I met Patrick in the spring of 2022. He was sitting by the front door of the Sanctuary, holding a wounded bird. He told me he wasn’t the best at taking care of animals, so he was about to take it to Sow True Seed, the plant store next door. It was warm and sunny, and the rose bushes were blooming. He said his name was Ezekiel, like the visionary prophet. I was going through the last stages of a rough patch that started at the beginning of 2020, a path that had led me to Haywood Street. 

He asked me to touch the bird, so I started caressing it. I hadn’t done that since I was a little girl. «It feels calmer now; I can feel its heart beating slower,» he said. It was a moment of profound connection, that magical instant in which two people are not strangers anymore; they are becoming friends. The bird’s beating heart, the silence, the beautiful light, and two sets of hands holding space for life to unfold.  

Before I left to go to the Welcome Table, he told me: «I never let anyone leave without a blessing. You have the heart, the mind, the soul, and the strength.» That spring, I was experiencing the light at the end of the tunnel after a period of profound growth and transformation. I felt he was an angel, holding the door open for me to enter the next chapter of my life. 

We’ve shared many moments and conversations since then. We discovered that we both love cinnamon, and he continues to surprise me with his poetry, raw beauty, and insights about life and the human soul. Sometimes he’s in his world, and I can’t access it, and that’s OK. Other times, I understand him so deeply that words, medical diagnoses, and even our stories don’t exist anymore. It’s the type of communion I often feel at Haywood Street, a superpower I discovered while working as a companion.

Once, he told me his real name was Patrick R. So, I searched for his family on Facebook and found his mom, Cheryl. We started talking, and I got to know how Patrick became Ezekiel. She’s a beautiful mama, and she so loves Patrick. Whenever I see him, I tell him: «Patrick, you are so loved.» Today, Cheryl calls me her angel. I called her son my angel. A Rabbi once told me that, according to Judaism, we create an angel whenever we do a loving action. So, angels must be human beings sent by God to give us back the love we once gave. We are all angels in disguise, then.

A few weeks ago, I came home to find a package from Cheryl on my front door. She had made a beautiful shawl for me. In the box, there was a grey scarf for Patrick. «Please, give it to him the next time you see him. He doesn’t need to know where it’s coming from.» I carry it in my backpack. I know I’ll see Patrick soon, although I’m not sure he’ll accept it. Every time I’ve tried to give something to him: a water bottle on a blazing hot day, a backpack because his was falling apart, he stopped me: «Don’t give anything to me, leave it at the church; the person who needs it the most will take it, the same way I’ve taken everything I have. It might be me; it might be someone else.» 

«There are many worlds,

There are many languages.

I learn from listening,

I know from silence.

We are preserving the beauty.

The stars are in your hands.

I only get flowers when it rains.

I learned everything from children;

There is only one master here,

And I’m ready to learn.» 

(Patrick)

Written originally for Haywood Street’s December 2022 newsletter.