heroes to the children in their neighbourhoods. Now the gangs plaguing these communities have some competition—our UrbanPromise StreetLeader program.
Patrick was a 19-year-old tutor and summer camp counsellor who had worked with us for four years. This was no criminal. He was committed to his work and had a genuine love for the kids with whom he worked. Often, when he wasn’t scheduled to work with us, he would still come anyway, volunteering his time just so he could be with his kids that he loved so much. Every time I saw him, he had a pile of kids draped all over him. Kids hanging off his back, arms and legs, all laughing together in a giant walking mass of humanity as he slowly dragged them around the community centre where our program took place. When life was hard on the kids, they felt safe running into his strong and loving arms.
I knew there was no way that Patrick was involved in any criminal activity. He was simply a victim of his circumstances, of mistaken identity, another of the many risks that our youth must deal with while living in communities where drugs, gangs and violence are far too present.
My wife Judith heard my distressed voice on the phone and knew what had happened. She had our children in her arms, and they were already praying. I joined them for quick prayer and gave them a hug, grateful to God for the blessing of life He had given to my family. Then I grabbed my car keys, ran out the door, screeched out of my driveway and drove the 15-minute drive to Patrick’s community without a clue of what I was about to encounter or how I was going to be of any help.
My brain kept trying to wake up from this horrible nightmare. But the reality of it all came crashing down. Denial, disbelief, then adrenaline, racing to get to Patrick’s neighbourhood, to be with his kids, his friends and family, searching for something to do or say that would make things okay. But they weren’t okay, and they wouldn’t be for a long, long time. I cried and yelled at God the whole way there.
The whole thing was wrong and unfair. There was nothing I could do to save “Blue Boy’s” life. All I knew was that I had to be there, in his community, walking his streets, being with his people—all the while waiting for the phone call to tell me if Patrick was indeed dead.
Notes
1 UrbanPromise also operates in Camden, New Jersey, Wilmington, Delaware and Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. To receive more information on UrbanPromise Toronto, please go to
www.urbanpromise.com.
2 Rapper 50 Cent, taken from a Toronto Star interview. “A Great Deal for 50 Cent” by Ashante Infantry, July 12, 2003.
~ ~ ~
“For this people’s heart has become calloused; they hardly hear with their ears, and they have closed their eyes. Otherwise they might see with their eyes, hear with their ears, understand with their hearts and turn, and I would heal them.”
– Matthew 13:15 (NIV)
2. He Who Has Eyes to See
It is a short distance from my house to the Warden Woods community where Patrick lived. However, on that day the drive seemed like an eternity. Every traffic light, every stop sign and any slow-moving car that got in my way became a lightning rod for my wrath. I was emotionally on edge. I could not get the words out of my head: “‘Blue Boy’ has been shot.” It made no sense. He was not a gangbanger. He was not a criminal. He had no links whatsoever to any criminal activity. Why him? He was soft-spoken, shy and always smiling. He was, in the words of so many people in his community, the one who was going to make it. He had enrolled in college, gave back to his community by working with children, and was an all-around positive light and role model to the children he served at UrbanPromise. And now this? Was this a cruel joke? Was I experiencing a horrible nightmare that would go away once I awoke? No, this was reality. I cursed, wept and prayed the whole way to Warden Woods.
I pulled up to the community centre and parked my car. All of a sudden, a wave of fear and apprehension came over me. Was it really Patrick? Was it one of our kids? I remained for a minute or two in the safety of my car, anxious about what I would encounter on the streets in Patrick’s Warden Woods neighbourhood. All sorts of apprehensive questions danced in my head. How would I handle my staff, who would be deeply devastated by the news that their friend may be a murder victim? What would I say to the weeping children who idolized Patrick? How could I console his family? In what ways would I be able to offer comfort to the people of his community?
I was scared. I had no idea what to do. I sent up a quick prayer to God asking for His power, and then I resolved to get out of the car. Opening the door of my black Honda Civic, I weakly gulped some air and swallowed hard. I then slowly made my way up the path into the community centre. When I walked into the building, I was greeted by a spattering of dazed, zombie-like creatures staring into space. The receptionist sitting behind the large desk in the main hallway looked relieved when she saw me walking through the front doors. It was obvious from her fearful and strained expression that she was doing her best to deal with the hurting people all around her. It was even more evident that she felt totally inept in her attempts to provide comfort.
Her eyes lit up when I entered the room, and I could just hear her thoughts through her expressive, worried eyes: “Finally, the professional is here to take over and make everyone feel better.” To her, I was the person who could deal with this crisis. I was supposed to wave my magic wand and, through my powers, words and presence, make sense of and bring healing to the pain everyone was feeling in this close-knit community. Little did she know that the apparently strong and composed figure she saw standing in front of her was partly an optical illusion. On the outside, I must have looked calm, cool and collected. But on the inside, I was far from it.
To those I encountered that night, I was a walking mirage, a deceptive oasis brought about by their misplaced hope for something to quench their desperate craving for relief. In truth, I was just another scared presence, standing lost and forlorn, within the maze of lifeless faces that were all around me. The secretary excitedly waved me into a room, saying that my staff members were in there alone and they were waiting for me. I went in and we all hugged, wept and prayed. We still hadn’t heard any news, still didn’t know if our precious friend was alive or dead. There we were, broken people, weakened by the stress of the unknown. Yet, something supernatural was among us.
There was a strength, the strength of being together, knowing that we were not alone, knowing that together we could get through this. Though no one said it at the time, we knew that we were all experiencing the same thing. We were hurting, but underneath our pain was a current of God’s presence. He was there. And He was suffering with us.
Nicola called again. It was confirmed that Patrick Dalton Pitters was one of three murder victims killed on the city streets that evening of March 4, 2004. Until then, we were hoping that whoever had been shot had been misidentified and that it wasn’t Patrick. But this was real. Upon hearing the news, some of my staff cried quietly, others stared into space, a few wept out loud, one collapsed on the floor in grief. All of us prayed.
Apparently, Patrick died while visiting an apartment that was not in his community. He was invited by a friend to play video games at the apartment of a drug dealer. Patrick did not know the owner was a dealer.
During the evening, while he was playing video games, some men broke into the apartment with guns, looking for the dealer. A fight ensued, but Patrick didn’t get involved. He sat glued to the couch, clutching his game controller, confused and not knowing what was happening in front of him. During the fight, a shotgun fired twice, hitting Patrick in the chest twice as he sat, stunned, on the couch. The gunmen ran and Patrick’s
