15 of us sat in a circle, plastic chairs underneath us, and were handed bright orange vests.
“Never walk alone”
“Always keeping your eyes on the van”
“Once you hear we need to go stop praying and leave immediately”
“Always have a Colombian with you.”
Our ministry hosts were preparing us for the street in Medellin where all the addicts go at night to get high. We needed to be very aware of our surroundings, something my grandpa echoed to me right before I left.
Our vest wearing crew of white Americans climbed into a van with aguapanela (sugar water), and bread. We were going to talk to people about God, going to give some of the homeless and addicts a small bit of food and water, a small taste of what life in the rehab program would look like. A small hope they could start getting clean. We were going to ask them to join us at church on Saturday, and Sunday, and to pray with them.
We were excited and jittery, but as our van pulled into the street everyone’s voices stopped. We had to drive slow because there were some many people in the street. Candlelights shone across the street, signs of where to buy the drugs, under the light of a candle. Vendors stood on the street, selling lighters, cigarettes, bottles, and metal caps for smoking crack.
As we stepped out of the van a weird peace overcame me. I walked up to a leader in our group, someone who was an evangelizing queen, someone who could teach me how to open up to people about God.
“Can I walk with you?”
“Yes.”
Whitney, Teresa, Lee, Nate, and a translator named Tim. We started walking and watching, who was God calling us to speak to? As we walked motos flew by us, men watched us, and sellers ignored us. People crowded our van and created a line, wanting bread.
Our leader Teresa pointed to a man a few feet down the street. She felt drawn to speak to him. He was sitting on the ground, sanding a piece of metal. We introduced ourselves and sat down beside him. The man behind him was packing down his own hit and starting to smoke it.
He was a man who had spent 5 years on the street. One of our guys talked to him, heart to heart about the addiction that this man was feeding.
The next man we spoke to didn’t want church or for our prayers.
Then one of the guys in our group said he wanted to talk to a vendor, to someone that was taking advantage of these hundred men who spent the nights on this street shooting up and smoking.
“D” was a vendor on the street. He sold bottles, cigarettes, lighters, and other odds and ends. He said he knew God enough, but not that well. He spoke to us about how this was the one secure job he could find. Addicts are always looking for this stuff.
Teresa told “D” her story in life, about a time when died and was born again in the holy spirit. “D” had the biggest smile, his smile light up the entire street, his eyes twinkled with joy.
“We have to go,” someone behind us said. We knew that meant immediately.
“Do you want to accept Jesus Christ as your one true savior?”
“Si”
Tersea grabbed his arm and had the man repeat her in a prayer to Jesus. The man paused selling his things and prayed. We finished praying and said “choa” and invited him to church. He smiled and nodded and said his goodbyes before returning to work. He had taken 20 minutes out of work to talk with us. Even the translator was amazed that he listened.
In the midst of the streets, we gathered and prayed for the street and the people. We said we’d be back again next week and climbed into our vans not quite sure how to process what we had seen, smelled, and prayed. We were sure of something, God was pushing his way into that street, little by little, week by week, he is moving.
