About two weeks ago, our neighbor died. Overhearing their mournful wails, I felt convicted. We’d been working with two communities just outside of Apastepeque, but had ignored our own street. Since that night, we’ve taken time walking our street, looking for open doors and opportunity.
A few days ago, we wandered to an old house, tucked away in the back of a field and asked to pray for an old woman and her grandchildren. Another house we visited overflowed with children playing music and singing. Far behind the road we talked with a few people, held some bunny rabbits, and prayed for the older woman with health problems.
We walked down the main road near our house and a man stumbled toward me clasping a bottle of vodka in his right hand. He wanted me to take his picture. Something told me to pray for him, but I never did. I just took his photo and kept walking. We strolled all the way to the basketball courts on the other side of town and on the way back I glanced down side streets, hoping for a second chance to speak with him and pray. My heart pulls for people like that. I know what it’s like to give up.
I never found that man, but along the way back I spotted another man, filthy drunk, clinging onto a lamp post. His jeans were wet with urine and his words slurred. It made me sad. We all paused and prayed for him. I’m not sure he understood anything we said, but I know there’s power in prayer.
