When I was a teenager I spent two summers and a week of winter with a missions organization building houses in Piedras Negras, Mexico, where I met Michael Jarrett, a 30-year-old nomad.

Michael looked ragged, but warm and welcoming.  He could have stepped right out of a sepia- toned photograph. His sandy tone matched his gritty texture.  His  construction worker bronze skin blended right in with his hair, which stood  only about half an inch from his scalp, texturized with grit and oil.  Two small, intense eyes peered out from the deep shelf beneath his forehead, like beads of glistening pine sap.  The face around them was weathered and sand-papery, the good kind of rough, like a cat’s tongue. Even his clothes, thrift store t-shirts and Wrangler jeans stiff with the build-up of dirt and sawdust, matched his monochromatic tone.  Michael always smelled dusty and sweaty—the good kind of sweaty—organic, earthy, real.  He sometimes wore amber-lensed Aviators, and through those amber lenses, he beheld his amber world; he was all amber, all honey-warm, soft glowing, step-into-the-sunlight amber.  Even his voice was amber.  His words were molasses, slow, calm, southern-drawl, music-to-my-ears, light of the world amber molasses.  I floated in his words, thick and slow and restful.

He talked to me like I mattered, like I was a real person.  I was only a child, but he was gracious, quick to forgive my childishness, patient and gentle.  He talked to me about all sorts of things, some I understood, and some that I admitted went over my head.  And he listened to me, too.  I felt comfortable talking to him and saying what I really felt and thought, even if it sounded a little silly, or the words were a little flowery.  He listened with patience and interest, and he gave my thoughts credit, didn’t write my ideas off.  He made me feel so alive, so thrilled to be alive, so valuable.  I just wanted to sit there, wherever he was, and be with him forever, basking in the golden, honey, Aslan warmth of his amber glow.

Sometimes I wondered if he was Jesus, and I even told him that once.  He laughed and told me, no, he was really nothing like Jesus.  But he was the closest resemblance I’d come across.

Sometimes Michael teased me, and I teased him back, but he was tender and kind, and knew when to stop, knew I was sensitive, and treated me gently.  He humored me by spending time with me, sitting on the porch, just swinging our legs, eating cinnamon Pop Tarts.  He greeted me in the mornings in his molasses drawl and called me Mare.  He included me in things, let me get hamburgers and glass-bottled cokes with him late at night, shared a plate of goat-meat at the market with me one Sunday.  He talked to me about our journeys here on earth, where they took us and what they meant.  We talked about Jesus, the way he really was, without all the religion.  Mostly we talked about light.  He taught me that God is light; in him there is no darkness at all, that in God’s light we see light.

On my birthday, we all went on a joy ride to a neighboring town.  Michael named it the M.A.P. Sunset Cruise in my honor, and boy, did I feel adored.  On the way back to Piedras I rode in the back of his Jeep, the cool night wind blowing my hair behind me, and honey warm, amber thoughts flooding my mind.  Michael was a joy to be around, just his presence.  He put me at ease and made me feel warm and relaxed.  I could just sit with him, with my unshaven legs and paint-stained clothes, and be me, plain and simple.  Just me, stripped down, unwashed hair, sunburned face, and I felt simply radiant around him.  Just like a child of God, child of light—amber light—loved, accepted, cherished.

I’ve never felt very close to Jesus.  I know God.  I know he’s good, he made me, and he loves me.  I know the Holy Spirit.  I have felt him move, warm me in his light, just hold me.  But Jesus, he’s always been kind of a stranger.  I know Michael Jarret, though—honey-warm, amber-light, child of God Michael Jarrett, and he’s the closest to Jesus I’ve ever come.