He smelled of urine, rotting teeth, body odor and bad booze. It was my first visit to New Orleans, and I had come in hopes of landing a big account for our production company. My hotel room had a balcony overlooking Bourbon Street, and the music and revelry below had provided less than a restful sleep.

Most of the previous day was spent sightseeing, riding a horse-drawn carriage through the historic French Quarter, and wining and dining—well actually, soft-drink and dining our potential client at the famous Antoine's Restaurant, host of stars, princesses and presidents since 1840. My flight didn't leave until late afternoon, so I had most of the day to kill.

I'm a walker—not for exercise mind you, for the experience. When visiting a city like Amsterdam, Seattle, Harlem, London, Mumbai, Bangkok or New Orleans, I like to walk its streets. So I walked down Bourbon Street, past the "dens of iniquity" along the way to Jackson Square.

Eventually, the narrow street opened up to a beautiful park with gardens, park benches and the familiar Spanish moss hanging from the ancient oaks. At the southeast corner of the Square I saw the famous Café Du Monde. I learned about their incredible beignets from our client and decided to try them out. Brought by the Acadians, these Louisiana doughnuts are fried fritters covered with powdered sugar and served three at a time. They were everything I had been promised and, as I recall, I had two orders with plenty of café au lait to complement them.

Feeling quite full and a bit decadent, I made my way out onto the Square to soak in the warm rays streaming through the trees under the crisp, blue October sky. That's when I met John. I was taking in the scene, complete with artists and street performers, when I sensed someone approaching out of the corner of my eye. Wearing several layers of clothing that had obviously been lived in for years, he staggered up to me with out-stretched hand, "Scuze me sah, cou' ju phpare me a couple o' bucks?"

Have you ever been face-to-face, eye-to-eye, odor-to-odor with someone like John? I was captivated by his eyes—steely-grey on bloodshot.

"Hi, my name is Gary. What's yours?" I extended my hand to shake his. I could feel the tacky, grimy layers of his hard life.

"John ... John Turner," he replied with a smile that gave evidence to what I had sensed. For the next two-and-a-half hours John told me his story.

It was a proud story of yesteryear. He took me up to the levy for a view of the shipping highway. John worked the barges for many years, but now he was unemployed. His story staggered between lucid moments and giddiness, as though mimicking the way he walked. John was easily side-tracked and would often go off on a tangent, railing against people who had done him wrong. Between the asides, I learned much about the Mississippi River and how to work a barge. There were stories of disasters and near misses and how hard the work was. John was proud that it was hard.

We walked back down to the Square, and we found a couple of his friends sitting on a park bench. We joined them. One had dozed off and the other felt like singing—so we joined in. John took a hit off his friend's brown-bagged bottle, and in his kindness and generosity offered one to me. "No, thank you, John," I said with genuine appreciation for the gesture. "Can I get you something to eat?" He smiled a nod as he drifted into song.

I walked over to a nearby restaurant and ordered his only meal of the day—maybe the week. I brought my simple offering to John who took it graciously and set it on the bench beside him. I knew it was time to catch my plane, and I hated to leave.

"I really enjoyed meeting you, John. Thank you for sharing your story with me. I've got to go now, but here's my card. If you're ever in South Florida give me a call." I put my hand on his shoulder and offered a prayer of God's blessing in his life. John seemed grateful. By the time I left he'd had enough hits on the bottle to have entered his temporary world without pain and was only slightly aware of my departure.

I walked back to the hotel, got my bags and made my way to the airport. I couldn't get John out of my mind. I thought of John's hopes and dreams—all the plans he had for a better tomorrow. Yet even as John shared them with me, I sensed he knew his tomorrow would be the same as today. As the plane circled toward the Gulf, I looked down on Jackson Square and realized I had met Jesus today.

God gave me a special gift on that crisp, sunny morning in New Orleans nearly 30 years ago. I experienced God's compassion for John.

Within a few months I was back in New Orleans working with the video crew for the General Conference Session. Several times that week I wandered around Jackson Square looking for John, but never found him. I've never been back to New Orleans and John never called, but he's been in my heart and on my mind ever since. I wonder if he ever fulfilled his dream, if he's still alive. I wonder about Hurricane Katrina. Every time I see someone in circumstances like John, I think of him. And so I continue to pray God's blessing into his life.

One day, I hope to see John again. If not in this life, then in Heaven. If he's there, I'm sure it won't be because of anything I said or did that morning. It will be because God did a miracle in his life. God did a miracle in my life. He put John in my heart.

Gary Burns is the communication director of the Lake Union Conference.