A generous man will prosper; he who refreshes others will himself be refreshed (Proverbs 11:25).

Paolo had nothing left to give.  Feeling drained was nothing new to him, after six years of working among the homeless, the hungry, the addicted, and anti-social riff-raff of Amsterdam's Red Light District -- but the previous week of interactions left him especially empty.  Every "Hello" was coupled with a plea for help.  Every "How are you?" was really just a lead-in to a request for a couple of bucks or a bite to eat.  Every person wanted something from Paolo and was always clammoring around him, asking, asking, asking for help, for favors.

It came to the point where Paolo found himself shouting inside his head -- internally berating the mission's clientele for their incessant inquiries:  "Yeah, yeah, all right.  I get it.  You've got problems.  Enough already!  We've all got problems!  Can't you just deal with it?!?"  He knew that he shouldn't say these things to the street people who came to the mission looking for help -- so he decided that he needed to take a walk.  He needed to get out of the Red Light District for awhile and clear his head, work out some of the problems in his own mind since it was clear that no one else around him was going to be helping him in this regard.

Paolo put on his denim jacket and slipped out of the door into the mists of Amsterdam.  He walked north, towards the harbor -- no real direction in mind.  As he walked, he prayed and wrestled with the images of destitution in his mind:  the junkie who regularly insulted Paolo even as he poured soup into his bowl and put bread on his plate... the rotten-toothed neighbor who had "borrowed" ten euros from him earlier that morning... the proud and defiant lover-boy who seemed to have no conscience, laughing at his own stories illustrating the depravity of the humanity around him... The more he thought about the faces of his neighbors, the more frustrated he became.  All those hours, all that food, all those euros -- and what had come of it all?  Nothing!  No one ever changed.  They just got older and more stubborn and more destitute.  As Paolo crossed over the bridge to Java Island, he realized that nothing was ever going to change.  Nothing could bring prosperity to Amsterdam's Red Light District.  No amount of idealism or servitude or sacrifice or generosity could change that.  It was all so clear to him now... and so depressing.

The urban landscape became increasingly angular and open, newer buildings of architectural austerity and brilliance stretching out from the Java Island across to the KNSM Island.  The sky hovered low, heavy, and dark.  The empty, gray waters beyond the end of the KNSM Island rocked back and forth like the pain and frustration in Paolo's heart.  He looked out over the water and realized that the waves never stopped, never settled.  They were chillingly cold and consistent, and there was nothing that Paolo could do about it.  He rounded the end of the island and started towards the Zeeburg neighborhood.  A tall, red, serpentine foot-bridge rose up, up, impossibly high in front of him, between the fingers of land, out over the water.  Paolo climbed the bridge with heavy feet and a heavy feeling in his soul.  At the top of the bridge, he stopped and looked out over the city splayed off to the south.  He could see the tower of the Oude Kerk, right next to the mission in the heart of the Red Light District.  Down below him, the waters rolled and roiled.  He wondered what it might feel like to jump off the bridge, out into the water.

And then he heard a voice.  "Paolo?"

He spun around, surprised to hear his name in this place so far from his home.  Ten feet away from him, a man stood in a long trench-coat and a familiar look on his face.  Paolo felt a flicker of recognition, but he could not place it.  "I'm sorry..." he started to say.

"Do you remember?" the man said, smiling.  "It's me: Dennis.  You helped me get cleaned up, back in '06.  You helped get me my life back."  He held out a hand to greet Paolo.

The realization dawned on Paolo slowly, like a long, low barge passing across the harbor.  He had only known Dennis for a month or two, several years previously.  He had served him dinner at the Tuesday evening open-houses and had eventually encouraged the grizzled addict to seek help through Alcoholics Anonymous.  He hadn't come around for the mission for long before he simply disappeared.  Paolo had never thought much of it, since the street people often came and went.  But here, standing in front of him on the tall red footbridge was a transformed version of the old Dennis.  Well-kept, clearly sober, smiling and reaching out to embrace his trembling hand.  "Dennis?  Could that really be you?"

"Yes, it's me, Paolo."  Dennis dug his left hand into his pocket and pulled out a smooth, brown, leather wallet.  "You know, Paolo, I think I owe you some money.  Do you remember how you gave me that 10 euros and a strippenkaart, so I could make it to the AA meetings?"

Paolo did not remember, but he simply smiled.

"I want to pay you back.  But all I have is a 50.  You can keep it.  Paying you back with interest."  Dennis tilted the wallet to his forehead, as if in salute, and then returned the billfold back to his pocket.  "Say, would you like to come to my house for dinner tonight?  I just got some fresh fish at the market today, and I would be honored to have you as my guest.  I live just around the corner here, on the island.  It would be nice to pay you back for all of those dinners at the mission, too.  A lot has happened over the last few years."

Paolo looked down at the water below him and then back at this old acquaintance from the past.  He nodded his head at Dennis, wordlessly accepting the invitation to dinner.  Together, they walked back down the steps, back onto the island, and back into the hope of deliverance.