He moved his chair from out of the shade into the sunlight. I guess Malcolm was a little cold. Even though it was beautifully sunny in Houston today, the temperatures were the coldest they have been since all season. Malcolm and three other men had graced the patio of the Emmaus House of Hospitality this morning. Because I was only person available to be with these men today, our policy is that I cannot bring anyone into the house. It’s a safety and propriety issue.

So I spent the next three hours sitting on the patio of our house, in the shade of a little awning out the back door. Sunny as it was, it was a little cool under there, with the temperature being so low and the wind whisking around. So Malcolm took his chair and put in directly in the sunlight. I chatted a little with Patrick, as he played a little with his cell phone he had somehow obtained.

During a lull in conversation, I noticed Malcolm looking a little contemplative and studying the cars passing on the street. I called to him, “What are you thinking about over there?”

It’s a simple question, really. Most of the time, people just say “nothing” or give some other mundane answer. So I didn’t really expect what Malcolm said.

“I was remembering a time when I was little when my dad was beating my mom.”

He paused. I sat up in curiosity.

“I just remember we were all there, me and my four sisters. Dad was hitting mom, over and over, and we were all just yelling. I was yelling, and my two older sisters were screaming. My two younger sisters weren’t yelling – they were too young. But I was three years old.

“I remember thinking, ‘Who does this man think he is, coming into our house and treating mom this way?’ I was so angry at him. I’m still angry at him. He died a year ago back in Louisiana, and I’m still mad.

“Do you think it’s wrong to be angry? I mean, is it a sin? What about hate? Do you think hate and anger are the same thing? Or do you think anger is okay as long as it doesn’t turn into hate?”

I waited to answer. Maybe there was more he had to say. In fact, I was hoping there would be more, because I wasn’t sure how I was going to answer this question.

“I just wish I could go back, as an adult, and stop it. I would have stopped him from doing that. But I can’t. And I was too little then to do anything. I felt so helpless.”

That last sentence really struck me, because I think highly traumatic experiences from our childhood often have a lasting affect on us. And the emotions we feel in those experiences may haunt us forever. So the last thing he said was probably most significant. He felt helpless. Perhaps he still feels helpless. Perhaps he has never been able to overcome his anger with his father. Perhaps he learned that night, when his father was beating his mother, that he is a helpless person. And perhaps it is that helplessness that to this day prevents him from having self-control, and has gotten him stuck in a life of homelessness, drugs, and prostitution.

I said, “I think anger is okay, when it’s anger at something that is unjust. But hate is never okay. And I think even anger at injustice cannot remain anger. We must do something to overcome it.”

A little while later, I asked when was the last time he had talked to his mother, who still lives in Louisiana.

“Oh, about two months. I called after the hurricane to make sure she was okay, but I only got to talk to my sister.”

I went inside the house, and brought out the cordless phone. Right then, sitting out in the cold sun, Malcolm talked to his mother.

I felt as if I was a small part of God’s plan of healing today.