i met jesus on the street car

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i met jesus on the street car

It started as a normal Saturday date. Naomi’s parents were in town, and around 2 p.m., they offered to watch the kids so we could sneak away for a few hours. No plans, no agenda. We just knew we wanted to ride the St. Charles streetcar. Something slow, scenic, peaceful. A rhythm we’ve come to love.

We were waiting at the stop when I saw him, cardboard sign in hand, asking passing cars for change. His name was Jeffery. I don’t remember what was written on the sign. I just remember the nudge. The unmistakable, heart-stirring kind. The kind that’s not from me. It was the Holy Spirit, saying: Go talk to him. Ask him his name. Hear his story.

So I did.

Jeffery was from Virginia. He had family back home. He wasn’t sure how he ended up in New Orleans, just that he was waiting for some checks to clear, hoping that would change things. I asked if he’d ever been to Café Du Monde. He hadn’t. I said, “You’ve gotta try a beignet...come with us.” He smiled and said yes.

While we waited for the streetcar, we talked more. I asked him if he knew Jesus. He looked me straight in the eyes and said, “I believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”

That’s when it hit me. The judgment I hadn’t realized I was carrying melted under the weight of that confession. Jeffery wasn’t just a stranger on the street...he was my brother in Christ. Houseless, yes. Struggling, sure. But redeemed. And suddenly, the roles felt reversed. He wasn’t the one being helped. I was the one being taught.

As the streetcar arrived, we stood in the back, me, Naomi, and Jeffery, shoulder to shoulder. The Holy Spirit whispered again, “This man’s lifestyle looks more like mine than yours ever has.”

Jesus wandered. He didn’t own a home. He slept under stars and in borrowed spaces. And yet, He lacked nothing. When He said, “Whatever you’ve done for the least of these, you’ve done for me,” He meant it. I saw it. Right there in the reflection of Jeffery’s eyes.

After our ride, we ended up at Subway. I bought Jeffery a footlong Philly cheesesteak and we sat to eat together. While there, we met Patel, an Indian man with limited English and a deep well of kindness. We spoke through Google Translate about heartbreak, family, and faith. But that’s a story for another time.

The next day, we stumbled upon a prayer procession near Fern and Carrollton, a hundred voices softly chanting as they walked. We joined them. No big production. No hype. Just a quiet plea for the return of Christ. After the march, we slipped into the back row of Sacred Heart Church and stayed as the elders sang songs of hope and healing.

As we got up to leave, I noticed a statue in the back (pictured below): a priest handing bread to a beggar. In the priest’s arms was a child carrying a basket full of bread, his hand stretched toward the priest, as if praying. It felt like God was signing the lesson in permanent ink. Be the daily bread. Not just filled by Jesus,but formed into something nourishing for others. 

This weekend wrecked me...in the best way. God showed me that the Kingdom isn’t always in church services or strategy meetings. It’s in conversations. It’s in eye contact. It’s in Philly cheesesteaks and streetcars and sacred interruptions.

I thought I was meeting Jeffery. But really, I met Jesus.

And I’ll never be the same.