We called it Black Thursday.

A group of us gathered in my office on a warm spring morning last year at Homeboy Industries, a gang-intervention program started nearly two decades ago in a tiny East Los Angeles church.

Crowding the walls was evidence of our work—photos of gang members who’d turned their lives around, drawings and paintings by kids from the projects, even a proclamation from one of East L.A.’s most notorious street gangs thanking us for our “efforts to make our lives and our community better.” Outside my office we saw gang members coming off the street for job training, counseling, maybe to apply to work in the bakery and café we run, or to have their tattoos removed by volunteer doctors.

The street was desolate, a neglected corner next to a bus storage depot less than half a mile from the Los Angeles Men’s Central Jail. Inside, though, everything hummed with life, with prayers and warm greetings, sometimes with tears of joy.

Except today we were meeting to practically shut the whole operation down. The recession had hit hard and much of our funding had dried up. We’d cobbled together the payroll money for the past few months but now the well was dry. We had more than 300 employees, most of them former gang members, counseling addicts, answering phones and teaching classes. They’d all have to go. The senior staff would be laid off. I would be laid off, and I’d helped found the place. We talked all morning about what to do.

We were desperate for another solution but there seemed to be only one course of action.

Finally we stopped for lunch. “We’ll break the bad news this afternoon,” I said. Silently I gave one last frantic prayer for help.

When I returned, word had already spread. The parking lot, sidewalk and lobby were mobbed. Huge guys covered in tattoos were sobbing. Homeboy Industries is the largest gang-intervention program in the country and the only operation of its kind in Los Angeles, America’s gang capital. For these guys it was a lifeline. And I was taking it away.

Worse, I blamed myself. We’d recently built a new headquarters that let us bring all of our programs under one roof. It was paid for but I hadn’t anticipated the increase in costs our expansion would generate. The number of gang members, or “homies,” as they call themselves, coming to us had quadrupled to 12,000 per year. (There are an estimated 100,000 gang members in the L.A. area.) I walked through that swarm of homies in a miserable daze.

I thought about all the kids who’d come to us over the years broken down and brokenhearted. That’s the real reason kids join gangs. They’re not natural-born criminals. They’re just out of options—no jobs in sight, dysfunctional schools and families, no sense of belonging in society. Yet these kids had taught me so much—more, it sometimes seemed, than I’d ever taught them.

I remembered one year in particular, when I was as depressed and anxious as I was that Black Thursday afternoon. It was 1992, six years after I’d been assigned as pastor of Delores Mission Church in East Los Angeles. Delores Mission was the poorest parish in all of L.A., basically two sprawling public-housing projects right next door to each other. The projects were home to eight different warring gangs.

Even though I was a middle-class white guy who spoke little Spanish, dealing with those gangs became a major part of my ministry. Mothers and grandmothers in my parish were distraught at the constant shootings, stabbings and drug dealing going on every day right outside their doors. They hated the violence but they loved their children. Maybe, they reasoned, if we made our church a place of love and refuge and helped these kids find jobs and mentors they’d leave the gang life. By fits and starts we put together a program that placed kids in local jobs and taught them basic life skills. We even bought them suits for interviews. We started our own businesses and we hired homies to run them.

I wasn’t smart enough to let it all take its own time. Instead I tried to solve the gang problem single-handedly. I never slept. Late at night I’d get on my bicycle and pedal through the projects. If I saw homies with guns drawn I confronted them. I escorted kids to their doors. I pleaded with gang members to leave the life and come to us for counseling. I shooed away drug dealers and even tried to broker truces between rival gangs. The truces were worse than useless. Gangs never fight about anything real. It’s all turf and posturing and desperate efforts to mask despair and fear.

As a Jesuit I was mandated to take a long retreat that year. I spent 30 days in silent prayer and realized that all of my efforts had come to little. The housing projects were more torn up by violence than ever. I was burned out. I returned wondering if I’d ever find a way to make a difference.

