When I was about to leave to go on the streets, news was just coming in of a violent attack inside a store that I pass every week when I am downtown. It was no surprise really. If I were to guess which downtown store it was, I would have guessed that it is the one I pass towards the end of the evening, or another that is closer to the beginning of my route. 

I am wary of both when I visit to talk with the people who congregate outside, many of whom are well under the influence of their drugs of choice by the time I arrive. Apart from this news, the rest of the evening was a beautiful warm time for a walk on the streets, and the sunshine and warmth brought many of my friends out to congregate around a church in the neighbourhood that is welcoming to those on the street.  

The special treat of the evening was that a couple who sometimes hand out free sandwiches had parked their car and were surrounded by grateful “customers.” As I moved through the throng, I realized the beautiful evening had brought many old and new friends to the streets, and it developed into a party-like atmosphere as we greeted one another. The only drawback was that a man I have known for a long time, and who already had more than enough drugs for the evening, slipped and fell backwards on the ground.

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“Hey give me a hand up,” he demanded.

I took his hand, only to realize he was about twice my weight. “Dear God, give me the strength,” I thought. Fortunately, I go regularly to a gym and so figured out how to haul him to his feet without breaking my back. “They don’t teach you this in pastoral ministry at the seminary,” I thought to myself.  

I made my way to the side street where outdoor prostitution is prominent, to see if my friends “Red Bag” and her sister were out already. It had been a few weeks since I met them and once again, they were not out. I live in hope that they will manage to find a different “profession” but each time when we chat and I offer help to find housing or employment they decline. I still wonder if they are victims of trafficking even though they have denied it, as victims usually do, for fear of retaliation against them or their families. 

In the distance, I heard the common sound of ambulances and fire trucks heading towards a downtown shelter close to the store where I believed the violence had taken place. I started to make my way in that direction when I was stopped by a man who looked at my clerical collar and said, “Give me something from Jesus.” 

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I started a prayer asking Jesus to look after him and that he find peace on the streets and in his life. Suddenly he interrupted and shouted, “Are you a cop or something?”

“No, I am just praying” I answered. “Praying for you.” 

“Are you sure you are not a cop?” he shouted as he walked away. 

When I finally found my way to the shelter where the fire trucks and ambulances were heading, there were people milling around on the street, many of whom were intensely enjoying their drug of choice. One of them stopped me as I passed, and upon seeing my collar asked, “What are you doing around here?” 

I asked if he knew my friend Chilly who died of an overdose in the doorway close to where we were standing. I come to her doorway every week to pray for her. 

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“That’s so nice” he said. “Yes, I knew her. She was a good lady, so sad about her passing.”

I walked back to my car and on the way passed the fire hydrant where I met my first addict on the street at the beginning of the ministry of the Church on the Street. She had recited a poem she’d written. Some of the words came back to me: “My name is Cocaine, they call me coke for short./ I enter the country without a passport./You’ll start by inhaling me one afternoon/then take me in your veins real soon./I’ll murder your babies or they’ll be born addicted, we’ll be together ’til death us do part./You’ve lost … Cocaine!”