Some friendships begin in the most unexpected ways. Mine with Matthew started with a simple cry for help—one that would change both of our lives.
One Saturday last October I was helping some folks from my church move a woman from one apartment to another. As I carried a box to the elevator, I suddenly heard a voice calling out for assistance. Rounding a corner, I saw a thin man, frail and struggling, peeking out from the slightly ajar door of his apartment. He was on his hands and knees, barely able to lift himself up.
“Can you grab my debit card from the mailbox downstairs?” he asked.
This seemed like an odd request. Something about the way he spoke told me this was more than just an errand. “Are you okay?” I asked.
“I haven’t eaten or had anything to drink in days,” he admitted.
Concerned, I called for an ambulance, and when the paramedics arrived, they persuaded Matt to let them inside. His apartment was in terrible shape—rotten food, dirt, debris, and cockroaches everywhere. It was clear that Matt had been struggling for a long time.
As they lifted Matt onto a stretcher, I felt a deep, unshakable compulsion to go with him—this was a matter of life and death. I asked Matt if he wanted me to accompany him to the hospital, and he said yes. The medics warned me I wouldn’t be allowed past the waiting room since I wasn’t family, but I went anyway.
To my surprise, the hospital staff let me in to see him, and that was the beginning of our friendship.
Getting to know Matt
Over the next few weeks, while Matt remained in the hospital, I visited often. Little by little, he opened up about his life—his childhood in England, his estrangement from his family, his love for travel, and his passion for car races and rallies, particularly the Gumball 3000. He was also convinced that he was Instagram friends with Prince Harry, something he told me with absolute certainty.
On one of my first visits, I brought Matt some fruit punch. When he took the first sip, his face lit up. “I love fruit punch,” he said. It became our thing—I made sure to bring him some whenever I visited.
Despite his declining health, Matt had big dreams. He talked about going to Las Vegas for an F1 race, though I knew his body wasn’t up for the journey. And yet, Matt was determined. Against medical advice, he checked himself out of the hospital and made his way to Vegas. The trip, unsurprisingly, did not go as planned. He wasn’t allowed into the stadium, and on the long bus ride home, his medical condition worsened. Not long after, the hospital called me again.
Matt had named me as his healthcare proxy.
I was surprised—but honored. He needed someone to make medical decisions on his behalf should he become unable to do so himself. Without hesitation, I agreed.
Walking the road together
Over the following months, I did what I could to support Matt. He struggled with basic needs—keeping up with hygiene, maintaining his apartment, even eating and drinking regularly. His mental disabilities and mobility challenges made daily life incredibly difficult. Matt kept himself almost completely isolated, and though he often resisted help, I did my best to keep showing up. I sensed the hand of God in my relationship with Matt, and I was eager to be part of this unexpected holy story.
On Christmas Day, I brought him some treats and, of course, fruit punch. We talked about the meaning of Christmas, the birth of Jesus. I asked if I could pray with him, and he said yes, asking me to place my hand on his wrist. Through tears, he told me he hadn’t had human contact in a long time. That moment broke me. The power of simple touch, something most of us take for granted, meant the world to him. I squeezed his wrist gently, praying that he would know that he was seen, that he was loved—not just by me, but by God Himself. I encouraged him to pray too—to reach out and find that God was with him in his struggle.
Caring for Matt involved more than just friendship—it required a lot of advocacy. I spent many hours speaking with doctors, nurses, social workers, and other healthcare providers, working to get him the support he needed to live a healthier life. It was incredibly challenging. In addition to Matt’s resistance to help, he wasn’t eligible for many of the services he needed, and there was an overwhelming amount of red tape for those he could access. The system largely failed Matt. He fell through the cracks, and despite my best efforts, I often felt frustrated with the obstacles to getting him the resources he truly needed.
Matt’s health continued to decline. One afternoon, the doctors called to tell me that his stage four cancer had spread throughout his body and there was nothing more they could do. My heart sank. Matt didn’t want to talk about dying. He was anxious, afraid. But I continued to pray with him, reminding him that he wasn’t facing this alone.
Matt was transferred to Hospice and his condition deteriorated quickly. He wouldn’t eat or drink, and he wasn’t able to speak or understand things clearly. About a week into his stay, my wife and I visited him. He was more alert than expected. He drank some fruit punch and ate a little toast. I told him how grateful I was to have known him. I told him that he didn’t have much time left, and I encouraged him to open his heart to God, who was waiting to receive him.
Four hours later, I got the call. Matt was gone.
“The least of these” and the greatest encounter
Throughout my friendship with Matt, many people told me I was a Good Samaritan—so generous, so selfless. But I don’t agree. I wasn’t just being kind; I was compelled by God’s Spirit to walk with him. And I was honored and excited to do so.
I met Jesus in Matthew.
Jesus once told a parable in which his servants ask, “Lord, when did we see You hungry and feed You, or thirsty and give You something to drink?…When did we see You sick or in prison and visit You?” And the King replies, “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for Me” (see Matthew 25:31-46).
I didn’t set out to do something extraordinary. I didn’t know, at first, that in caring for Matt, I was serving Jesus Himself. But in every moment of struggle, in every sip of fruit punch, in every conversation, the veil between heaven and earth became really thin. I saw Christ in someone the world had overlooked, and I am a better person for having known him.
Matt was not forgotten in his final days. He was not alone. And I will always be grateful to have been his friend.
So the next time I feel God tugging on my heart to help someone, to meet them where they are and walk with them, I hope I listen and act. I encourage you to do the same. Chances are that lives will be changed for the better, and one of those lives will probably be yours.