Yesterday, I walked toward the drop-in center with no agenda but presence. I simply wanted to say hello, to introduce myself to those gathered outside, many of whom live with homelessness and substance use. I didn’t come with answers or solutions. I came with a greeting, a name, and a collar.

One young woman looked at me with caution, her eyes scanning for signs of authority. “Are you a cop?” she asked, guarded and weary. I gently told her I was an Anglican priest. Her shoulders softened just a little. I explained I wasn’t there to interrogate or intervene; I just wanted to say hi, and that I’d be back again soon.

I walked away slowly, not far. Then I heard footsteps behind me. She had chased me down, tears in her eyes. “Can you help me?” she asked. “Can you pray for my sister?” Her sister was in the hospital, sick and struggling with alcoholism. She was afraid her sister might die. She didn’t want her to be alone.

So we prayed, right there on the sidewalk, in the chill of the afternoon. We asked God for healing, for comfort, for strength. We asked for mercy to meet her sister in the hospital room, and for peace to hold this young woman’s heart. I invited her to visit our church, and promised I’d return to the center soon.

It was a moment of grace. Not polished or planned. Just raw, sacred presence.

These encounters remind me that ministry is not confined to sanctuaries or schedules. It happens in the margins, in the chase, in the tears, in the prayer whispered between strangers. It happens when we show up without judgment, and stay long enough to be trusted.

I carry her story with me today. And I’ll carry it back with me next time I visit.