A wave of helplessness caused my insides to warm as I stood in the city square. I licked my lips. "So . . . um, do you know Jesus?" I asked. "No," the stranger said. "Oh, well, do you want to?" I asked. My interpreter raised an eyebrow and looked at me skeptically but delivered the Spanish version of my question. The man I was attempting to witness to stared at me blankly. The interpreter broke the silence. This time the stranger answered and their conversation took off in earnest, the fast staccato floating around me.

I felt miserable at first. What had I done wrong? Then I became angry. No one had taught me how to street witness before I came on the missions trip to Santiago, Chile. In fact, I had never heard of street witnessing before. I had come to do skits and drama not actually talk to people.

I felt my heart harden with anger and wounded pride. "Never," I told myself. "I'll never street witness again. I'll never go on a missions trip again. Never, never!" I kept that promise for nine years until my first year at Multnomah.

I sat through week after week of announcements about Friday night witnessing. I attended the meetings sometimes and prayed, hoping to ease my guilt. Every time I sat in the cold prayer chapel, the dimness of the room felt much like the dimness of my heart.

I watched the brave witnesses tromp out into the cold and dark, and I would bow my head and pray. But every beat of my heart felt like a death sentence to my Christian character. One night, the noise of my guilt became too loud.

"Oh, God!" my heart screamed. "Make me unafraid. People are dying, and I can't go reach them. I just can't face the rejection -- the failure. Please help me!" "Go and witness," he said. "As an act of obedience to me." I knew he wanted to break the fear I clung to.

I felt edgy all day the following Friday. As night approached, I secretly hoped for the outing's cancellation. Nothing happened. And so I trudged to the prayer chapel.

Our small group went to Pioneer Courthouse Square. I stood awkwardly to one side as the others dispersed and started conversations. I tucked my hands in the pockets of my jeans. I refused to ask, "So, um . . . do you know Jesus?" I clung to my pride.

A man jumped down some steps and landed in front of me. "Hi!" he said with a smile. "Hi," I said tentatively. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Oh, just hanging out and trying to tell people about Jesus Christ," I said.

He told me that he worked as a cook at a four-star restaraunt. We sat down and he told me how his wife was leaving him. He was afraid to be alone. Why was she leaving him? he asked. I listened and shared about Jesus. I told him that other people were incapable of bringing meaning to his life. Only Jesus never failed. Only Jesus never left. He listened although he said he disagreed.

I asked what he was going to do with the rest of his night. He shrugged his shoulders. He would probably hang out with the people at the top of the stairs, he said.

I had heard conversations between the group he pointed to and Multnomah students. I had heard words like Druidism.

The street witnessing group began leaving. "Oh, Lord," I prayed. "I don't want to leave him here where he might be influenced toward the darkness. But everyone's leaving. I don't know what to do."

We chatted for a few more minutes. I prayed again and asked, "So, what are you going to do now?" "You know," he said. "I feel tired. I think I'm going to go home. . . . I suddenly feel like I should go home."

He left without accepting Christ, but I rejoiced. I knew God had planted seeds in the man's heart. And I saw that my pride and fear had been unfounded. God had done the work; I had only witnessed his glory.