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Cathy sat on a bench by the library, smoking a cigarette and clutching a cup of coffee. Tiny, wizened, and perennially distraught, Cathy looked up when I called her name.

Over the past several years I would occasionally see her on my walks. One of my first encounters with her was as she stood near the entrance of my bank. When I exited the building, she asked me for cash. I told her I didn’t hand out money, but I asked if I could take her to Tim Horton’s next door and buy her some breakfast. She agreed.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Cathy,” she replied.

By the counter, I told Cathy to order what she wanted. A female server shook her head when she saw Cathy. Obviously, previous encounters between Cathy and the servers hadn’t gone well.

“I’m paying,” I said.

“Oh, OK.” No smile, no welcome from the employee.

When Cathy’s order had been paid for, I asked, “Would you like me to join you while you eat?”

“N��!”

“OK. See you, then.”

Whenever I saw Cathy after that, I called her by name. Each time, she looked startled. It was one thing I could do for her: say her name and listen to her story, which was always the same treadmill of anger, frustration, and hopelessness.

“There’s no heat in my building,” Cathy complained. “There hasn’t been heat for the last year. And my landlord doesn’t care. And they put in new windows, but the draft still comes through. My worker is going to get me a new place where you can control your own heat.” And on and on.

I’m not sure how often I heard her litany.

I saw Cathy again by the library on a bright, cool autumn day. Bundled up in her winter coat, she struck me as fiercely frustrated, yet achingly vulnerable. So much tension, hurt, mental illness, and physical frailty existed in her tiny frame.

I began our familiar ritual, knowing what to expect—or so I thought.

“Hi, Cathy.”

“There’s no heat in my building. There hasn’t been heat for the last year.” And on and on. But suddenly Cathy changed course.

She glanced at my thin, red mittens, perfect for cool autumn days, not heavy like my winter mittens.

“Those are nice,” she said.

Oh, yes, I like them, too, I thought.

As Cathy looked admiringly at my mittens, I felt a nudge: “Give them to her.” I recognized the Holy Spirit’s prompting.

“You want them?’ I asked.

“Sure!” Cathy exclaimed. “You don’t mind?”

“No,” I answered. Well, I did a bit, but the Holy Spirit’s urging was clear. They were, after all, God’s red mittens. Not mine.

“But do you have another pair?” Cathy asked, all concern now, or so it seemed. She clearly wanted my mittens but didn’t want to be perceived as greedy.

“I do,” I said, handing her the mittens. I had another old pair of thin, red mittens in my gardening toolbox. I could give them a wash and use them. And I thought of the really warm winter mittens my son gave me last year for Christmas. Would I have given those to Cathy if she had asked for them?

Recently I met Cathy again outside the library. She launched into her litany. As she talked, I noticed she wasn’t wearing the red mittens I gave her even though there was a chill in the air. Where were they?

I was wearing my second pair of thin red mittens, washed and reclaimed from my gardening toolbox. But Cathy didn’t ask for them.

As her litany concluded, I wanted to be on my way. “Jesus loves you,” I said. “Do you know that?”

Without hesitation, Cathy smiled broadly and exclaimed, “I’ve been baptized!” I gave her a thumbs-up and walked away.

I don’t know if Cathy still has my red mittens—God’s red mittens, really—or if they’ve been lost. But it doesn’t matter. Despite all appearances, Cathy’s not lost. She’s been found by Jesus, and I’m glad Jesus asked me to help keep Cathy’s hands warm—for a day, or two, or three.