A Dark Night, a Heavy Truth, and a Quiet Glimpse of Grace
Last week, one of our regular guests asked if we could take a look at something important.
He had a court date coming up that Monday, and he was anxious.
My first instinct was the practical one:
“You should really talk to your legal aid representative.”
That’s usually the right answer.
We’re not lawyers. We’re not the system. We’re not equipped to fix legal situations that are far bigger than us.
But after a few minutes of conversation, I agreed to at least look at what he had.
Nothing prepared me for what I was about to read.
A Tangle of Brokenness
What I read was a mess — not in structure, but in substance.
I read the other party’s version of events.
Then I read our guest’s version.
Both read like horror stories.
Abuse.
Addiction.
Violence.
Assault.
Hearsay.
Betrayal.
People turning on each other.
People hurting each other.
People spiraling together.
Every possible bad outcome layered on top of the next.
It was a tangled web of accusations, half-truths, actual harm, and deep pain.
The kind of thing that doesn’t just affect one person — it drags in police, courts, lawyers, judges, social workers, emergency services.
This is the downstream cost of lives lived in chaos.
And the burden it places on our justice system is enormous — not because people don’t care, but because there are no clean solutions once things get this far.
At one point, I had to stop reading.
And I asked the question that kept pressing on me:
Why me?
Why Me?
His answer was painfully simple.
“I don’t understand what’s being said here.
I can’t read more than a page or two without getting a headache.”
The document was nearly 20 pages, printed double-sided.
This wasn’t avoidance.
It wasn’t laziness.
It was limitation.
So after I gathered myself, I asked him three questions — not as a judge, but as someone trying to understand:
- What, in your mind, is not true?
- What did you actually do?
- Has anything like this happened before?
I won’t go into details.
That’s not my story to tell.
But what stayed with me was this sobering truth:
Evil is not theoretical.
It’s not abstract.
And it’s not rare.
The people we serve on Thursday nights — the ones we laugh with, pray with, hand hotdogs to — can also be capable of terrible things.
And if we’re honest, the difference between them and us isn’t purity — it’s restraint.
We’re not less sinful.
We’re just more refined in how our sin shows up.
The Streets: Connection and Danger, Side by Side
Life on the streets is a strange paradox.
On one hand, it’s incredibly lonely.
Human connection is fragile.
Trust is rare.
Everything feels temporary.
On the other hand, there’s a raw camaraderie — a shared survival that forms quickly.
People protect each other.
They warn each other.
They sit together just to stay warm.
But that closeness comes at a cost.
The same proximity that creates connection also creates danger.
Violence spreads quickly.
Addiction feeds addiction.
Bad decisions compound.
And without Christ at the center, life becomes exactly what I read on those pages:
a cycle of harm, reaction, consequence, and more harm.
A Date That Stopped Me
There was one detail I couldn’t ignore.
The alleged incident happened right around the time we started the tables — late January.
That stopped me cold.
This man has been coming faithfully.
He’s respectful.
Engaged.
Grateful.
There’s nothing but positive things we could say about him now.
And yet, the past was dark.
It was a reminder that transformation doesn’t happen all at once, and that spiritual battles often run quietly beneath the surface, unseen.
The battle is real.
It’s hidden.
And without the grace of God, none of us stands very far from the edge.
A Dark Night, and Then Light
That night felt heavy.
But we prayed together.
And for the first time, something shifted.
Not dramatically.
Not emotionally.
But deeply.
It felt like he finally understood — not intellectually, but personally — that there is a God who loves him.
Not because he’s innocent.
Not because he’s good.
But because grace is exactly for people like him… and people like us.
It ended up being a good night after all.
A Lighter Moment
On a lighter note, we met at a Tim Hortons in St. Catharines.
When we walked in, the place was full of familiar faces — our regulars, huddled together, trying to get warm.
The reaction was priceless.
Hugs.
High fives.
Smiles.
“THE HOTDOG GUYS!”
Of course, not long after, the police showed up to move people along.
And of course, half of them disappeared into the bathroom to hide from the cold.
About 45 minutes into our meeting, guests slowly started reappearing from the washrooms — one by one — having waited it out just to stay warm a little longer.
It was absurd.
It was sad.
And somehow… it was human.
A Final Thought
This ministry isn’t neat.
It isn’t safe.
It isn’t simple.
It places us face-to-face with the mess of life without Christ —
and with the truth that only God can sustain us when we encounter the depth of human brokenness.
That night reminded me of this:
Grace is real.
Darkness is real.
And hope is real — even when it shows up quietly, in the middle of a mess.
We’ll keep showing up.
Because God keeps meeting us there.
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