By: Eugen Oniscu

From the stopped train, people of all kinds stepped down, scattering along the streets that stretched beside the station. Among the last to descend was a man moving with the aid of two crutches. He seemed utterly exhausted from the journey he had just made. His face bore the look of one who had come from far away. In truth, he had only stopped in this town for a short while, intending to leave soon for his sister’s home.

Once, he had been a man full of life, driven by a thirst for wandering that had taken him to many places. But illness had struck him down, and now he was looking for a place to rest. This was not his first time in this city—he had been here before, for he had a distant relative who, he thought, might let him stay a few days. As he stepped down from the train, he realized he was hungry. But he had no money left, so, hobbling slowly with his crutches, he headed toward the marketplace, hoping to beg a little in order to buy something to eat.

He entered the large central square, weary and thirsty, longing to appease both hunger and thirst. Standing at a corner, he began to watch the ever-moving crowd, mumbling a few words while holding out an empty plastic cup. Once, such an act would have shamed him, but now it was merely a sure means of survival. After more than an hour, he sat down on a bench with a bag from which he pulled out a loaf of bread and a few sausages. He ate greedily, then took out a bottle of beer and drank deeply. Afterwards, he rose and set off through the streets, limping and leaning on his crutches. Lately, arthritis had almost brought him to his knees, but he kept fighting, still hoping he might somehow recover.

His face was pale, his washed-out blond hair thinning on top, his blue eyes clouded with fatigue, and his features carved with lines—marks of the endless journeys he had made in his life. He was the very image of a vagabond who had never found a home. He was nearly fifty-eight years old and had been wandering for a long time. And yet, in recent days, despite his desire to roam, he felt he should stop and bring an end to this rootless life.

He walked on in the warm September sunlight that poured generously over the people and buildings of the city. That day seemed to hold a special charm, revealing the beauty of the parks scattered across town.

Once, he had lived a settled life, with a wife and two children. But all that was behind him now—he barely remembered his family and the life he had left somewhere far away. At times, he had severe memory problems: sometimes he could not recall anything, while at other times his mind was clear and sharp. In those lucid moments, he knew exactly where he stood. But after such clarity would come darkness—his mind wrapped in fog, words tumbling from his lips without sense. In those moments, he teetered on the edge of madness. Yet almost always, after such episodes, a ray of light would return to his troubled mind, and he could think almost normally again.

Part of his mental troubles came from blows to the head inflicted by other vagabonds, and once, while drunk, he had fallen and struck his head badly. He had lain in the hospital for quite a while back then. But his troubles were not caused solely by these injuries—there was also heredity. His father had suffered from severe mental illness, and he had inherited it. In his youth, the symptoms had not been pronounced, but with age and his vagrant way of life, they had worsened. A doctor had told him it was the onset of dementia.

At times, he felt as if his mind was travelling through a dark land, his spirit crushed and heavy, his thoughts slow and clouded. Then there were days when everything was clear, and he could discern people and life with perfect clarity.

Though he had no real purpose left in the world and lived only as a wanderer, he still felt he was playing the last role of his life—perhaps the one that suited him best. Deep within his ailing being, there was a fear of God, a firm conviction that somewhere in the vast universe there existed an Almighty Being before whom every mortal must bow in reverence. He respected holy things. Wherever he roamed, he sought out churches, for he knew that there, people might show him mercy. Some churches had charities where he could sleep a few nights. He never stayed long—soon enough, a strange spark would light up in his blue eyes, his whole face would express the longing to set out again, and he would take to the road.

Sometimes he travelled without a ticket and received fines, but what did that matter? Other times, he would slip into a freight train to reach his chosen destination. Yet lately, because of the arthritis, long distances had become hard to manage, and his health was failing. His mental troubles grew more frequent. He had planned that after visiting his relative in this city, he would travel to the other end of the country to his sister’s place, where he had sometimes lived before. He hoped to stay there longer, for he could no longer bear this way of life.

After walking a while, he stopped, frowning in thought. He realized it was Wednesday, and at this hour he could find some believers at a nearby Protestant church, for they held midweek prayer meetings. So he changed direction, hoping to get some food or money. He entered the church, where the service was nearly over, and sat near the door. His clothes were worn, and he smelled of sweat, for it had been a long time since he had bathed or washed his clothes. But such details no longer mattered to him.

Lately, he had begun to understand more and more that he could not go on wandering. That was why he planned to return to his sister, knowing she would scold him for the state he was in, but also that she would let him live in a small kitchen a short distance from her house. He would have to endure the biting remarks of his brother-in-law, but that was no matter. At least he would have a roof over his head. In that city there were several churches of various denominations, with compassionate people, so he could survive for a while.

