Many friends I’ve made on the streets have come and gone, facing frequent sweeps from their camps or running into trouble with neighbors causing them to pack up and leave a spot.

The notebook I take to prayer is full of names I’ve written down after a day of street ministry, along with their prayer requests. I know I will likely not be given the chance to see how those prayers are answered; every holy hour is a reminder to trust in the faithfulness and wisdom of God.

Maybe that uncertainty in street ministry is part of why I’ve come to value our lunches by the Hawthorne Bridge. I know I can be sure to see Robert’s shy smile, or Penny’s wave, rounding the corner of Naito on a Thursday at noon.

Buoyed by the joy of lunch by the bridge, I was trying to offer myself as a listening ear, to support those in need, but at an emotional and spiritual distance. I wasn’t really offering myself--the struggles I was going through, times where I lacked courage or hope. Still, I had the sense that how I got through challenges (prayer!) provided a necessary witness, both to believers and to those on the fence--even the proudly self-professed atheists. I began telling people how I was really doing, in hopes that we could share something deeper than the “Alright” or “I’ve been better, but I’ve also been worse” that are common responses to “How are you?” It was the first time I’ve told people about the times I had cast my worries onto the Lord (not every time I struggled!) and about the fruit that doing so had brought.

Through this new practice of mine, one regular, Merle, became a friend in a way I had never expected coming into the mission year. I’d heard Merle say he knew about creation, and all the rest of the Sunday school curriculum, but it was through talking to him about my own prayers and struggles that I realized that faith was indispensable for him, too.

One day, I told him I was having trouble letting God heal me of something He had brought up on a retreat. My own faith grew stronger, and my doubts were pushed to the side, as he exhorted me to let the Lord into my heart, a phrase he struggled to express, choking up as if it came from the depths of his own heart. If Merle, who has been through all of the suffering that the world and the devil can throw at one man, has this advice as his only piece of wisdom to offer, who am I to doubt it?

My friendship with Merle isn’t a conversion story like some of our other friends; it’s a testament to the mutual encouragement of believers. I’ve shared my own experiences with individuals whom I thought I had nothing to say to, nothing in common with because they were living on the streets and I wasn’t, just a few years ago. I’ve found understanding, love, and the truth of our common humanity, and our common need to allow Jesus to bring things to the light. I’ll always be grateful to Merle for his yes to God--for the way the Lord spoke through him, to me, catching me off guard by having someone who I thought I was there to minister to, minister to me.

Ariel Lewin

Merle's Ministry to Me