Immediately I back away, staring at the 20-something, homeless, neat freak in the bowels of the Church I inexplicably pastor.
Flagrantly mixing Church and State, we'd scored a ton of cheese recently released by the Department of Defense where it had been reclassified as "unnecessary" to sustain war efforts.
The basement social hall was packed with homeless people, residents of the projects across the street and poverty embracing Seminary students lined up to receive the cheese.
"Sure," I grin, patting his shoulder.
David withdraws to a stack of cheese filled boxes, opens a container I'd given him, rips off a piece and eats.
"I got wine to go with that," Bruce, a country music loving homeless Church member, grins.
"It's not for me Rev," he continues seeing me glare, "I don't need it. I quit drinking six times yesterday."
Laughing, we resume passing out free cheese.
David drives me crazy!
He has every right, of course, because he's the first Bi-Polar Schizoid Manic Depressive, I've met and have no idea how to deal with him.
But I'm the minister and supposed to love him somehow though I have absolutely no idea how.
David's mental health waxed and wained but by Christmas Day he was well enough to come to my house.
I'd lost my mind, or given it to Jesus, and invited all the homeless people I knew to my house for Christmas dinner because I couldn't figure out any other way to show I loved them.
And they came!
Mine and David picture's proof.
He was a missionary kid who grew up in Bangladesh and while his folks saved the world, they watch their son lose his mind.
By the time they returned home, they'd lost David and we found him and were crazy enough to take him as one of us.
I don't remember much about that Christmas day with no recollection at all of David being there because he was always so damn difficult.
Seeing the picture though, I remember this moment.
I'm threatening to touch him.
Recoiling, David smiles radiantly, and, for the briefest of moments anyway, the Kingdom comes on earth as it is in Heaven.
In the middle of the night, I Google his name and, through the miracle of the Tower of Babble, I find his obituary.
David's "remembered by his family and friends as one who valiantly fought mental illness all of his adult life and later bladder cancer."
"Hey David," I say into the darkness.
The night is silent and holy.
"DA!" Che sleepily calls, shooing old things away.
"Mom says we're going to the movies today," our Love Child says rubbing sleep from her eyes.
"Whatever your Mom says," I whisper in Che's ear as she hugs me for the first time today.
