Testimony by Barry Witmer
This is a story from "The Shift: The True Story Of How One Businesswoman Left Everything Behind And Changed The Lives Of Thousands" by Maryanne Connor. She shares the story in the book from one of the volunteers, Barry Witmer, serving the homeless at the nonprofit organization she started, NightShift Street Ministries, in Surrey, British Columbia.
It was fall of 2005 and there was a chill in the air that night as I went to serve the homeless on the streets of the city of Surrey, B.C. Around me was a group of volunteers associated with NightShift Street Ministries. We were handing out food and hot drinks to the homeless. There was a table set up in the middle of the dimly lit parking lot.
We were handing out food and hot drinks to the homeless. There was a table set up in the middle of the dimly lit parking lot. On it was clothing that was being given to the poor. Somewhere off to might someone was strumming a guitar and singing a song of worship. All around us were people, those who society had rejected. They were the downcast, the broken, the addicted, and the hurting — maybe a hundred strong. They were desperate for something to eat and some warm clothe. Shopping carts loaded with all their early possessions were parked untidily around the outside of our serving area.
As the evening progressed, a disheveled man appeared, pushing his cart through the crowd. It was obvious he was on drugs and he proceeded to cause quite a commotion, disrupting the peace that had settled over the crowd. He wore a heavy, army green-colored coat. He had one shoe on and one shoe off, and was yelling and crying out as he pushed his cart through the crowd. This scene broke my heart and as I stood off to the side, I remember praying to myself, “For Dif it would be okay, please make a way for me to pray for that man tonight.” The man continued on, out into the dark, past our circle of light and into the night. I thought he was gone.
A few minutes later a volunteer came up to me and tugged me on the shirt sleeve and said that there was a man who had asked for prayer and begged me to come to pray for him. I went with the volunteer—only to find the very same man who was causing the disturbance earlier in the vining. I asked him, “Can I pray with you?” (I thought that is what he wanted).
He responded with a very firm, “No!”
He said, “Praying is the last thing that I want to do!”
I was shocked and taken back by his response and slightly hurt as well.
I was moved with compassion as I looked at him and just simply said, “That’s fine. Could you tell me your story?”
What happened next—and the story he told — changed my life.
He said his name was Peter. When he was young man he had accepted Christ as his Lord and Savior. He had joined and been trained by Jack Van Impe Ministries International. He talked about evangelistic trips overseas where they told other people about Christ.
He asked me, “Do you dod that thing called sowing?”
“What is sowing?” I asked.
“It’s when you go door to door and tell people about Christ.”
I said, “I know what you mean.”
“We would do that,” he said.
He described how he used to love to hear Jack Van Imperial pray. He said there was no one that could pray like that man. He talked about how he adored Jack and thought so highly of him as a man of God. He paused, as though reflecting on those times, and then went on.
“I was in the southern part of the United States doing street evangelism when a guy pulled up in a car, pulled out a shot gun and shot me in the chest.”
When I heard this I was thinking okay…this guy is high and is pulling my leg, this is probably not true. Then before I could react he said, “Here I’ll show you.” He pulled up his shirt and showed me the bullet holes in his chest. I could see what looked like maybe a half a dozen or more scarred bullet holes. My eyes grew large and I realized that the story he was telling me was true. He now had my full attention. My skepticism melted away as I listened.
He said they picked him up and threw him in the trunk of the car and drove him someplace. They opened the trunk and a man looked in and said, “You’ve got the wrong guy. Take hi mot the hospital.” With that, they slammed the trunk door closed again and rushed to Emergency. They opened the trunk and dumped him on the steps to the emergency entrance. He said that they operated on him and thankfully he survived, but some of the bullet fragments were so close to his heart that the doctor was unable to remove them without doing more damage.
Over the next season of time as he recovered, the pain was excruciating. He had to take painkillers in order to cope. It was during this time he became addicted to prescription drugs. As he talked, he fumbled around in his coat pocket with one hand and leaned on the grocery cart with the other He dropped a bottle of prescription drugs on the ground and was in no hurry to pick them up. He continued the story.
He had a beautiful wife, he said, but she left him years ago because of his drug problem. Today he had received news that his teenage daughter had given up on life and committed suicicde.
As he relived the story he became overcome with deep grief. I watched as he crumpled to the ground and knelt down on the little strip of grass between the sidewalk and King George Highway. He sobbed and cried with the most gut-wrenching, searing pain.
I knelt down beside him and asked if I could pray for him now and he said, “Sure.”
I just uttered a simple prayer, maybe three sentences, because he had already told me that he didn’t want to pray and I didn’t want to offend him. When I had finished speaking, to my amazement, the man began to pray himself.
What happened next, I have never experienced before or since. I have grown up around churches, prayer meetings, and Christians but what happened there on the sidewalk of King George Highway that night will stay with me for life.
As this man prayed, the residue from the medication just seemed to melt away. He transformed before my eyes. He was completely sober,. His mind was clear. His face was transformed from that of a drug addict to that of a forgiven child of God. When he prayed, it was like heaven opened and there was dirt access into the throne room of God. He prayed with such raw humility and sincerity unlike anything that I had ever seen in or out of the church.
He began by repenting of the fact that he had not been a very good husband to his wife and asked the Heavenly Father to please forgive him and be merciful. He asked for forgiveness for not being a good father to his daughter during the previous years. He continued to pray and cry out to God confessing his sins and then worshipping God for about ten minutes. What struck me about this time was the fact that he knew beyond a shadow of doubt that Go knew him and loved him and hadn’t abandoned him in spite of all he had been through.
At the end of this time he said, “Oh, Barry, a few minutes ago, praying was the last thing that I wanted to do, but now I don’t want to stop.”
The moment was holy.
We finished and stood up. We said good-bye. We each went different ways, he into the night pushing his cart; I back to the team of volunteers. Night after night I would search the crowd looking for his face. As the various teams served on the streets week in and week out, I would enquire if anyone had seen Peter. I wanted to know how he was doing, and where he was, but I never saw him again.
I don’t know what happened to him after that night. I don’t know if he lived or died. He simply disappeared. I nicknamed him “Peter the Rock” because I wanted to impart something positive to encourage him to hold on.
Peter has no idea the impact his story had on me that night. My stereotypical image shattered. My heart broken for the poor. On day, I’ll tell him.
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