Nothing was going right. Nothing. Sometimes I feel alone out here. I wonder how God could be so foolish to try to use me. We had just finished a day riddled with disappointment. Then I had to address a growing tension from an ongoing situation full of politics and policies. From there I went back into the neighborhood to deal with the chaos of a family in the neighborhood who were in a point of extreme crisis. Finally I got home and fumbled my key into the lock, leashed up my dog and began my walk. I shuffled my feet and let my brain spin. I put my earphones on but didn't bother to turn the music on. The truth is I just didn't want anyone trying to talk with me.

I hadn't been gone very long when I saw a young man on a bike. He stared at me and I felt a pang of familiarity. He smiled and I knew for sure. It was Manuel. And as I stood in the middle of the street staring at this 16 year old, years of history flooded through my tired body.

More than nine years ago I used to carry this skinny little kid on my shoulders while I cleaned up the church yard, he rested his chin on the top of my head. On bus rides home after a day at the pool I would hold him in my arms as he fell asleep. He had an unruly mop of black hair and a quiet smile. He knew…he could get anything he wanted from me.

Two years later Manuel was in my third grade class. He was less quiet and a little more mischievous. As were all the kids who filled that tiny room. It was a chaotic year. They could hear us all the way in the basement. But still Manuel could recite every verse and retell every story. Somehow he was able to learn and grow above the din and noise.

Five years ago things were not as easy. He wasn't a little boy any more. He and his tough friend Vincent would harass one of my volunteers by placing dead flies on his bald head. Manuel wasn't really interested in doing the things the rest of us did at Bible club. He was bored by the Bible stories and too "big" to make a take-home craft. But still, he wanted to be at church. So every week we'd pick him up and I could see his drunk mom passed out on the couch. Vincent and Manuel had their own room at the church and I left a pad of drawing paper and freshly sharpened pencils for them. Manuel loved to draw and would sit quietly filling page after page with the images that were in his head.

One year after that Manuel was sitting at the church and asked if we could talk for a second. I nodded, pulled up a chair and looked into those black eyes.

"A.B…" he almost pleaded and my heart sank, "Will you pray for me?"

"Of course I will Manuel…always."

"I'm scared my mom is going to get AIDS. She's always at that park where bad things happen and sometimes people get killed."

"I know Manuel." I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to keep from weeping.

"And sometimes." He went on, "I see things on the news and I get scared that something terrible will happen in the world and I won't know what to do."

"Me too." I put my hand on his shoulder, "But God is big Manuel. Bigger than we can imagine." He stared at me, wanting something more. Something tangible.

"Manuel," I said, welling up with compassion, "Don't worry. From now on I'll watch the news and I'll worry about it. And if something terrible happens I'll let you know and then we'll figure out what to do. You don't have to worry about it anymore. I will."

And for Manuel it was enough.

Two years ago Manuel was no longer living with his mom because she was just too drunk and ill to care for him and his younger sister. Manuel had been in some trouble at school and was now attending classes at a lock-down facility with barbed wire around the play lot. I saw him walking down the street and stopped to say hello. He was tall and skinny. I wondered if he could survive these streets. I wished he was little again. I would put him on my shoulders and walk right out of this neighborhood.

My mind came back to the young man that was balancing on a bike right in front of me. "Manuel?" My whole face was lit up.

"A.B.?"

I nodded and we fumbled for conversation.

"I'm moving out of the neighborhood. Me and my sister are back with my mom. We've been at a shelter and she's really getting better."

"Manuel that's great."

"Yeah. I'm going to get a new start. New school and everything. All of us are getting a new start."

We said a few more things and then Manuel looked at me, "A.B., God has really been blessing us."

Right then and there every piece of doubt and every layer of weariness just disappeared. My boy was talking about Jesus. What more could I want?

"Yeah," he went on, "We're all praying together every night."

"Manuel -" but I couldn't finish my sentence.

"Well I better go, I got to meet my uncle."

"I still pray for you Manuel."

He started to ride off and then turned his head. "Good bye A.B., I pray for you too."

Now isn't that just like God? Right when we're about to give up He does something crazy like raises from the dead…while his boys were shaking in their sandals in the upper room. Walks on water…when the disciples were sloshing around in a boat wondering what in the world they were doing following a homeless man of illegitimate birth. Sends an Elisha…when Elijah was about to cut off his own head and give it to Jezebel. Forgives a prostitute…moments after half a religious community were screaming for her violent death. He provides the manna…while his people were dreaming about prison food. And for me, He sends a boy named Manuel…three blocks and two street corners into my despair. Just like God…isn't it?