Oh, if only the arthritis did not torment him and he could walk as before, how different things would be! But as it was, he was just a suffering vagabond. Still, he knew one thing for certain—that he was playing his last role on the great stage of life, and that he was doing so because he had no other choice.

When the sermon ended, the people began to pray, and he joined his heart to theirs. Some approached him, asking who he was and where he came from. Though he had passed through there years before, no one recognized him now—his appearance had changed too much. He disliked such questions and gave evasive answers. Then the pastor approached—a man of about forty, whose face reflected seriousness and Christian zeal. From the first words, Damian sensed he was an educated and intelligent man.

Among other things, the pastor asked:

— What is your name, and where are you from?

— Damian, from Arad, he replied, a little uneasy.

— Have you come here to seek God? If so, we rejoice. Let me tell you that Jesus spent much time with the suffering, healing some and offering others the hope of salvation. He is the Great Benefactor of all the downtrodden. Do you know the good news of salvation?

— Yes, I know who Jesus was and what He did for people. Thank you for reminding me. But I have a role—more precisely, a last role to play among people. And you, as a pastor, what role do you play in society? I ask because I believe you must not limit yourself to serving only within the church walls. Your role as pastor extends far beyond them—you must proclaim the Gospel to all, without discrimination. So I say to you, do not settle into personal comfort; seek out the lost and lead them to Jesus.

— Thank you for your advice. I do my best to bring the Gospel to people from all walks of life. But what is this last role you say you are playing?

— I am like David when he pretended to be insane before Achish, king of Gath—that is my role now. Life has brought me to the point of playing this last role…

— And why did you choose that role? Why not another, nobler example from the Bible, if you wish to draw your inspiration from it? After all, we who follow Jesus, according to the spiritual gifts we have received, each have a role to play in society.

— That is not your concern…

For a few moments, Damian grew agitated. His mind clouded, and he began to speak incoherently. But the confusion did not last long; he recovered, and the pastor said:

— From what I see, you are a man in need of medical care.

— I will not go back to the hospital. I’ve been in psychiatric wards before, and recently I was hospitalized for arthritis, where I was given these crutches. Please, all of you here—help me return to my sister in Arad. I have no money for the train. God will be grateful to you for helping a poor wretch like me.

— Arad is far. You will have to cross almost the whole country by train.

— Please, help me. I feel I can’t go on—this last role has worn me out completely. You love God, so be good Samaritans to me.

— It seems you have read the Bible, for you know some of its words.

— Yes, I believe in God. Please, help me…

The pastor conferred with the church committee about how they might help Damian. After more than half an hour, they decided the wisest course was to buy him a ticket to Arad and see him onto the train. That evening, the pastor, accompanied by an elder, placed Damian on the train. Along with his ticket, he was given a bag of food.

Once the train pulled away and he was alone, Damian realized he had forgotten about the relative he had intended to visit. But it no longer mattered—she had never received him warmly, and always reproached him for his shameful way of life.

He looked into the bag of food and found a Bible. Startled, he took the book in his hands and sat for a while in thought. Memories flooded his mind—long ago, his little daughter had said to him:

— Daddy, do you know the New Testament has a golden verse, and so does the Old Testament?

— No, my dear Felicia, I don’t know which verses those are.

Then, in a pure child’s voice, she recited the verse from John 3:16: “For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.”

— This is the golden verse of the New Testament, and the one in the Old is from Jeremiah 31:3.

He remembered Felicia’s angelic face as she said: “The Lord appeared to me from afar, saying, ‘I have loved you with an everlasting love; therefore I have continued My faithfulness to you.’”

He had shuddered then, feeling the boundless power of God touch his sinful heart. And though he had fallen and done many wrongs since, he had never lost the thought that God loved him as he was—a sinner. “I wonder where Felicia is now?” Like a flash, he recalled visiting her in Arad once, finding her a beautiful married woman with a little boy. Later he had heard she had emigrated with her husband—but to where, he could not remember.

With trembling hands, he opened the Bible and sought out John 3:16. He read and reread it, then read verse 17, which he liked greatly: “For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through Him.”

“Yes, God loves me and does not wish to condemn me, but to save me—it is written here. And now I feel my last role is over. From this day on, I want to be a poor sinner seeking comfort in the arms of Christ. O Lord, have mercy on me, for I am worse than the thief on the cross.”

The train whistled long and low, slowing down—a sign that it was nearing a station. Damian sighed bitterly, gazing from the empty compartment at the station drawing near, and wondered: “Through how many stations have I passed in my life? On how many roads have I travelled?”

In that moment, Damian understood more clearly than ever that it was time to stop, to end the aimless running down the roads of life.