A friend I call “Big Mike” has lived on the streets for eight years. I met him at the hospital, where he had two wounds on his legs that would not heal. He had no reliable place to wash and medicate the wounds. That kind of place is tough to find on the streets.

I sat beside Big Mike at the hospital, accompanying him through the hours of being alone in a room with no family or friends with transportation to come and visit him. I wrote a small note for him on a card with a sketch of the Triune sanctuary and the Mercy Center on the front of it.

“Big Mike,” I wrote, “I hope you’ll always remember that you are a child of God and that you are always welcome at Triune and in my heart. We are here to be with and walk beside you. Always. We love and care for you, my friend, and constantly feel your love and care for us. Hold on to God’s hand and rest in God’s heart. In friendship! Trevor.”

After a few weeks in the hospital, Big Mike moved to a post-acute care center to finish the rounds of strong antibiotics needed to heal his wounds completely. This would have been nearly impossible to do on the streets. I stopped by his new place to check on him and see if he was doing alright.

“Rev. Trev,” he said with a smile on his face as I knocked on his door and walked into his small, barren room. “Rev. Trev” is his affectionate name for me, and I wear it as a badge of honor.

“I’m doing real good,” he said. “My legs are getting better by the day. They say I’ll be getting out of here soon.”

I celebrated the news with him, but the joy in my heart over his recovery was tainted with despair because I knew when his recovery was complete, he would have to return to the mean, hard streets. I stood up to leave when he said, “Wait just a minute.”

He opened the drawer of the small table at his bedside. He fumbled through some of his items, all he owned in the world, until he said, “Here it is!”

He held up a note with a sketch of Triune’s sanctuary and Mercy Center on the cover and my handwriting inside it. “I kept the note you wrote for me at the hospital. I keep it near me all the time. It reminds me that you are my family.” In that holy moment, I was thunderstruck and wonderstruck.

In a few days, Big Mike was dropped off in front of our mercy center, with no house to be roofed under and no refrigerator to be stocked with nourishing food.

Our incredible social workers immediately got to work helping him find a place to stay for medical respite until he was completely healthy. Their goal was for him to be strong enough to make his way in the world again and work on goals that might keep him housed for good.

The place they found for him is a rescue mission that provides shelter, nutrition, holiday meals and a sense of community that can make a big difference in a person’s life. I drove to the mission on Thanksgiving Eve to eat with that community, and who should I see at the door waiting to get in? Big Mike.

His smile was as bright as the first star of the cold night that appeared in the sky above us.

“Hey, everybody! It’s Rev. Trev. He’s my Rev. He’s a real good guy.”

I have never been called out in such a beautiful, meaningful way, nor will I be again. At that moment, I understood a little more deeply what it means to be part of the beloved community.