MDTS: Rambo
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| Methadone clinic |
I found myself sucked into the conversation to. And suddenly, there I was, sitting on some old newspaper he and another man offered me, in a parking lot outside a methadone clinic. It smelled like smoke, cat pee, beer, and dirty needles.
Rambo had a lot of interesting things to say...about politics, about celebrities, about his wife, about the hard-knock life people go through. It was a stimulating conversation; I thoroughly enjoyed myself. At the end of my time that evening, I offered to pray for him. No thank you, he said, I believe in Buddha--he takes his talisman out to show me. I got it in Thailand. I reassure him: it's okay, prayers are for everyone, no matter what you believe; you don't have to believe, but just receive a blessing. He hesitant agrees.
I'm sitting there, eyes open, praying with all of my might, hoping that some of the words, some of His love, get through to Rambo. I pray, Father, show Rambo your love, your unconditional love. YES, he interrupts, I like that, unconditional love. I'm so startled, but so pleased. Isn't this what it's all about? To help people get a glimpse of Father's unconditional love, no matter where they are in life, in the journey of faith? I finish the evening pleased, thankful that the conversations flowed well, thankful that someone was touched in some ways.
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The next time I see him, he starts opening up about drugs. About the way he was stupid, how he regrets it, how he can't help himself now with the heroin. Sadness. Shame. A sheepish admittance that addiction drew him, and that he allowed it to. The slow reflection on how depression and loneliness and rejection were huge catalysts in drawing him back and back again to the powder. Ironic that the very society that frowns upon drug use are the forces that push them back to it.
I walk away that night thinking: I want to do this. I want to touch people's lives. I want to move here permanently and love these people. I love these people. If I could do that for the rest of my life: talk to hurting strangers and try to share the love of God with them, build up relationships to a point (and isn't it funny how quick it is to develop some level of trust, some inch of affection) that I can speak truth into their lives. That's what this trip was about...
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I tell him I'm going to Africa. Two months. I can't come to see him every week, but the dinners will keep coming; my friends will see to it. I tell him I'm going to see hurting children in Africa. Maybe when I come back I'll try to come back to the methadone clinic and see him again. I'm coming back to Hong Kong for Christmas, after all. He's very excited for me, and wishes me luck. He marvels that I can do so much traveling (because though there are many Chinese in Africa, not many of them necessarily dream of traveling to Africa), and encourages me to help people in need. I don't know if I'll see him again, but I promise him that I will try to come back.
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The day I come back from Africa, my friend tells me that Rambo talked about me while conversing with her. He's remembered all the details that I told him about Africa. He remembers I have family here in the Motherland, and that I'm spending Christmas here with them. He says I speak with maturity and wisdom. My friend encourages me: you've made an impact on his life. He's refused prayer once again, which makes my heart ache, but he likes the conversations, the people.
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That night I rush to go see Rambo. I pray he's there. And he is! Bundled up against the winter's frigid night air, he's happy to see me. I'm happy to see him. We sit down and catch up like old buddies. He tells me how he told my friend about me. I tell him about Africa. He reminds me to wear more clothing, to keep warm. He, like an older brother, or uncle, gives me instructions on how to travel in the mainland, to not trust people too much, to not be too innocent, though be innocent in most things. Not everyone is kind and understanding like him; this is true. He told me his dreams of traveling; the one time he went to Thailand and took some pictures with some scantily-clad girl. The crassness of the anecdotes made me laugh, made me glad he doesn't walk on eggshells around me.
We talk for an hour straight. At the end, I tell him that my training will end soon, and that I don't know if I'll be able to come back and see him again. He says, oh you'll be back. I said I'll try. I pray for him, for Father to bless him, watch over him, make His face to shine over him, and give him peace. I pray again for the unconditional love. He says goodbye, and we take our leave. I look back, and he's going home as well.
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