I had set the boys up with a movie, and headed out to put windshield washer fluid in my car. When I heard a voice.

It was a male voice, worn and raspy. As I made out the words being yelled from the dilapidated building next door, a gruesome picture began to form. A picture of abuse in every nature. If evil had a voice, it was surely this one.

A discussion with the police yielded details that turned my stomach. This was a situation of mutual and consensual abuse. Two adults were fully choosing to subject themselves to torment and cruelty from each other. And so legally they were doing nothing wrong.

But how can this not be wrong?! How could people be so perversely far from a healthy relationship?!

We prayed for them that night. “God, if there is any hope for this situation, please work in it now and quickly.”

The next evening, there was a man sitting on our building staircase. He spoke to me, and it was the same voice.

“I’m homeless and a lady here went to go get me some noodles – please don’t call the cops on me!”

I assured him I would not, and tried to calmly walk away. He stood up, shoulders hunched, and eyes pegged to the ground. He held up a stub of a candle. “Do you have a candle I could use?”

“Yes, I think so. I’ll go check.”

I don’t know why I was so non-committal. Of course I have candles! I have boxes of candles. But I was nervous and I suppose I just wanted the space to think about what was going on outside my door.

After a momentary, squeaked out prayer, I knew what I needed to do. I pulled out my most prized candle from the box – the giant 22-ouncer from Yankee Candle, in my favorite discontinued scent.

I needed to show love to this man, and while I am often lacking the confidence in words, I could tell him through a gift.

He began to weep as I handed it to him. Not cursory tears, but the big, fat, uncontrolled tears of a man who has nothing to give, and nothing to lose.

I fumbled with some explanation of remembering God’s love when he lit the candle, but it was full of stutters. As my neighbor came out to tell him the noodles would soon be ready, we both tried to make an awkward exit.

“I’m a son of God…you know?”

The desperation of his voice halted me. It was not a question, but a plea to be recognized. Patty and I turned simultaneously.

“Yes, you are.”

He revealed some of his burdens and the scene I had overheard the previous afternoon took more shape. This was a man who saw no value in himself, and allowed others to do the same.

And I did the only thing I knew to do – I reached up, put my hand on his shoulder and began to talk to God. Patty did the same, and we prayed for Gary, a son of God. Again the tears came from nowhere and his whole body heaved and shook.

I couldn’t fix his problems. I couldn’t make him start valuing himself enough to exit his cycle of mutual abuse. But I could help him reach out to God, and I hope he still reaches out every time he lights that mint candle.

I still can’t get over it. I prayed for God to intervene in a dark situation, and He sends the man to my door looking for light. I hope that my awkward words and my gift of light still speak the eloquent words of God’s love that I struggle so hard to say. And I hope he comes around again so I can share more.

(Thanks for your patience. It took me awhile to be able to write this post.)