The first thing I noticed was that the guy was drunk. He's 45 years old now and obviously has not overcome his problems. I met this man when he was 13 years old. He was sent to me by his mother, who felt he needed a friend after a close relative had died in prison.

He came willingly, glib and happy to be in my presence. We talked and we listened. It was a good relationship. I thought I had him on the way to the good life when he moved out of town at the age of 14.

I remember shaking his hand the last time I saw him and probably offering some kind of weak advice. Then 31 years later he called me on a Sunday afternoon and wanted to talk about his messed-up life.

He said he was looking for a miracle, and he knew Jesus could give him that special push into mental health.

"I'm just waiting for Jesus to give me that miracle 'cause I can't do it myself," he said.

We chatted for a while and when I began to press him to take some action himself, he hung up the phone with a jolt.

So I shook off the conversation and went back to my Sunday pleasures. But his memory clung to me all day. I dreamed about him that night and first thing in the morning woke up thinking about that relationship.

I remembered what he said at the end of our brief chat: "All I'm asking is for a handshake and a hello. And you want me to pull myself up by the bootstraps. I've got two pair of shoes, and they've both got bootstraps, and none of them work."

My problem was that, even as we talked, I knew there was absolutely nothing I could do for this man because he was not willing to do good work for himself. I had no capacity for saving him. He had no desire to be saved. I failed him. And he failed himself.

There were no winners in this game of life. So during the Easter season, how do we deal with our failures?

Obviously, this was one doozy that would follow me for a while and haunt me at unlikely times. That's the problem with dealing with people. They often don't let us forget that we have failed them, over and over again.

But I remind myself that I have also had successful relationships. I remember the students I taught and how tough it was to leave them at the end of the year. I remember how they came back to see me and would sit with me during church.

One young man by the name of Mike came to the school where I taught through the courts. He came to live with his grandmother after several months in juvenile detention and many years of neglect.

The first day was the toughest for Mike. He was short but tough, and when a bigger boy on the playground began to tease him, Mike carefully pulled a 3-foot chain from his pocket and began whipping his opponent, literally bringing the boy to his knees, screaming. For weeks he sat with his brown-bag lunch on the corner of his desk, and if someone got too close to his food, he would reach out and gently push him away.

Nobody trifled with Mike. But I trusted him, and I told him the only way he could get in trouble with me was to break that trust. He knew exactly what I meant, and through that entire year, aside from that first playground fight, Mike was a model student. The people in the classroom gave him an opportunity to be a normal guy, and he accepted joyfully. He knew what he had - a normal life. And he lived it gratefully.

The theological truth was, Mike had been resurrected from a dark life of neglect and distrust to a new existence in the light of love and trust. So how do some people let darkness smother them while others throw it off and gather in the light? That is a question that has plagued caregivers for centuries.

And there are no answers. The best we can do is give ourselves away and pray that some great force will assist in the resurrection. Because in every religious experience, it is not miracles that bring resurrection but a deep desire to escape and be saved. And that is not something others can give you. It is the ultimate act of human compassion - a selfish effort that drives us to salvation.

Clark D. Morphew