It was 1996, the day before Thanksgiving when I heard a knock at my office door. At the door stood a man in his mid 20's. His hair was long and begged for attention. His pale face bore scars of neglect and abuse; but there was a softness in his eyes, something akin to the light of faith. 

      “Hi, my name is Chris,” he said. “I’m riding my bicycle across the country and haven’t slept in a bed for three nights. I wonder if you could help me find a place to spend the night and something to eat.” I told Chris I thought I could help and invited him into my office. 

      Once in my office, Chris shared his story. Chris had never met his father, and barely knew his mother. Throughout his childhood he experienced one rejection after another. Fortunately, when Chris entered his teens, his grandmother invited him to live with her. In that grandmother’s house Chris found a love and acceptance he had not before known. But in his mid-teens, Chris quit school and left his grandmother’s home. Street gangs replaced his fractured family, and heroin became his prescription for peace. Shortly before his 20^th birthday, Chris was convicted of burglary. After his release from prison, Chris decided to take a bike trek across the United States.

      “Why are you biking across the country?” I asked.

      “Back when I was shooting up smack, I often shared needles and I got AIDS. I don’t have long to live and I’m trying to bike across the country before I die.”

      “When is the last time you spoke with your grandmother?” I asked.

      “I called her about two months ago,” he said. “I would have called her more but I didn’t have enough money to make the call.”

      “Would you like to call her now?”

      His eyes danced with excitement as he jumped at the offer. I dialed the number and Chris talked with his grandmother for several minutes. The conversation was upbeat and filled with words of love. 

      When Chris hung up I asked, “Does your grandmother know about your AIDS?”

      “No, pastor, she doesn’t,” he said. “I know she really needs to know, but I just don’t have the heart to tell her.”

      Then Chris looked at me with begging eyes. “Pastor, would you tell her for me?”

      I didn’t know what to say. Chris’ grandmother needed time to prepare herself and to say her goodbyes; and Chris would certainly need her support in the months ahead. Finally, I agreed to write her.

      After we left the office, I took Chris to a local hotel and gave him money for a meal. On the following day, Chris shared the Thanksgiving meal with my family. After the meal Chris announced to everyone at the table, “You all can’t believe how special this day has been for me. Today is the first time in my life that I’ve ever shared a real Thanksgiving meal with a real family.” 

      I couldn’t believe what he was saying. It never dawned on me that real people, perhaps many real people, never experience a Thanksgiving meal in the company of those they love. 

Good health, a loving family, a comfortable home, a bounteous meal – these are not mere holiday trappings. These are blessed gifts, holy gifts, and I dare not take them for granted.  I must give thanks.

      A day or so later, I wrote Chris’ grandmother. She called me about a week later. She thanked me for confirming what she already suspicioned about Chris’ health, and she was thrilled to hear about our Thanksgiving with Chris.

      On Thanksgiving Day 1996, I experienced a divine encounter with a young man named Chris, a divine encounter that has helped me understand the real meaning of Thanksgiving. For that encounter, and for the God who blesses me in so many ways, I cannot help but give thanks.