One morning this week, I found myself driving through one of those desolate areas that squat in the heart of too many inner-cityscapes. It was a pewter-grey day, with lowering clouds in a heavy sky. I was on my way to my accountant’s office, feeling vaguely uneasy about the conversation ahead.

Through my car window, the street blurred by. Shattered glass on broken asphalt. Used condoms, empty plastic bags, wax paper wrappers blown against the curb by a cold wind.

Discarded syringes. Hookers so young they should have been in grade school, shivering in tiny skirts and bare legs.

My heart felt crushed beneath a familiar, breathtaking weight. Holding back tears, I rounded the corner.

And there, on a bright yellow curb through whose cracks weeds flourished, this graffiti, in bold black paint:


In that moment, everything changed.

The startling radiance of Grace, descending.