, and he had an unlit Kool Menthol hanging from between his lips. He was carrying a backpack that had only God
knows what in it and was holding it as dearly as a parent would hold a child. And I found myself hoping that he wouldn't get around to speaking to me between my exiting the car and entering the
store. And worse, I had been on the
phone with my older brother Rick talking about JUST such a scenario just 15
minutes earlier! And I mean that
literally. (God’s timing is impeccable, isn't it?) Needless to say I wasn't quick enough. Michael caught me dead to
rights. “Hey man, could you help me get
a little food?” DANG!
