Mrs. Shirley Flowers, whose neighbors call her “Miss Shirley,” sits for several hours every day at a table in the lobby of her building to keep out drug dealers. . . .

She speaks of toddlers in the streets who sometimes don’t know where their mothers are. “If it’s dinnertime, I’ll bring them in and feed them. If they’re dirty, I’ll give them their bath.” Many of the kids, she says, have little bugs all over them. “Piojos is the word the Puerto Rican children use. They get into their hair and skin. I say to them, `Stay here with me. I’ll keep you safe until your mamma’s home.’ The children know me, so they know that they don’t need to be afraid.” . . .

I ask Mrs. Flowers, “Have you ever seen a shooting victim die before your eyes? ”

“I’ve seen a generation die,” she answers. “Some of them were killed with guns. Some lost their minds from drugs. Some from disease. Now we have AIDS, the great plague, the plague of AIDS, the plague that can’t be cured. It’s true. I’ve seen it. I’ve been there. I’ve been here in this building twenty-four years and I’ve seen it all.”

Despite the horrors she has seen, she seems a fearless person and almost serene. I ask, “How do you keep yourself composed?”

“I pray. I talk to God. I tell him, `Lord, it is your work. Put me to rest at night and wake me in the morning.’”

“Do your children have the same belief in God that you do?”

“Yes,” she says, nodding at her daughter and her son-in-law. “They do. This family talks to God.”