His back to my face, the street straight ahead,
He turns, says, Thanks,” and accepts my tract.
His face to the wind and also to me, now he sees my shirt,
Reacts to “Jesus” with internal flack.

Good news or other views? A chilling wind blows strong.
He grasps the paper; the light turns green.
His inner voice says, “No way. Get lost!”
He crumples the tract, tosses it to the wind.

A blast of cold, he leaves in haste,
His face but one in the crowd.
Yet there are others to invite to the Son.
My task is not yet done.

Through the streets, icy gusts howl and weave.
Merciless, the wind wants no teachers, no path,
A surging force, it keeps driving with untamed will.
Then the sun breaks through, its hot breath reveals.

On my corner, steadfast I stand,
And order my face to the wind, not the heat.
On my back the sun feels good. I look straight ahead and see him stoop.
He picks up a tract someone else has thrown on the ground.

Note: When our missionaries go out on deputation trips, they speak at night and use their daytime hours to engage in evangelism. This poem is based on a broadsiding experience Peter Rice had while on deputation in Minnesota last spring. A Jewish man took a tract, saw the name Jews for Jesus and threw it away. Later Peter saw him change his mind and retrieve another tract that someone else had thrown down.


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