A walk down the Avenida

I can hear my footsteps echoing down the nine flights of stairs as I descend from my apartment on the third floor. I walk out of the front door, turn right and walk down the alley past the large exotic plants in the oversized plastic containers welcoming me to the outside world. My key turns with a click in the lock of the towering, metal gate and as I push it outwards my senses are assaulted by the sights and sounds of the Avenida.
The sun shines brightly and I feel the heat on my face. Loud distorted voices announce special offers from loud speakers attached to the top of moving cars, onibus after onibus rattles by pumping thick smoke into the air and I feel the familiar sensation of pollution settling down into the back of my throat. I move from side to side avoiding pedestrians who either do not see me or do not care whether they bump into me or not; they walk at a different pace and a different rhythm to me. Music thumps out of a furniture shop and I can smell sweetcorn and hot dogs mingled with a hint of alcohol from petrol pumping traffic.
And then there is another smell; it is out of place. Amidst the smell of pollution and food stalls the smell of urine is unmistakeable and shocking because it shouldn't be here, on the Avenida. Instinctively, I look for the source of this smell and almost 5o yards along the road I see a dirty, crumpled blanket huddled in a broken down doorway and underneath.....there is a human being, a child of God. I look closer and I see a face but I cannot tell if it is a man or a woman and I am not sure if they are young or old. Poverty has taken away the luxury of identity and they have been reduced to a crumpled blanket in a doorway. This person pulls the blanket over them as if to make themselves more invisible to the crowds who show no interest in them at all.
The Avenida continues to clatter and clang as I walk past but I do not hear it. I am unaware of the pollution in the back of my throat and I no longer hear the men shouting their adverts from the tops of cars as they chug by. What story does this person have to tell? Did they once run and jump as a little child. Did they have hopes and dreams, a favourite food, a best friend, a Mum or a Dad who loved them? I think of Jesus and I wonder where He is in this person's life and then I am reminded that I am part of the body of Christ and this is where God has sent me. I cannot speak the language well enough to approach this person without causing them some concern. I have nothing with me that I can offer as a gift. I say a prayer. What can I do Lord? Show me how I can help? Not just this person, but all the people I see, each day, living in poverty, living without the basic human needs that we take for granted in the western world.
My key turns in the lock of the metal gate. It shuts with a bang and I am now on the other side. It is quieter here but that crumpled blanket continues to invade my senses and disturb my heart as I climb the nine flights of stairs back to my apartment.