slovakia, part 6: peter

I met him at the center for drug addicted people. he was 22 years old. his head was shaved. he had huge arms, and was wearing a tshirt and jeans. he sat in a chair out in the crowd, but his eyes kept meeting mine. maybe it was the pain in them that made them feel like a magnet. you could read the sorrow and regret in them just by giving him a quick glance. he gave me a half-smile when we locked eyes for the first time. I was sitting on a platform with Pica, Emily and David Cekov. we had been singing. it was so nice out, almost cold since I was wearing shorts and a tank top. the breeze was blowing as Hutch and Mr. Frederic shared their testimonies and Pavle shared the gospel with the people gathered around him. 

he had a presence about him, Pavle did. I don't know how anyone could hear him share the gospel and not want to do something about it. he was so passionate about everything he did and said. hearing him share never got old, and I don't think it ever could get old. 

when he got done, I saw the guy I couldn't stop watching repeating the prayer after Pavle in Slovak. my heart did a somersault and I knew I had to talk to him. I tried rehearsing something clever in my head, but my thoughts got jumbled and I could tell I was close to hyperventilating. what if I said something stupid? what if he didn't speak english? maybe someone could translate for me... 

Pavle finished his prayer, and asked that we talk to the people. I couldn't move. it was like I was glued to my chair. David Cekov stood up and handed me his guitar and pick, telling me I could play if I wanted. I took it, not knowing exactly what I would do with it. then I knew. 

I grabbed a stool and headed towards the guy. Mr. Lou was already talking to him...both of them sitting in chairs. I sat down, and began to lightly strum. if I could just keep playing, my words would come. the music freed me. his name was Peter. I will never forget the look in his eyes. I'll never forget the way the tears trickled down his rough cheeks. I remember clearly that his arm was bleeding because he had been scratching his mosquito bites. He didn't understand Jesus' unconditional love. 

I looked around as Mr. Lou talked to Peter, never stopping my strumming. the other teammates were spread out. I watched David Cekov and Pica praying for a guy who looked to be about Peter's age with tattoos up his arms. I could see the brokenness in his eyes as well, as he watched David's face as he prayed over him. I watched David's lips moving, not knowing what he was saying, but sensing his passion even from a distance. 

sometimes, words just aren't enough. sometimes, no matter what good things you can think of to say, they just aren't enough. Mr. Lou got up eventually, and went to get a pen to write down his contact information for Peter. I just sat there, kept strumming the same chords over and over again. I couldn't think of anything to say. I had said a few words about God not looking at his past anymore, and only seeing Jesus, but other than that, Mr. Lou had carried the conversation. 

we sat there, in the coolness of the evening. he just looked at me, and I looked back at him. he had some of the bluest eyes I had ever seen. neither of us said anything for a few minutes. finally he cleared his throat and said, "why? I don't understand. I don't understand why you came here. why do you care?" I half-laughed. "Peter, we came because we do care. I care." he shook his head, still obviously confused as to why we came. 

I took a quick breath. "you know, when I was 14, I was really angry at God. my great-grandmother died and I was angry that He took her away from me. I really loved her. but God gave me another chance. He kept chasing after me, kept loving me. He always gives another chance. Peter, I want you to have that chance. I want you to have the chance to be loved." I ran out of words. really, there was nothing else to say. he tried to be a man, but his eyes were full of tears, and one ran down his cheek. 

Pavle called that it was time for us to go. Mr. Lou came and shook Peter's hand, the hand that was stained by the blood he had wiped off of his arm. I looked into his eyes and said, "I'm gonna be praying for you, Peter." he gave me that half-smile again and said, "ďakujem" which is thank you in Slovak. I walked away, stuck David's guitar and his pick in the case and put it on my back, carrying it to the van. as I walked away, I turned around and looked back at Peter. he still sat in the chair, his head in his hands.