It has been a long winter here in the city. Mounds of snow four feet high have bedecked the sidewalks for well over a month. Finally, the warmth of summer was tentatively beginning to tease the end of winter as I walked through the downtown streets. There was a distinct vibrancy on the streets, even in and around the areas of homelessness and addiction. 

I crossed over to a small plaza that is often the arena for dispute resolution among waring parties. It was unusually quiet and as I approached, the man walking towards me shouted out, “Mr. Robert Kinghorn”. 

“Well, well,” I said, “If it isn’t Mr. Robert Kinghorn.” 

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That’s right, there are two of us with the same name walking these streets. We started to reminisce about the first time we met when I invited him up to our house for a meal and to talk to our parish about how he overcame his addiction. As we chatted, he admitted there had been some relapses, but he had come to his senses and the situation with his family was also a lot better now. 

As we said goodbye, I reminded him of the old street saying, “If you sit in the barber’s chair long enough you will eventually get a haircut”: a reminder to him that he should stop hanging around this area of the city and get back home to his family. 

I was now in the midst of the people who hang around a downtown church that. over the years, has been kind to those on the streets. It has provided shelter from the depths of the winter cold and has allowed many of them to take up space in its hall in the worst of the weather. 

With the weather being a little warmer, the majority of the patrons were lounging around the front steps, sharing whatever food they had scrounged together, and entertaining one another with a variety of illegal substances that wafted off into the night sky. As usual I stopped to chat and attempted to remember all their “street names.” 

Not being endowed with a good memory for names and a worse memory for faces, this usually ends up being their entertainment for the evening. 

“Let me see” I said. “So, you are Fluffy, you are Sexy, you are Kimberly, you are Eliah, you are Bano, you are Miss Two” 

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As always, no matter how many there are, I managed to get only one correct. I still believe they just change their street names each week for the entertainment I provide them. 

As the evening turned dark, I made my way to the doorway where my friend Chilly died almost a year ago now, to publicly pay my respects to her, and to pray that she will guide me in my ministry on the street. On my way, I passed a doorway with an elderly woman seated on the ground, crackpipe in hand and attempting to light it with her lighter. She was intent on attempting to get her high for the evening, so I sat beside her and introduced myself. 

“I wish I could get off the drugs” she said. “My husband is at home, and we have been married twenty-seven years. Please pray that I can get off the drugs. Tell me I will be okay.” 

I reached out and laid my hands on her head and asked the Lord to bless her and help her to get off the drugs. As I completed the prayer I whispered to her, “You are a good lady.”

“Everyone judges me, but I am trying to give it up,” she said.

Then, out of the blue she asked, “Are you married? I see you have a ring. Is your wife at home?” 

“Yes, she is at home” I said, and I have been coming downtown for over 20 years now on Thursday evenings to say hello to people.” 

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For 20 years” she said, “Why do you do this? Can you tell me again that I am a good lady. I need to hear that.Thank you for not judging me.” 

Fr. Edward Farrell in his book, “Free to be Nothing” said that we have to recognize that when someone is oppressed, or not listened to, then it is God’s presence that is being oppressed. This beautiful lady was sent to remind me that Jesus is on the streets all around us, waiting to be welcomed.