I have a friend.
Let’s call him Louis.
Mainly because that’s his name.
I’ve known Louis for about eighteen years.
Ironically, we didn’t meet because we worked together.
At the time, I was the CTO of a financial startup. The company had moved me from Las Vegas to Cleveland, and I spent a lot of time buying computers, networking equipment, and various expensive gadgets using a business account.
Louis worked at Best Buy.
I meet Louis while shopping for equipment one day,
The thing that stood out wasn’t that he knew where the products were.
It was that he actually knew what he was talking about, and if I asked a question he did not know. He gave the best answer possible, “I’m not sure, let me go find out”.
If you’ve ever worked in technology, you know how valuable someone like that is.
He was professional, knowledgeable, and seemed genuinely interested in solving problems instead of just selling products.
Eventually I found myself thinking, “Why is this guy working here?”
So I offered him a job.
Fortunately for both of us, he accepted.
Over the following years I taught him everything I could about coding, networking, APIs, PBX systems, servers, and various forms of digital wizardry.
Today he’s built a successful career of his own, and honestly, watching that happen has been one of the coolest parts of our friendship.
Meanwhile, life has looked a little different on my end recently.
As most of you know, I’m currently homeless. Not the dramatic movie version where sad violin music plays while I stare into the distance. The reality is that I’m living in a Dodge Grand Caravan with a German Shepherd named Loki while trying to save enough money for housing and seminary.
It’s not exactly the chapter I would have written for myself.
Then again, if I had written my own story, I probably would have left out the six heart attacks, seven pulmonary embolisms, and the part where I smashed my finger so hard changing brakes that I temporarily forgot every word in the English language except profanity.
Actually, that’s not true.
I invented several new words that day.
Recently Louis reached out and told me he wanted to help.
Not because I asked.
Not because I started a fundraiser.
Not because I posted a sob story.
He simply saw a friend struggling and decided to do something about it.
Over the course of a few weeks he sent me $1,500 to help me get back on my feet.
Now, before anyone gets the wrong idea, this wasn’t some wealthy billionaire throwing pocket change at a problem. Louis works hard for his money. Every dollar he sent represented hours of his life that he traded for a paycheck.
That’s what makes it meaningful.
Money isn’t paper.
Money is time.
It’s pieces of your life.
When someone gives you money, what they’re really giving you is a portion of their time, effort, and sacrifice.
And that means something.
The funny part is that I was probably more stressed about accepting the help than Louis was about it.
I kept thinking about how quickly I could repay him.
He kept acting like a normal human being while I sat there trying to calculate repayment schedules that nobody had actually requested.
The older I get, the more I realize that receiving help can be harder than giving it.
Pride is funny like that.
We like being the helper.
We don’t always like being the one who needs help.
But sometimes God teaches us humility by putting us in a position where we have to receive what we would gladly give to someone else.
I think that’s one of the lessons I’m learning right now.
And maybe that’s part of why I’m writing this.
Not because of the money.
The money matters, of course. It helps. It buys breathing room. It helps move me one step closer to stable housing, one step closer to seminary, and one step further away from wondering where Loki and I will park tomorrow night.
But the money isn’t really the story.
The story is friendship.
The story is loyalty.
The story is a man who has been part of my life for nearly two decades seeing someone he cares about having a hard season and quietly deciding to help carry the load.
Eighteen years ago, I saw something in Louis and offered him an opportunity.
Eighteen years later, when life got difficult, he reached back and offered me one.
The Bible says:
“A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.”
Proverbs 17:17
I’ve read that verse many times over the years.
Recently I got to watch it walk around wearing a pair of shoes and answering to the name Louis.
So if you’re reading this, Louis, thank you.
Thank you for the help.
Thank you for the friendship.
Thank you for showing up.
And thank you for proving that in a world where people often say, “Let me know if you need anything,” there are still people who actually mean it.
Also, if you’re reading this and feeling inspired to smash your finger with a hammer while changing brakes, I recommend finding another way to grow spiritually.
Trust me on that one.
