MR. JONES

As a graduate student at Vanderbilt University, I parked about a mile from campus because I couldn’t afford the student parking pass. As I walked, I saw a lot of people, local business owners, aspiring music artists, and the many homeless individuals who slept on those lonely streets. One was Jake Jones.

The first time we talked, Jake asked me for spare change, and I told him that I didn’t have any money. I had said the same to others before, somehow convincing myself that if I never carried cash, I was exempt from giving. But this time was different. Something about Jake felt familiar. And so, I stopped to talk with him.

At the end of our conversation, I told him again that I had no money, but this time with regret. Then I asked, “Jake, is there anything else I can do for you?” He looked down for a moment, and then said with a half-laugh, “It sure would be a blessing to have a new pair of shoes.” I’m not sure whether Jake had intentionally cut open the ends of his shoes or if his massive feet had simply burst through them, but there were his long toes hanging out. I asked for his shoe size. “Fifteen, extra wide,” he replied. I told him I would see what I could find. He wrapped his one functioning arm around me, and then said the words he repeated in each of our many meetings: “That is a blessing.”

Several days later, I found Jake on the corner of 19th and Grand, where he spent most of his time. I presented him with a large pair of boots, and he thanked me with a Jake-sized smile. After that, we talked most days, usually for a few minutes, but sometimes much longer. His insights were always profound and witty, but his attitude inspired me most. Despite his circumstances, Jake was forever an optimist and saw the good in everyone. For him, life truly was a blessing. As time passed, Jake became more than a frequent conversation partner. He was my friend.

We invited Jake to Thanksgiving dinner that year. He devoured turkey, watched football with me, and played outside with our kids. Afterward, when I drove him back to downtown Nashville, it broke my heart. I grew increasingly concerned as the winter progressed. Physical and mental disabilities made sustained employment nearly impossible. And, as Jake once explained to me, “You need an address to get a job, and a job to get an address.” As a graduate student with three children, our own finances were tight. But somehow, by God’s grace, there was always money at the end of the month to help our friend stay in a nearby boarding house. Looking back, the numbers don’t add up. But, by some miracle, Jake stayed warm that winter.

As we prepared to leave Nashville, my conversations with Jake grew longer. I knew how much I would miss him, and I worried about his future. He assured me that everything would be fine, and I tried hard to believe him. During our last weeks together, Jake confessed his desire for an online presence. “If I could just get my ideas online,” he said, “maybe I could help people.” At the time, internet access was an unlikely dream, so I bought Jake a tape recorder and a pack of blank cassette tapes as a good-bye gift. I told him to fill the tapes with his story, and when I came back the following year for my dissertation defense, I would collect those tapes, transcribe them, and post his words on the web. I did return as promised, but despite multiple searches, I never found Jake. I still don’t know what happened to him, but I pray he is well. The world may never know Jake Jones, but he changed my life. I love you, Jake, wherever you are. You, my friend, are a blessing. Photo by Myriams-Fotos