The Art of Noticing
by Michael P. Evans, MDiv, PhD
It’s a cloudy Sunday evening in late March. A light mist settles over San Francisco’s Embarcadero, the air cool, the streets quiet. Tall buildings tower silently. My colleague Sam and I have just arrived from the Tenderloin, and the contrast is stark. Where the Tenderloin pulses with sound, the Embarcadero is still. Clean. Easy to overlook anything—or anyone—that doesn’t “fit.”
We’re meeting Night Minister Tamunoemi Speedy-Bote for a walk. These night walks are the heart of San Francisco Night Ministry’s work: spiritual and emotional care offered on the streets, in real time, with no prerequisites.
I’ll admit—I didn’t expect her to choose this spot. The Embarcadero doesn’t usually register as a site of deep need. But that’s the point. It’s easy not to notice.
At the BART station on Market and Spear, Tamunoemi isn’t immediately visible. Then we spot her—crouched beside a woman sitting to the side of the BART entrance. One might pass by without seeing her, but Tamunoemi sees. She’s listening as the woman—tears on her cheeks—shares her pain. A sign leans against her leg, a bag of belongings nearby. We keep our distance while Tamunoemi offers presence, compassion, a prayer, and something to eat.
Her calm assurance carries us to the Ferry Building, a place where hardship hides in plain sight. Inside, Tamunoemi pauses to greet an elderly man by the door, standing beside two suitcases, clothes clean. At first glance, I assume he’s a tourist. But Tamunoemi notices something beneath the surface. His name is Joseph. He’s from Montana, in San Francisco five years, with no plans to go back. “I just want to get this city a little better,” he says. Tamunoemi offers snacks and water—items she brings herself—and he accepts with a soft thank-you. I see echoes of dementia in his gaze, familiar from my own life. Tamunoemi meets him where he is.
We continue outside, where the bay stretches before us—water lapping, birds overhead, mist in the air. The benches by the ferry docks hold more unseen stories. One man, who calls himself “B.B. King,” is tall, with facial tattoos, matted hair, and a beard. He’s holding drug paraphernalia, shouting at passersby. Yet when Tamunoemi speaks to him, he lights up, glad to be seen. His words are unmoored, adrift in thought and memory, but he beams when we ask about his name, singing “What a Wonderful World.” The song was popularized by Louis Armstrong, not B.B. King, but the rendition is beautiful.
Nearby, a young woman in a hijab approaches. She thanks us for the interaction she witnessed, saying it moved her. Her name is Zara, and she introduces her extended family, gathered to celebrate Eid. We wish them a happy Eid. Tamunoemi gives Zara a San Francisco Night Ministry card, explaining our multifaith work and inviting her involvement. Zara’s face shines with recognition of shared values—not just in the mission, but in the kindness behind it.
The art of noticing is more than seeing—it’s honoring. On this chilly evening, under soft mist and city light, that sacred art lives on.
