Slumping deep into his chair at a corner table for two, he ate waffle fries alone on a holiday evening.
The sun laid down quietly in the window behind him as snowy hair fell against a face that spilled secrets of sorrow. Vacant eyes and a somber spirit caught my heart.
The people-watcher in me wondered about his story; I was curious why his face wore a leathery shade of pain on a day reserved for joy. Who were his people, and where were they tonight? Most importantly, I wondered, did he know the One who heals broken hearts?Β
My meal grew cold as appetite deferred to compassion. I might have stared.
They say it takes one to know one, and that night, while the world around us was a blur of festivity, I sat across from the mirror of a man who seemed familiar with a burden or two β just like me.
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