I spent part of my day at the drop‑in centre, helping an elderly Chinese‑speaking man fill out an application for supportive housing. The form was long and clinical, full of questions that would be difficult for anyone to answer, let alone someone who has lived through years of instability. We worked through it slowly, line by line. I translated, clarified, and tried to hold his dignity gently in a process that so often forgets the person behind the paperwork.

When I finally stepped outside, tired but grateful he would at least be on the waiting list, I ran into A—someone who has been coming to our community and our Friday lunch program. We chatted for a moment, and then he asked me a question that surprised me with its simplicity:

“Tell me… what makes you feel cheerful in a normal day?”

I paused, and then I told him the truth.

Most mornings, when I walk down my street in Richmond, I see one or two seniors walking their dogs. They always greet me with a cheerful “Good morning! How are you?”—big smiles, warm voices, no hesitation. Something about that simple kindness always lifts me. It’s like a small beam of sunshine breaking through the clouds. It changes the tone of my whole day. It reminds me that I live in a place where small gestures still matter.

A nodded, and then he asked his second question:

“Do you think any kid grows up saying they want to be homeless, or an alcoholic, or a drug addict?”

I answered quickly—“Of course not.”
But then I paused.

I looked around at the people outside the drop‑in centre—some restless, some exhausted, some numbing pain the only way they know how. And suddenly A’s question settled deeper into me.

No child dreams of this.
No child imagines a future shaped by addiction or homelessness.

Something happened along the way—many things happened.
Trauma. Loss. Displacement. Mental illness. Poverty. Grief that never found a safe place to land. A thousand small heartbreaks that accumulated until survival became the only goal.

The man I helped today once had a life with routines, hopes, and people who cared for him. The people outside once laughed as children, once believed the world was open to them. None of them chose this path. Life pushed, pulled, and wounded them into it.

And as I stood there, I realized something else.

We often ask, “What can I fix for you? What can I help you with?”
But maybe the better question—the more human question—is:

“What can cheer you up today?”
“How can I bring a bit of hope, a bit of sunshine, into your life?”

Not because we can solve everything.
Not because we have the answers.
But because small kindnesses matter.
Because a cheerful greeting can change a morning.
Because a moment of connection can remind someone they are still seen.

Today, I was reminded that ministry is not about fixing people.
It is about witnessing them.
Honouring them.
Holding space for their stories.
And refusing to let the world reduce them to the hardest chapter of their lives.

None of them dreamed of this.
But all of them deserve to be seen, remembered, and loved.
And sometimes, all it takes is a simple question—What can bring you a little sunshine today?—to open a door to hope.