It was many years ago, and I cannot remember where I read it, but I wrote it down on a tattered piece of paper, which I just came across the other day. The author wrote, “We have to listen to our experiences and tell our stories. This is the Gospel. But try to make sure that you get the story right, you are not the hero or the heroine, the poor are, and God is.” 

It’s a sobering reminder to all who hear a call to ministry and stand in front of the Lord to say, “Here I am Lord, send me.” 

I thought of this as I pulled my jacket a little tighter around me while wishing I had put on four layers of clothing rather than three on such a chilly evening. I was walking through Allen Gardens, a park in the midst of the city, when I saw a Muslim man sitting on a bench with his arms outstretched, meditating. When he saw me approaching, he looked up and softly said, “God give us peace tonight.” 

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“Yes”, I replied, “Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.” Exhaling with a long sigh, he responded, “Yes.” 

I continued on my usual route which took me to the more violent part of the city, and suddenly I heard nearby, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG; the sound of four gunshots. I was approaching a small four-shop plaza which is known for violence, and so I crossed to see if the shots had come from there. When I got there, the occupants were just standing around shouting as usual as if nothing had happened. 

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I crossed the street again, to check on another building, which through the years has gained such a reputation for violence that it is simply known on the street by its address, “Seven, fifty-one”. The commotion became obvious, the apartment was awash with police cars and officers were entering and exiting with rifles in their hands. I walked up, and as I passed I nodded to the one of the police officers. I know enough not to ask a police officer on duty, “What happened.” 

I counted 17 police cars and an ambulance. Next morning I scoured the media to see what had happened, but it did not seem to have made the news. Just another night in the neighbourhood, I guess. My next stop was several blocks away where I was hoping to meet the lady I have mentioned a few times in these articles. She is the one from Uganda who ignored me for many months but has since warmed up to my presence. I met her coming out of a dark laneway on my way to her usual street corner, and I assume she had just left a client. We walked towards her corner together and for some reason she was more relaxed and talkative than she ever has been over the couple of years I have known her. 

I asked if she contacts her family in Uganda, and she said she calls them every weekend and they are doing well. I took the risk of asking her if they knew what she does in the city, and she smiled and said, “Oh, no they don’t know that. I am hoping to go back home to Uganda in the summer if I can get enough money. 

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I said “Goodnight” to her and, as I always do, made a stop at the doorway where my friend Chilli died a few months ago. I said my usual prayer to her to continue to guide me to those who need help on these streets that she knows so much better than I do. I then made my way home via the intersection that is the most violent in the city. 

As I approached, I could hear incoherent shouting in the distance. As I walked by a lady looked at me, took my hand in hers and said, “I’m so sorry for shouting. I’m so sorry. Oh, look at you, your eyes are watering from the cold.” With that she held out a tissue and said, “Here wipe your eyes with this. Please be safe on these streets.” It was a moment of tenderness from a young street addict in the midst of a violent evening that once again reminded me: “You are not the hero or the heroine, the poor are, and God is.”