“Brother? Hey brother!” The woman calls me as I walk down Likana Lane. I hardly listen because I’m trying to find a parking spot for our car, and she’s clearly a person without a home – actually one without flipflops even.
But it’s the second time she’s trying to talk to me so again I stop and turn to listen and try to have a conversation.
She shows me her necklace: beads and a hand-woven thread, and it looks nice. “I make the threads myself,” she says as she also shows me her ankle bracelets. No shoes, I think.
She grabs my hand and I squeeze back a little to let her know that it’s ok, that I notice she’s there and I don’t reject her.
“Pray for me brother” and I merely respond “Yes, I will” while I think that she must’ve asked that many times before.
I recall some statistics – that when girls are on the street for a few weeks, it’s virtually impossible for them to re-integrate into society. Partly because of the abuse they’re going through on the street, and partly because what caused them moving to the streets in the first place.
I don’t ask her name and I don’t ask any questions – I just feel sorry for her, and a little for myself because there is no parking spot.
And so I let an opportunity for pointing to lasting hope go by.
But a promise is a promise, so I’ve been praying for this girl without a name, feeling somewhat sad that I did not make more of the situation. And it leads me to be more careful – to listen more intently to what God is whispering to me.
Thinking back now as I write this cements this even more. So did I fail? Yes, but as long as there’s the little seed of growth, you only fail a little.