Went to the St. Jo Starbucks again for about the fourth or fifth time, and met up with Phillip of the Fountain Pen again. I first met him and wrote about the strange encounter back here in January. Just as before, he was sitting in the corner and apparently became intrigued by the fact that I was writing.

Tonight, he came over and had written in his journal something like “Greetings. I’m Phillip. I see that you write. Blessings on you. What is your name?” (I’m going to have to paraphrase what was written back and forth this time, because it was all in his journal, and I couldn’t very well ask to take that with me.)

The second I saw that he had written something, I had to smile. I beckoned for his book and pen and wrote, “We’ve met before. My name is Grace.”

He wrote back that he thought he recognized me and we exchanged some pleasantries about the weather (written of course, not said), but he was already putting in references to the Lord’s Grace and things like that, which made me remember that he found great portent in my name. Welllll, I like the name as much as anyone, but seeing as how he was also starting to veer into vague references about his ministry and service, I thought we had better be getting those cards out on the little Starbucks table.

(me) “I’d be glad to think that our meeting was gracious, but I’m just an ordinary woman. What is your ministry?”

(him) “Your appearing is Grace and it is ministry. You are the Living Temple of God. Do you have faith which has substance and do you know this faith?”

Sticky wicket that. I didn’t want to argue against the parts that were actually (lower case O) orthodox, but … well, where to find the sense in it? In the end, I broke it down into bullet points to highlight the different points, which were, in brief:

• Yes. I have faith. As I mentioned to you last time, I’m Orthodox Christian.
• I didn’t mean to say that I’m not made in God’s image, as we all are.
• I just wouldn’t want anyone to think I was some kind of angel.

At about this time, some young men his age who had come into the Starbucks came over and greeted him. I couldn’t quite hear how they knew him, (I was busily writing away, as well as doing a quick surreptitious sketch) but he shook hands with them silently and wrote all his remarks to them on another pad of paper he had. They talked to him once or twice and got written responses, wrote back to him a time or two and then retreated and left. I very much wish there had been an easy way to leave at the same time so I could’ve asked them how they knew Phillip and what was the story. But that didn’t occur to me until later. I mentioned in my bullet list that now he was having to carry on two conversations and that must be hard.

In his response to me, which took some time, he acknowledged my last point by saying something about how there was more joy to be found in increased ministry.

But he also went off into a whole long paragraph about the Faith and the Blood and the Word and the Temple and the Virgin and the Lord, with none of the words having very much of the normal meaning. It was probably the weirdest thing he had written on either visit, and I had to stare at it for a while before I could figure out what I could possibly write in answer to that.

“You have a lot of thoughts and you have a lot of warmth for the faith,” I finally wrote. “Those can be good things, but even with those good things, I’ve seen young people get lost. The Bible is the inspired word of God, but He didn’t mean us to try to interpret it all alone. He didn’t create us to be solitary creatures. In the Orthodox Church, we talk about spiritual fathers — usually a priest. We know that we need a guide. You may need to find someone like that to help you with all your thoughts.”

This last sentiment must’ve pushed some button (for better or for worse), because for the first time, he actually spoke, which was rather a shock. His reply was rather long, very earnest and — unfortunately — quite nutty. He still had his half-smile for a while, but as he threw in his own interpretations of several Bible verses and tossed very meaningful words about in an almost meaningless way, he started to get a little less transcendental-looking. His hands started to shake and I thought he stammered a time or two (which I thought would’ve given a normal explanation to why he preferred to write. But no, it wasn’t that pronounced). It went on and on — something about writing always being worship and God being all kinds of people, places and things. I stopped trying to follow it early on — there didn’t seem like much point, and I didn’t want to get thrown off of the best thing I could think of to say to him.

“It’s a really good thing to think all of these things through,” I said. “I think you have a faith and a zeal that are really good things. But I also think that it’s possible to get lost in those good things and not be able to find your way out. I know how exciting it is to feel like you see how everything works and I know that people can be terribly boring. But you need to find people that you can tell things to, because they may be able to tell you when some things are right, some things have already been said and — this is the hard part — some things are wrong. Since I’m your Grace, that’s what I have to say. It’s time for me to go again. I have to go feed my dog. [Poor Clementine. She was my excuse last time, too.] But I know we’ll meet again.”

I’m not sure why I said that last thing. Believe it or not, he had actually been packing up his stuff toward the end and was making his way out. (Come on, now. When’s the last time anybody got the last word in with a religious fanatic? I rock.) I felt like telling him that one way or another, that wasn’t the end of it.

It was only after I got in the car and headed out myself that my brain started to catch up with me and ask me what the heck I thought I was doing upsetting the world view of someone who was acting rather unbalanced. Well, I hadn’t thought of that at the time. As I felt back in January, I just didn’t see how I could walk away without trying to get some kind of message to whoever was in there loading the fountain pen.

So did I get a message to him? Was I his Grace of God after all, his angel? Who knows? I’ve had complete strangers be angels to me with just a few words. If I could ever be that — even if I employed too many words — I would hope that I’d be up to the task.