Late in Belltown

Third Avenue in Seattle’s Belltown neighborhood.  It’s 11:00 p.m. on a Thursday night.  As I walk along I great people – the homeless people leaving Nightwatch on their way to shelter, the students out for a lark, the drug dealers in the shadows.  From a block away I can see a woman walking in the street, adjusting her clothing provocatively. 

Eyes straight ahead.  I don’t need to see that. 

“Hey,” she hollers.  “Are you really a minister?”

I stop dead in my tracks, the hair on my neck standing straight up.  “Yes, I’m really a minister.”  

The woman crosses over to me, shifts her beer into her other hand, and reaches out for mine.  “I’m going to ask you to do something strange.”

I was REALLY concerned now.  “What do you want?”

Not letting go of my hand, she said, “Would you pray for me?”

“I don’t think that’s strange at all.  What’s your name?”

“Lisa.”

I stood on the sidewalk holding Lisa’s hand, her hard hand, a hand which didn’t want to let go.  I prayed a short prayer for her healing and comfort and protection in Jesus’ name.

Her hard hand just didn’t want to let go, like a poor swimmer at summer camp, who reaches the deep water and finds that rope across the middle of the pool, the way of safety for swimmers like me.  When I was a kid I would hang onto that rope and pull my way along to the side of the pool.

I will never forget Lisa’s hand in mine, finding safety for the moment.