That’s when I met Pedro, a young guy addicted to crack. Every time I saw him in the projects I offered to get him into rehab. “I’m okay, G,” he’d say and slink off. (The homies call me “Father G” or just “G.”) One day, to my total surprise, Pedro said yes.

I drove him to a rehab center north of L.A. A month later his younger brother, Jovan, also a gang member, committed suicide. I picked Pedro up from rehab for the funeral. I had no idea what to say but Pedro launched into conversation the minute he got in the car. “It’s a trip, G,” he said. “I had this dream last night and you were in it.”

Pedro said he and I were standing in a large, empty, pitch-black room when suddenly I lifted up a flashlight and turned it on, illuminating a light switch on the wall. I didn’t speak, didn’t move, just held the beam steady. “All of a sudden,” said Pedro, “I realized I was the only one who could flip that switch. You couldn’t do it. I had to do it. So I walked over there and I took a breath and I flipped it on. And the room got light.” He paused and I saw he was crying. “And, G,” he choked out, “I realized that the light…is better…than the darkness.”

That was all. We didn’t say much more. After the funeral Pedro returned to rehab. His story, though, flipped a switch in my own mind. I realized what I’d been doing wrong—I’d been going around trying to turn on lights for everyone in the projects when in fact all I could do was aim the flashlight. I couldn’t save those kids. Only God could save them. My job was simply to point the way.

My work changed after that. No more bike patrols. No more brokering truces. I focused more on Homeboy Industries and made it clear to kids that I was ready to work with them only when they were ready to work with us. We sometimes joke that our motto (“Nothing stops a bullet like a job”) should be changed to “You just can’t disappoint us enough.” But that doesn’t mean we let kids off the hook. If they slack off or drift back into the life, we send them packing. We pray hard they’ll come back. But in the end that’s their decision.

The day after the layoffs I arrived at the office to find the place as noisy and busy as ever. “We’re still working,” the staff told me. “Maybe you’ll be able to pay us someday.” Pretty much everyone showed up, including Pedro, who’s a case manager.

Homies went to Dodger Stadium to collect donations from fans lining up for games. They took to the streets to sell copies of a book I’d recently written. They called newspapers and television stations and soon the place was swarming with reporters. “Your terrific press person, Melissa, called us,” a television cameraman told me. He meant a homegirl who works in the tattoo-removal clinic and had never spoken to the media before in her life.

Donations trickled in, then snowballed. In a few months we’d raised $3.5 million. Los Angeles County gave us $1.3 million to serve kids on probation. It’s still not enough. Our businesses, staffed almost entirely by homies, are self-sustaining. But the rest of what we do is slow, expensive work. So far we’ve managed to put about a hundred people back on the payroll.

I have no idea what we’ll do come June, when the county contract runs out. Still, I don’t despair. God brought us this far and he’ll carry us along. I may be shining the flashlight and the homies may be flipping the switch. But it’s God who provides the illumination. On Black Thursday and every day.

Download your FREE ebook, A Prayer for Every Need, by Norman Vincent Peale.

At noon each Wednesday, I used to walk from the dental office where I worked to my friend Bonnie’s house nearby. There, we met for prayer. Through the months, I saw many of our prayers answered, but I also discovered the power of a wish.

A dear friend, who had been rejected for a position in her church, began to resent the one who had been chosen for it. I watched sadly as envy ate at my friend. I silently wished she would stop finding fault and take an honest look at herself.

Within a week, she called and said, “I’ve decided to get rid of my bitter attitude. Please remind me if I start to say anything negative about that person.” I thought, that’s like an answer to prayer…only I didn’t pray!

Later, my new daughter-in-law JoAnn said she would never be baptized. I couldn’t say anything without sounding like a meddling mother-in-law, but I often wished she would change her mind. I’m sure I would have prayed about it after awhile, but before I could, she announced that she wanted to be baptized.

