My friend Jay is happy to see me. His chest wound has healed, and he is feeling better than usual. I helped him sign up for a primary care physician with Public Health and he has been visiting the clinic regularly. Antibiotics, fresh dressings, prayer, and persistence prevented infection and saved his life. While Jay’s health is on the mend, he still has to deal with the stress and isolation of the street. The city has been aggressively sweeping encampments, causing more people to try and move into his spot by the freeway. He has spent the last two days keeping other homeless people from becoming his neighbor.

 When is enough a enough? How much can one person take? This is the question Tammy asks me after I offer her a pair of socks. She moved here from Georgia, had all of her belongings stolen, and can’t work without a state ID. While were talking she begins to cry. I gently suggest that she might be feeling exhausted and tired. She seems relieved that I am able to help articulate her pain and give words to her experience. We hold hands and pray. When were done praying she asks me to pray for her friend whose thirteen-year-old daughter died. We are by a busy bus stop, and I can’t hear all the details of her death. I am not sure if I am being invited to pray now or later. I turn and walk about ten feet down the street when everyone starts yelling at me. “Hey pastor, can you come and pray for my friend? His thirteen-year-old daughter died.” I walk back, feeling literally led by the Spirit. We all hold hands and gather around the grieving Father. He is hunched over and sobbing. As I begin to pray, people stop and join the gathering, enlarging the prayer circle and the kingdom of God. It’s times like these when the voice of the Spirit speaks loudly, creatively addressing deep unspoken needs. The Spirit of the living God prays for all of our children. The things that kids experience that my generation never had to deal with. There are prayerful groans of grief and positive affirmations of God’s care and goodness that arise from the group that has gathered. Amen, in the name of Jesus. When the prayer is concluded, a young woman named Theresa gives me a huge hug. Thanking me through tears for a beautiful prayer, she tells me how great it is that me and the volunteers from Operation Nightwatch come out on the street to see them. She gives me another huge hug and tells me to be safe.

We walk down to the park and find a man passed out with beer cans both empty and unopened strewn all around him. He doesn’t have a coat on and is shivering. We try and wake him, but he won’t budge. He is on his side and breathing, so we give him an emergency blanket and decide to come back with a sleeping bag and check on him later. When we return, we call 911. The fire and police department come and wake him up. The EMT rolls him over and sarcastically tells me that he’s not dead. The medics tell him that people were worried about him and that’s why we are all standing there trying to wake him up. The man sits up, says his name, and apologizes profusely. He tells me at least a dozen times that he is sorry and that he didn’t want anyone to be worried. I tell him that we are worried and that I don’t want him to freeze to death. He agrees to go to the sobering center, but they’re closed because of bed bugs. The detox van driver offers to take him to the emergency room where he can sit in the lobby. He agrees and is inside and safe for the night.

When I get back to Nightwatch, I run into one of our senior residents who tells me he has a present for me. He runs upstairs to his room and returns with a smile and a gift. He hands me a cross with a picture of Father Oscar Romero on it that was blessed by a priest in El Salvadore. Surrounded by folks trying to get a meal before the Nightwatch kitchen closes, we hug and pray.

Michael Cox