Across The Street
A shiver runs slowly through my body – it doesn’t leave either. The rain is cold: late October in downtown Vancouver and I’m trying to stay positive.
I’m here to pray. What for? Hard to say. The rain falls on my spirit’s candle, weakening its flame.
Darkened windows conceal God knows what inside tall buildings that seem to lean ominously over me.
The need is so great I can hardly stand it. It’s like finding your way through a cavern with a match.
But I pray anyway. Both of us do. We signed up with Breakthrough Prayer and have come faithfully, if not joyfully, every week.
I see a woman across the street. She’s “working” tonight, one of many. She glances our way and then looks off. We both see her and wonder to ourselves, “what are we doing here?” Our prayers seem like debris under the giant wheels of prostitution and drugs that run this city.
“Could you pray for me?”
We both look in the direction of the voice. She’s got one foot in the street, absently holding a signpost and looking at us with less than hopeful eyes. “Er,” I clear my throat and try again, “Yes! You can come pray with us now?” I offer, knowing that crossing the street could get us in serious trouble.
“No,” she quietly responds, “I can’t do that.” Pause. “But, my name’s Angie.”
A name. A soul.
We pray for her: for restoration, for freedom. We are amazed that God has known her and loved her since the beginning of time. In light of that love, our prayers seem small. But we pray all the same.
“May your kingdom come.”
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