My fulfilled wishes reminded me of God’s message to Isaiah, “Before they call, I will answer” (Isaiah 65:24).

God knows our wishes—what we hope for—before we even realize we should pray for them. Since I discovered what can happen when I wish something good for someone, wishing has become fun for me.

Throughout my day, as I see a need, I offer wishes for others like good thoughts blown their way. The rest I leave to God. He understands and answers.

Two weeks. That’s all it was going to be. I was here in Uganda on a mission trip as part of the global justice project at Pepperdine University Law School, where I teach. We’d spend our January semester break helping out some kids who had been stuck in a juvenile detention home, waiting for their day in court. We’d offer legal counsel, prepare briefs to be sent to the judge, do some sightseeing and go home. That seemed like enough of a commitment for someone with my hectic schedule.

My colleague Jay Milbrandt had been urging me to get involved in the global justice program, but I’d put him off. Not only did I have classes to teach but I’m also associate dean of student life, and there was always something coming up. What little free time I had went to teaching Bible classes with my wife at our church or coaching one of our three kids’ soccer teams. Of course I cared about justice, cared very deeply. Justice is the soul of the law. My job was to teach that to my students, not give legal advice in Africa. “Later,” I told Jay.

Then last fall Jay and I went to the annual conference of the Christian Legal Society. Three days of talks and seminars culminated in a closing dinner with Bob Goff, one of the nation’s top litigators, giving the keynote address. Bob’s well over six feet and he towered over the podium, his voice booming as if he were addressing a closing argument to a jury in a murder trial.

“We have a moral, faith-based duty to see that justice is done for the least of us!” Bob talked about the pro bono work he was doing for kids in Third World countries, seeking to protect them from abuses like forced labor and prostitution. Lately he’d been focusing on Uganda where the judiciary was overworked and understaffed, often unable to process the cases of kids who were arrested, some of them with little or no evidence against them. He challenged us to use our legal skills for the poor and oppressed, especially the most vulnerable—the world’s youth.

“Our God is a God of justice,” he declared, then added, “and he’s nuts about kids.”

That final line got me. Something inside me clicked. You could help here, I told myself. Go overseas and use your legal training. It would be a good experience. And a good way to live out your faith. I leaned over and said to Jay, “We’re going to Africa.”

The two of us accosted Bob and asked what we could do. He told us about a children’s prison he’d visited in rural Uganda where children were stuck sometimes for years, their cases unheard, and sometimes used as forced labor. All they needed were a few volunteer lawyers to prepare summary briefs for them so a judge would agree to hear and process their cases. What if a group of us from Pepperdine went there? Bob could put us in touch with the right people.

And so it happened that three months later we were on a plane to Uganda. I had no idea what to expect. I’d been a lawyer for almost 20 years and had clerked for a judge, worked for a large firm and in private practice. I was used to spending months on depositions, but Bob said we could interview the children and learn their cases in a matter of days. All we needed to do was prepare a paragraph-long summary for each child. That would be enough for the judge. A two-week trip, that’s all it was going to be. I could handle it, then be back to my busy schedule at Pepperdine.

We landed in Kampala and drove north to the dusty town of Masindi. We met with a judge and got a list of the 22 cases we’d handle. Finally we were at the remand house, where the children were being held, answering Bob Goff’s call to faith and action. There was no guard or fence around the place, just a few teenagers milling about. Where could anyone escape to, way out here in the bush?

The boys’ hall, where 18 boys lived, was a one-room concrete warehouse. No lights, no screens against malarial mosquitoes, no running water, no electricity, no closets for their clothes, no beds, no privacy whatsoever. Just foam pads and a few ragged blankets. I thought about Bob’s final line, the clincher. How would these kids ever know God was nuts about them?

The four of us divided into two groups to interview the kids. “Who can translate into English for these lawyers?” the judge asked. Two young men stepped forward, brothers named Joseph and Henry.

