On a late Spring morning, I was in downtown Ottawa. I had arrived early for a meeting. Across the street from where I parked my care was St. Patrick’s Basilica. It’s a stately and majestic stone building; originally constructed in 1855 to serve as the English speaking church for the Ottawa area. Today, the grounds are lined with a black iron rod fencing. The lawns are immaculately cared for and as a result of the cooler, rainy spring, they are a lush deep green. In the middle of the grass, On the right side of the century and half stone steps there is a monument of a Celtic cross. On the lawn, to left side of the steps is a statue of Jesus. It is simple, all white washed, he’s wearing a robe and his hands are turned, as though he’s welcoming passers by.  Amid the bustling of the city, the stopping and starting of hundreds of cars headed to who knows where, it’s a serene picture, for those who choose.    As I was standing in front of the stone steps I noticed to my left, a man, a black