What’s My Name?

“A good name is more desirable than great riches; to be esteemed is better than silver and gold.” (Proverbs 22:1, NIV)

During the first season of CAST, I met a guest named Horace. He was a tall African American man who regularly came to CAST seeking emergency winter shelter from the cold. When I visited the host churches, Horace would greet me with a huge smile, and we would always talk. I believe our meetings were God assigned.

The Lord brought Horace across my path many times. At each church, our conversations slowly but surely gave me glimpses into his world. He told me about the balcony of an abandoned building where he slept. He proudly shared that he had a mattress and plenty of blankets. He smiled every time he told stories about a raccoon he fed. Horace would repeat these stories week after week during the CAST season. I would listen, unsure whether he remembered telling me before or if he simply wanted to engage and did not know what else to say.

As one of the leaders of CAST, I would drop in at host churches to see how things were going and to offer support. One night, as I entered a church, the first person I saw smiling at me was Horace. He covered his name tag with his hand and asked, “What’s my name?”

For a split second, I panicked. I am not good with names. But the Lord is good, and somehow I remembered. I said, “Horace.” He smiled and said, “Don’t ever forget me.”

It was his birthday that night. I remember feeling surprised that Horace and I were the same age, yet he looked fifteen years my senior.

As the weeks went by, Horace’s drinking made him harder to manage within CAST. A man who sometimes hired him to sweep a parking lot during the day paid him with beer. Still, Horace managed to keep himself under control in the shelter. We all tried to help him do so because we wanted him to have a warm place to rest his head.

At times, Horace hinted that he could sing. Not always knowing what to talk about with him, I encouraged him to sing, week after week. One evening during dinner, he announced that he was ready to sing. Right then. Right there.

I hushed the room, and Horace sang a beautiful gospel song in a deep baritone voice. It was stunning. When he finished, you could hear a pin drop. It was one of those rare, sacred moments. Such a voice. Such a gift. Horace seemed embarrassed, yet pleased.

In that moment, I connected to his past. Like all our homeless guests, Horace was someone’s son. Someone’s brother. Someone deeply loved. I believe he was the lost son of a Christian family, carrying memories of church songs from long ago. Now, he was chronically homeless, addicted to alcohol and drugs, and living day to day, hour to hour, simply to survive.

I saw Horace a few more times during the final weeks of winter shelter, always flashing that familiar smile as churches rotated and the number of guests grew.

Months later, I heard rumors that Horace had gotten into trouble and gone to jail. Some said it was to dry out. Others said it was to receive medical care. Eventually, I learned the truth. Horace was sick, and he died.

I still think about his porch. The raccoon. His isolation. His smile. His song.

I remember his words. “What’s my name? Don’t ever forget me.”

I have not.