Our group got Henry. A short, slim 16-year-old dressed in sweatpants, a T-shirt and flip-flops, he was bright and deferential, always addressing me as “sir.” We sat down in lawn chairs under a tree. I opened my laptop. What had this sweet boy supposedly done to land here? Steal food for his family?

“Which case is yours?” I asked. He looked over my shoulder and pointed to the screen, “That one…and that one.” I caught my breath. An accused double murderer? I would get to his cases later. First I wanted to clear some of the simple ones.

With each interview I began to see how flimsy the cases were. Some would have been thrown out of court for lack of evidence. I became more and more disturbed the more I found out. I discovered that the matron in charge had unlawfully hired the boys out to local farmers to do forced labor, which was perhaps why their cases had languished so long. One of the boys being forced to work had died of an apparent asthma attack, a heartbreaking miscarriage of justice.

Henry was an excellent assistant, often anticipating our questions. Because of his intelligence and leadership he’d been made the head boy, or “prime minister” as they called him at the house. During a break I gave him my business card and let him listen to my iPod. “What’s the name of that song, sir?” he’d asked. “‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ by Bon Jovi.”

“Ah, a Christian song,” he said. Not exactly, I thought, but the explanation would be too long to go into. Prayer was important to the children. Henry told me they’d prayed after Bob and one of his colleagues had visited them in the fall, asking God to bring the men back to hear their stories and help them. And here we were, an answer to boys’ prayers halfway around the world.

When it came time to interview Henry I sat him down in the lawn chair. “Tell me exactly why you are a prisoner here.”

He and his brother were charged along with others for the murder of a herdsman in their village. They didn’t do it. They couldn’t have. The man was killed between eight and nine in the morning when both were at school. Henry’s teacher confirmed that. But they’d been stuck in this remand house for a year and a half, their education interrupted, their futures on hold indefinitely, perhaps forever, for a case that should have been dismissed in a court of law if it were heard.

The second murder? Because of his position of leadership at the house, Henry was charged along with the matron in the death of the boy who’d died of asthma, something he was hardly responsible for.

The interviews continued. Each night our team stayed up late to write up summaries from our notes, then we went back for more. During one break I took out my phone and showed it to Henry. “This is better than mine, sir,” he said.

“Yours?” I asked. He pulled out his from a pocket. As head boy he was entitled to it. He pointed to the business card I’d given him earlier. Was the phone number on it the number for my cell? No, I said, that was my phone at work. He gestured to my cell again. “What is the number for this, sir?” he said.

I was caught off guard. In an instant I knew that how I answered his question would largely determine what kind of journey I was on. Was I just a do-gooder passing through or someone willing to become personally invested in the life of a 16-year-old Ugandan prisoner? In doing justice where justice was not always done? Was I called to this place because God had moved me or was I just doing something to ease my conscience?

“Of course you can have my number, Henry. I could not have done this work without you and I promise to help you as best I can, through the law and through prayer.” In turn Henry gave me his number. “Thank you, sir.” The deal was sealed. I was in this for the long haul.

I have been back to Uganda three times since that trip in 2010. Henry and Joseph were released, the case against them for the death of the herdsman dismissed. As for the charge against Henry in connection with the boy who died of asthma, I’m working at having it struck from his record when I go back to Uganda this fall. Both boys have since been enrolled in the boarding school Bob Goff started in Uganda, the Restore Leadership Academy. They’re doing great.

Henry calls me on my cell once a week. He always asks, “How’s America?” He asks about my work, my family. He tells me about his school, his family. We discuss the cases of those in the remand house, who’s gone to court and what was decided. This January I’ll head back to Uganda. I’m taking my family with me. I’ll be working with the Ugandan judiciary as part of a six-month sabbatical, and my wife and kids will be working to educate children in the remand home. Did I say two weeks? Did I say I’m as nuts about these kids as God is?

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