I Saw You
Hey Chris, I saw you today. You were sitting on the rail of the pier, fishing with your friends. You were talking it up as usual and asking questions about the fish in the Cape Fear River. You were probably asking how deep the water is and what kind of bait you should use. This reminds me of how you used to ask those questions in the old days down by the river.
Your beard still looks the same, all spotty with rough patches around your chin. Your hands still look the same—their strength tells the story of a working man. Your voice is still scruffy and harsh sounding, but so soft in tone.
It’s the last day of vacation for Lisa and me in Southport, North Carolina. We have fished on the city pier almost every day for the last nine days. Some days were good and other days not so good. We found ourselves staying in room six again at the Riverside Motel. This seems to be a magical place for encounters. There was a tropical storm that rolled through the first couple of days, most likely impacting the fishing. For the most part, our trip was wonderful. People from all walks of life strolled out on the city pier throughout the day. Some just watched as we fished, and some wanted to talk about it.
Today was like all the other days since we’ve been here; the fishing was slow, and the crowds were large. I’m not sure that we blended in as locals, but they thought we knew what we were doing. Ironically, we were on our last fishing rigs because we had lost all to the rocks below, and we only had a few pieces of bait left. We were far from locals; we were the only people fishing together. No matter the place, we have always enjoyed this togetherness. We listen to stories in stereo and repeat them later in mono to each other. Did you hear that? Did you hear this one? Oh, wait a minute, did you hear her and the story she told? These brought smiles and laughter to our souls.
But there was one thing about today that was different. We noticed a tent near the pier and lots of children and parents setting something up. We just thought it was a different vendor, as they frequently came to that area to sell stuff. It was hot on the pier, and there were numerous locals fishing. You can tell who they are; they just look like they belong. I didn’t pay much attention to them. I looked mostly at the water and listened to surrounding conversations. That’s what I enjoy the most, just listening and waiting for the next story to come to life.
I had just emerged from the grip of a story that had me locked down for months—one of those complex, never-ending pieces that refuse to let you rest. The Lens haunted me day and night, demanding my attention. After countless revisions, I finally sent it to my editor, who does beautiful work. As I write this story, it’s still with her.
When I am free, I tend to listen more intently and watch people more closely. But the freedom is short-lived—another story is always on the verge of unfolding.
I was listening to several stories today on the city pier. Some were as prescribed, which simply means I could tell you the end before they finished. No big deal—just the way I listen and process.
I’ve been thinking about a person we met earlier in the week who seemed to be carrying a great deal of pain in her life. I didn’t press for any details. As I handed her my book, she simply said, “How did you know I needed this right now?” I wondered if this would be my next story. But it became clear it wasn’t—maybe later though.
As we fished, I noticed a group of people coming down the city pier with their children, asking if we would like some lemonade. My knee-jerk response was, “No,” without even thinking or looking at who was offering me this sweet, refreshing drink. Then I glanced down. It was a little guy, maybe five or six years old, reaching up towards me with a cup of lemonade, and in his other hand, he held a pocket Jesus.
“For you,” he said. I melted.
I was… I’m now crying just trying to write this. I was so humbled. So blessed. Moved beyond words. Not worthy of it. Humbled again. Hands in the air—overwhelmed by this unexpected expression of love right there on the city pier.
I took the lemonade and the little Jesus and told the boy I had always wanted one of those. I placed it front and center in my tackle box. He also gave me a flower and a card with the name of their church. I was so moved by this that fishing didn’t even matter anymore. It was just about that moment and what was happening right then and there.
They continued up and down the city pier, blessing everyone they met.
I was staring at the water below, and this little girl came over to a group of people behind me on the pier who were fishing. She offered the group some lemonade, and they said, “Sure.” I held my cup up to toast the girl in the group, and one of them called out in a loud voice, “I know, right?” We acknowledged each other without any other social exchange, but it was great.
I had not paid much attention to this small group of five or six behind me. They were all talking, and they even had some music playing very low. They looked like they were in their thirties or so. The group seemed to be more about just being there than fishing. I thought that was cool.
The parents and children were making another pass to see if anyone needed a new cup of lemonade—or even a little Jesus. As they approached the group behind me, they asked, “Anyone need a lemonade or a Jesus?” One guy said in a very scruffy and harsh voice with a very soft tone to the little guy, “I don’t want any lemonade, but I will take a Jesus.”
I turned—almost in slow motion—to see who had said this. My eyes followed from the floor of the pier up to the young man sitting on the rail. It was my brother, Chris!
“I’ll take Jesus,” he said. I stared at this young man, and for a moment, our eyes met. It was as if he was saying, “I’m okay.” No words were spoken—just a quiet reassurance he was at peace. That while he was no longer here, he was doing just fine with his Jesus.
Chris passed years ago after a long battle with drugs—a battle he could never win. The pain was too deep. At thirty-seven, his life ended, and his struggle finally gave way to peace. He is the one who introduced me and my family to Jesus. For that, I will always be grateful, and I am happy that he encountered Jesus when he did.
I watched as the young man on the rail hopped down, tucked the little Jesus in his pocket, and walked away. As our eyes met once more, he gave me a glance that seemed to say, “I’m going to be just fine. I have Jesus with me now.” I stood there quietly and watched as they disappeared into the crowd.
When my brother left this world, all he had was a few papers in his pocket and a small New Testament Bible. I still have it to this day. This encounter reminded me that all we have in this world is hope. Hope that things are going to be okay. Hope that we are going to make it.
Just like the old days at the river‚—we fished, we hoped, and we loved.
It was great to see you today, my brother!
We all need a little Jesus in our lives.
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