His name was Alberto

You would see him most days at La Provision. Filthy with weeks of grime on his clothes, on his skin, yellow teeth...at least those that he had. He fits right in with the rest of the men who come each day for what very well might be their only meal. They stand with a wad of gauze covered with paint thinner or some other toxic liquid held in their fist, or even stuck in their mouth, or hold the familiar small plastic bottle filled with rubbing alcohol that they they drink or glue that they sniff. Huffers and alcoholics, certainly without a home. Q1, about 14 cents, will buy the high. It's short lived, so they must keep their gauze covered in whatever toxic chemical they can find close to their nose or in their mouth all day. These men, and even some women, are dying from the inside out. Some have sores all over them, and most, when they come through the line to wash their hands, are so caked with dirt that they barely get one layer off, leaving the drying towel filthy.

This one man was different. It's hard to tell ages of people who are in this condition, twenties? teens? But his shaking was what you noticed. So uncontrollable that someone would need to carry his bowl of food and drink bag over to the curb where the guys all sit to eat. His shaking made it so that using a fork or spoon was useless. So he would drink soup right out of the bowl or take noodles by the handful and shove them in his mouth.

One day, recently, Adrian came up to me and said the men in the line were saying that one of the guys had died the night before. I asked him who it was, so we went over and asked. His name was Alberto.

Just two days before I had watched him as he was shoving long spaghetti noodles into his mouth. I had stood there thinking about who he was, what had brought him to this point. Did he know his Savior? Did he have any family? Did anyone miss him? I was glad they at least knew his name.

Sometimes I feel like it's hopeless. These guys are so wasted. So young. They are barely coherent and are so addicted to whatever it is they're huffing or drinking that they can barely stand up or put two words together. But God knew his name...He knew Alberto before he was born. I pray that at some point in his life Alberto knew His Father and had come to a saving faith. I'll never know. But that's not important. What is important is the other Alberto's who need food, who need a hand on a shoulder, who need to have someone know their name, to, yeah, have a kiss on the cheek or a hug even though their clothes and smell are disgusting.

Who are the untouchables in your life? in your neighborhood? in your church? They may not smell physically, but they may be people who are, for one reason or another, rejected by others or just plain lonely. Reach out to them. Know their names. Take the time to love. Be His hands.