A few years ago, an unhoused man walked into the patio at a brewery where I worked and sat quietly by the fire pit.

A family nearby got uncomfortable and let me know he “wasn’t a paying customer.”

A few minutes later, he ordered an $8 craft beer, tipped well, and completely changed the way everyone saw him.

Including me.

What started as a strange interaction turned into a ride across Oklahoma City, a motel room, a conversation about disability and survival, and one realization I still think about years later:

People really need poverty to be simple.

Religion says there’s one truth, one way, one path.

And at the same time…

we’ve created BYOS — Build Your Own Spirituality.

“I love Jesus… just not that version.”

At some point, I have to ask:

If we’re not following the rulebook…

what exactly are we following?

So if we understand consent in physical spaces, and we are learning to respect it in emotional spaces, and we honor it even in something as simple as a sign on a door…

Why does it disappear when the topic becomes spiritual?

As a former minister and a current non-believer, I question belief systems often. I remember how I got there. I remember the seeking. I remember wanting to go to heaven. I remember going to funerals and not knowing if I would ever see that person again. I remember what it felt like to care about someone so much that I worried about their eternity.

At some point, the conversation drifts, and I ask him:

“How long have you lived in Texas?”

He goes:

“All my life. I love Texas.”

Which felt like a normal answer at the time.

I said, “You do?”

And this man—without hesitation—rips open his pearl snap shirt…

…and reveals a full chest tattoo of the state of Texas.

It’s strange how you can genuinely miss someone who lived in that space between stranger and friend.

But I do.

I named him Stout later—not just because of his color, but because he was sturdy, solid, something I could lean on without fear of breaking him.

Sometimes we get angry at the consequences because it hurts too much to look at the decisions — or circumstances — that put us there in the first place. Sometimes blame becomes a place to put grief when there’s nowhere else for it to go.