“Hello, good morning... hello. Hello... morning”. I leaned over the gate and waited.
A breeze ever so gently moved through the draped and darkened opening to no avail. No bars, not even window panes, but two clothes-pins tenuously holding the grey and semi-transparent material together, bobbed ever so slightly... more to beckon than anything.

“Hellooooo…..!” Still no response. I began to wonder that a person would leave a window open in such a neighbourhood… without being at home!

I had in fact given up and turned away when finally an aged figure appeared at the shanty window, a stiff and awkward hand reaching to cautiously move aside the curtain. “Yes... Hello.”

It was the first day of visitation, on our “weekend ministry” in the parish of St Martin’s, Gonzales. Third cycle seminary formation includes “on the ground” experience in a local parish. Well, I wasn’t so keen on this “door-to-door evangelisation” idea, flouting religion and selling pews.

But I figured that it also must mean just being neighbourly and sharing a little good cheer.... I wasn’t quite prepared for Mr Smith  (pseudonym).
So, I thought I’d begin with a little discussion. “We’re seminarians from St Martin’s Church”.

“What?”
“Sem...in...arians... from the Mount!”
“O... well I’m Anglican”, his face peering out a little more around the translucent fabric, still held protective against undue intrusion.
“Ok... good”. 

As we spoke I noticed he held his hands, slightly up from the ledge, though a little withdrawn, his fingers stiff and pointing in obtuse angles from one another.

Then I noticed that his face was also somewhat hindered and askew on the one side, heavy lines were etched back deep across his balding head. I think it must have been the mention of our “post-violence/trauma sessions” being held at the Church that brought out his story.

“Four years ago... young man with a cutlass... as I lay in my bed one night”.
“Ouch…!”, I mean what does one say?

As we sat together later in his home, his eyes filled with tears, “...O yeah,...I forgive him. I’ve known him since he was a boy. Mother died when he was young. He used to come around... got to think of him as one of my own. A nice boy, quiet and a little withdrawn though.”

“Sure I was angry at first... Why! Why! Many people coming to visit me in the hospital over the four months pressed, offering justice and revenge, ‘Smithy you’re crazy, gotta do somethin’!’ But I had time to think... for God to change my heart... I just wanted to find out why. So I asked I asked to see him. We’ve talked a lot since then... awaiting trial.

He has since gotten married, has a three-year-old son. They were here the other day.”
“But why did he do it?!” I couldn’t help but ask, marvelling at the arrangement.

Mr Smith gently shook his head. Again tears, “... But I forgive him, and I don’t want to do him anything.  Oh, he’d had trouble with a girl... said she’d put something on him, made ’im crazy.

“But he with his little family now... says he has a job... maybe he does. Nobody understands... my sister, friends, police ... I don’t want to press charges. They say he’d get at least 15 years. Another little boy without his daddy, wife without a husband... He gets out more hardened... more likely to hurt others, maybe his little boy. The little boy grows up angry, more hardened. I don’t want none of that because of me.”

He was 12 hours on the operating table. His cheek and head have healed beautifully into soft straight facets. There must have been extensive nerve and tendon damage, both hands forming cawed hooks now and bone yet protrudes sharply from the wrist of his right hand. “Yes, still...some pain”. But it seems to bother him little.
More tears, “He must be suffering so much...”

“Our justice system, our penal system, is pretty poor here. Been more than four years. Would you discipline a child four days later for being naughty? Doesn’t make sense. He’s got a life now... What he needs, what our country needs, is more compassion not ‘justice’. We don’t suffer from too much violence and crime here, we suffer from not enough love.”