CONTRIBUTED BY JULIE ATWOOD.

Deep Ellum. A new location, an arts district known for its coffee houses and offbeat sculptures . . . like the giant tin robot sprawled out strumming a banjo, whose insect eyes gape at us as we hop off the train. “We should see some interesting-looking people round here, too,” Natalie tells me with a grin. “The kind with multiple body-piercings and hair dyed every color of the rainbow.”

But not even many “normal” looking people have chosen to brave the wind-whipped streets on this chilly evening. The few we meet clipping down the sidewalk are tourists or young couples seeking out a trendy restaurant . . . along with a few folks chugging beer as they joke around in the open doorway of a bar. The general mood seems to be one of good-natured indifference to our offers of prayer.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” one beer-guzzler tells us with a tolerant smile. “It’s nice you’re thinking of us, though.” And as a young couple dashes past us at breakneck speed, the female partner twists her head around. “I do need a job,” she calls over one shoulder. “But do you guys mind praying by yourselves, without asking me to participate?”

Then there is Richard, a lean, sinewy cyclist who pauses on the sidewalk beside his sleek racing bike. “You guys got any money so I can get a bite to eat?” When offered prayer instead—we’re all by now completely out of change—he peers at us through veiled eyes, answers Brandy’s queries with terse monosyllables. When she shares with him her vision of a young girl who holds a special place in his life, he responds with a noncommittal shrug. “I got sixteen grandchildren. Three of ’em are girls.”

“What are their names?”

A pause, another shrug. “Dunno for sure. Think one of ’em’s Chantelle.”

As we hold up Chantelle in prayer, Richard’s face remains impassive as a stone.

But I recall with joy the first face we encountered on this evening.

A face glowing with light.

I can still see Mason as he limps right up to us. His face is split by an enormous sun-bright smile . . . and his eyes are shining with belief that miracles are possible.

He too begins by requesting money for a bite to eat. When Henry fishes coins out from his pockets, Mason’s smile broadens even more. And when Natalie offers to pray for him, that smile illumines his whole face. “God bless you folks! I known all my life that Jesus loves me. Wanna hear my testimony?” At our nods, he begins. “We was all six years old. All lined up down by the river, fixin’ to get baptized. Us boys laughin’ at the girls, cause they all come up from the water sputterin’ an’ cryin.’ We sure wasn’t gonna cry.

“Well, I were the very last in line. When my turn come, I bust out cryin’ something fierce when my daddy—he was the preacher—pulled me up outta that water. But then know what he did? He dunked my head down in that river a second time! Later on that evenin’ I asked him why he done that. He said, ‘You had the devil on you, boy. Didn’t want no devil comin’ into our house.’ ” Mason shakes his head, grins at his recollection. “After that day I always tried real hard to follow the Lord. Well, I’ve backslid some, but I know Jesus loves me anyway.”

He stumbles two steps forward, listing from a left foot pointed away from his right at an awkward forty-five degree angle. “Would y’all pray for my healing? Had me a stroke all down this side.” His trembling fingers sweep from the left side of his head, down to his bent and quivering left leg. “But I know Jesus loves me, an’ He can work a miracle in me.”

As we all lay hands on him, I can feel his simple trust pour out like sunshine into the night air. Something pure and childlike within his gentle nature touches me, fills me with a rare and thrilling sense of expectation. Yes, this time it will happen.

And sure enough, it does. Mason’s eyes widen with amazement. He exclaims, “The pain is gone!”

“Does your leg feel stronger?” Brandy asks him.

“A little,” he admits and, with his eager permission, we launch into a second prayer.

This time, Mason starts to shake. But it’s not a tremoring aggravated by his stroke, for his smile now suffuses his face with a glow from heaven. And he exclaims of the shaking, “It feels good!”

“How’s your leg doing now?” Brandy asks when his shaking stops.

Again Mason’s eyes widen with wonder. “Hey, it’s straight!”

We look. And see not only a leg firm as a tree trunk, with no more kink in it . . . but also a left foot which now lines up parallel to his good right foot. Encouraged to press down on it, Mason reports it feels more sturdy. Then, almost leaping in his joy, he throws out his arms and wraps every one of us—Brandy, Henry, Natalie, and me—in a giant bear hug.

“Well, I need to get on back to the shelter now,” he says, “before it closes. But I can’t wait to tell all the folks over there what the Lord did for me tonight! He worked a miracle for me. Praise Jesus, and God bless you folks!”

As we accompany him down the street toward his shelter, we all praise God together . . . trusting Him to keep on healing this faith-filled man of the left eye, arm, and hip that still need another touch from his Creator. Henry passed on the assurance he felt that God would complete His work in Mason.

Before we once again board the train, Henry and Brandy find two other folks with needs who are eager to share and receptive of prayer. And even on the train—amidst a gaggle of service dogs trembling beside their trainers—Brandy encounters an old friend.

Blind Ramon’s accompanied by his service dog—a black Lab who slips in like a shadow against the sunny sea of Golden Retrievers. While the dogs survey one another through curious chocolate eyes, their black and golden tails whipping with delight, Ramon recalls with equal pleasure the last visit, during which Brandy and Cheyenne prayed with him.

We have no idea when he’ll receive his healing . . . nor how God might touch the lives of the stoic cyclist Richard, his granddaughter Chantelle, or the others in his family. Nor do we know about most of the other folks we encountered in Deep Ellum . . . whether the woman who raced past us will find the job she wants or the cheerful young beer-drinker will one day discover prayer is more than just a friendly gesture.

But we can entrust them all into God’s hands . . . warmed by the Light blazing through one homeless saint whose faith transformed his limp into a joyful miracle stride down Elm Street.