I met a beggar today. I was wandering through the city and saw the wretch sitting alone by a dumpster. Anyone could see that the container held nothing but trash, but to this man, it was a source of treasure. As I approached him, he turned his eyes to me. The lids that had once been still now widened with childlike awe. He just stared at me, as if I were some sort of king. Perhaps it was the fact that I had been bathed and wore intact clothes that astonished him, or perhaps it was just the fact that he had never expected someone to come and intentionally talk to him that left him amazed, but either way, all words abandoned his lips. That’s when I decided to speak. I asked him what his name was. Immediately, the look of wonder was changed to a look of wondering—pure confusion. Like so many others, he hadn’t one. I pushed away some debris and sat down beside the man. “When was the last time you ate?” I asked him.
“Oh no, sir. I’m quite full, but thank you for the offer,” he responded.
“Surely you must be hungry,” I pleaded. “You mustn’t have eaten in months.”
“I get by quite well,” he insisted.
His withered arms and emerging ribcage were more than content to disagree. I couldn’t stand to see him like this. If only he could see himself, perhaps he would be willing to eat a meal with me. I rose to my feet and walked over to the dumpster. Throwing the lid from its resting place, I began to search for something reflective. A short escapade resulted in several pieces of a broken mirror. I chose the largest one and handed it to the man. He looked into the mirror and beheld his disheveled appearance: a thick beard dressed with dirt, skin stained by the asphalt, tattered clothes, and lips cracked like the very mirror he held in his hand. Certain that this would alert the man to his desperate condition, I began to smile. Then he did the same. His state didn’t bother him in the least. He was nearly at the end of the walk down the pier to death’s gates, ready to knock at the Tyrant’s door, and it didn’t register in his mind as anything of importance. In fact, he began to grasp the looking glass even tighter, taking in the entirety of the person staring back at him. The man finished looking at himself and handed the jagged mirror back to me. As the edge departed his weathered hands, the glass nicked his feeble finger and drew out a small rivulet of blood. The look of contentment disappeared, and his eyes grew empty. As the blood ran down his finger into his palm, his fissured lips began to quiver. Then the tears began to flow, mimicking the red life that ran from his paw. “Do you see what I am?” he wept. “There’s nothing left. Don’t you see? I have nothing. All that my hands can hold is the very blood that gives me life, and even that escapes.”
It had all been a façade. His refusal of a meal and acceptance of his condition were a poor mask for the broken boy that hid beneath. The filth and pretend solitary contentment served only to cover the identity that he didn’t have. “You’ve no idea what it’s like to be this way!” His words echoed through the alley, displaying his bitter isolation. “Food that doesn’t fill and clothes that never warm. It’s maddening. Keep your dirty money. Keep your selfish compassion. I don’t want either.”
“I don’t have anything to offer,” I solemnly said, “but I do have something to give you.”
I pulled out the letter that I had been protecting in my coat. I knew it truly was for this man. As with the mirror, when I handed it to him, he stared. This time, however, his gaze was directed at the seal. The imprint of a magnificent lion held this letter shut. He knew whom it was from. It had come from the man in the mountains. All of a sudden, the vagabond jerked his hand away. He had forgotten about the gash that had covered his hand in blood. Not wanting to ruin the beautiful envelope, he tried to wipe the stains away from the pure white paper, but was unsuccessful. The more he wiped the blood, the more it covered the envelope. That’s when he saw it. Script that had been hidden before was now revealed. He again placed his bloodstained hand upon the letter to reveal the one thing he had always yearned for: a name. The face of the envelope had a mere three letters, but they were his three letters: Son. Without even opening his message, the man arose and told me he would follow. We both set out for the mountains. He’ll know soon. You see, I’m a beggar, too.
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