Thursday’s outreach was …. “Wild” but as always, amazing with Jesus .
There are too many stories to tell in a single message — but there is one we can’t stop thinking about. One we have to share.
It started in the rain.
Hope Hill & Ekuthuleni
We do street outreach in the inner city of Johannesburg regularly. There are two places we often visit; a place called Hope Hill — what many of the addicts who gather there call Dope Hill — and a place called Ekuthuleni.
Ekuthuleni is a Zulu word. It means Place of Peace.
When we arrived at Ekuthuleni that afternoon, the rain was coming down hard. People were huddled under whatever shelter they could find — overhangs, cardboard, thin plastic sheeting, whatever provided shelter.
Worn blankets protecting the few belongings they had left. For many on the streets, a downpour like this is one of their only chances to get clean water. To shower. To drink.
We were ministering in the middle of all of it when we saw her…
“Please Take My Child”
A woman. Walking toward us through the rain.
She was carrying a little boy.
She looked exhausted, defeated. The kind of “lost” that goes deeper than not knowing where you are.
She was from Mozambique and spoke very little English. But our Mozambican brother on our team speaks Portuguese — and the moment they began talking, something in her broke open. She started telling us her story.
For the last two months, she and her four-year-old son had been living on the streets of Johannesburg….
The boy’s father was somewhere in the city, but not with her — not then. Another homeless man, an addict himself, had been trying to help her as best he could. It wasn’t enough.
Then she looked at us — and through tears, over and over, she said the words we won’t forget:
“Please take my child.”
“Please take him away from here.”
Door After Door
We began making calls.
Churches. Shelters. Social workers. Charities. A nunnery in Johannesburg that specialises in care for immigrants and refugees — people said they were the ones to call.
They wanted to help. They really did.
But they couldn’t take anyone battling addiction.
One door closed. Then another. Frustrated, tired, wet and hungry — we didn’t want to give up.
Eventually we were directed to social workers in the City Centre. By then we had found the father and explained what we were trying to do. We squeezed eight people into our small five-seater car and drove through the pouring rain to a building in the city centre — sixth floor — a room full of social workers doing their best inside an overwhelmed system.
They tried, but the system was full. Too many children. Not enough places of refuge.
One of the social workers looked at us and asked:
“Why are you doing this? We see cases like this every day. Why are you doing this?”
It’s a fair question. The honest answer is: because Jesus didn’t stop for the crowd. He stopped for the one.
Still Searching
While we waited, the mother and father began arguing. The father was afraid — afraid we were going to take his son and he’d never see him again. We had to slow down. Explain. Reassure. Love them both in the middle of their fear and pain.
Then — almost out of nowhere — the mother remembered something. She had a sister. Maybe they could go there.
We drove. Eight adults. One small car. Still raining. Getting late.
We arrived at the address. It was a rough, unsafe neighbourhood — certainly not a place for a child. Some of us stayed locked in the car, as social services had advised, while others knocked on the door of what looked like a large box dwelling.
The sister didn’t live there.
Another dead end.
Then the father remembered something. He had a brother nearby.
So we drove again. Through the city. Eight people. One car. Still searching. Still believing. Because we didn’t sense Jesus saying stop — we didn’t.
One Night Off the Streets
After hours of driving, calling, and knocking on many strange, dirty, broken doors —
We finally found a place where the family could stay for a night or two.
It’s not a permanent solution. It’s not a place most people would sleep in. But it was somewhere off the dangerous streets. Somewhere with a door that closed. Somewhere a four-year-old boy could sleep.
One thing was clear:
A four-year-old child shouldn’t live on the streets. No child should.
We’re Not Finished
One night off the street is not a childhood.
A boy of four cannot live where this boy has been living. And a mother does not ask strangers in the rain to take her child unless she has run out of every other option she ever had.
So we’re not finished. We’re praying for the next steps — for this little one to find safety, for this mother to find the rehabilitation and healing she needs, for Jesus to do the deep work in her heart and soul, that only He can do.
Will You Pray With Us?
- Pray for protection over this little boy.
- Pray for wisdom for our next steps.
- Pray for open doors — for provision, for the right hands to reach out, for hearts willing “to stop for the one”
We are so grateful that we can be a small part of someone’s little life. And after that? Getting the mother into a rehab , where she can be physically healed, as Jesus does a mighty work in her heart and soul .
If you feel called to support the work that takes us into the streets, into the rain, into the hard places:
We are so grateful to even be a small part of a little life that matters enormously to God.
To be continued.
Iris Johannesburg runs regular street outreach in the inner city of Johannesburg, serving the homeless, the addicted, undocumented refugees, as well as families in crisis. We go where the need is. We stay as long as it takes.
Partner with us and come along, there is no distance in prayer and support.
