The Man I Almost Never Stopped For

There was a man I saw almost every day. He wore black from head to toe, so completely covered that the only thing visible were his eyes, staring out from behind a mask. He sat bound to a wheelchair, always alone, always still, planted in a stretch of grass beside the road like he belonged there—or maybe like he didn’t belong anywhere else.

I passed him constantly: on my way to the store, to school, to the gym. I would notice him every time, my curiosity growing heavier with each drive. Who was he? Why was he always there? Yet I never stopped. I was always “too busy,” too distracted, too convinced that whatever I had planned mattered more. Still, there was a quiet tug in the back of my heart, an unshakable sense that I was supposed to talk to him. Every excuse I made sounded reasonable in my head, even as they piled up against that small, persistent pull.

One evening, driving home with my sister, the sky already dark, I saw him again—this time sitting alone in an empty parking lot. Something in me snapped into clarity. Without giving myself time to overthink it, I said, “We’re going to go talk to that man.”

My sister looked at me like I had lost my mind, like we were about to get ourselves killed. But we went anyway.

I called a friend to meet us, as if extra people might make the fear smaller. When we stepped out of the car, my heart was pounding. The man’s back was turned toward us. Every instinct screamed that I should get back in the car and drive away. Instead, I took a breath and spoke.

“Excuse me… hi. My name is Addy. What’s yours?”

And that was how a friendship began. 

At first, he was hesitant. His walls were high and carefully built, and he refused to tell me his real name or anything about the life he had lived before that roadside grass. He rode a scooter everywhere, so he called himself Scooter. Conversation came in fragments, guarded and cautious, like he was bracing himself for disappointment. But after that day, I stopped every time I saw him. At Target. In the field. By the bus stop. In empty parking lots that felt forgotten by the rest of the world. Wherever he was, if I had even a moment, I pulled over. Slowly, the truth of who he was began to unfold. He was broken—deeply so. Alone in a way that felt heavier than solitude. Carrying hurt that had clearly been sitting with him for years.

And yet, he was brilliant.

He understood science and the way the world works better than anyone I had ever met. He spoke with clarity and wonder, with logic and precision. But despite all of that, he did not like God. Because of this, we talked for hours. About creation. About design. About how science doesn’t eliminate a Creator but quietly points toward one. Over time, his resistance softened. He began to agree.

One day, almost casually, he told me something that took my breath away. He hadn’t talked to anyone in ten years: I was the first one.

I’m telling you this story because before Scooter, I had forgotten my purpose, and the purpose of every single person who breathes air: the purpose of sharing the Gospel.

We all have unique opportunities and different ways of doing it, but universally, this is our calling. Think about how you learned the Gospel – someone preached it to you. Maybe it was your mom or dad in a Christian household. Maybe it was a pastor, a friend, or even a random stranger on the side of the road. No matter who it was, someone was brave enough to tell you.

And yet, we are often afraid to do the same.

Afraid of what people will think of us. Afraid because someone looks dangerous or strange. Afraid because we don’t know what to say. But if we don’t speak, then who will?

This is how the Lord softened my heart toward the homeless community and gave me the opportunity to build rich, meaningful friendships—with the homeless who sit outside my gym, with the people we pass by because they look too scary, with those who can’t finish full sentences because of drugs, or who seem too dirty to hug. They are just like you, and just like me.

People often ask me, “How do you talk to them? How do you approach them?”
My answer is simple: the same way you would approach any human being. The same way you would approach a friend, a child of God. You laugh with them. You listen to them. You hug them. You become their friend.

About the Author

Adelaide Stelly is eighteen years old and the daughter of Josh and Melissa Stelly, lead pastors of Turning Point Church. She is currently attending Grand Canyon University pursuing a degree in Behavioral Health Sciences, with a focus on neuroscience and minor in spiritual formation. She loves anything outdoors, from camping and hiking to traveling and all kinds of adventure. Adelaide is passionate about prayer, preaching the Gospel, and her relationship with Jesus.