Four other staffers and I took eleven children from our After School Program camping for the weekend. The children were convinced that the deer we saw on our trip to Indiana Dunes were part of Santa’s team. They also believed that if we could catch one we’d see Santa. A couple of the children speculated that Santa was God, but they were put in check by the other children, “No, Silly, God made Santa Claus.”

That is how the whole camp-out went. Little acts of faith, little encouragements toward belief, and all from the children. Many inner city children are afraid of things that are not closed in by concrete and brick. One boy took my hand as we were walking and told me, “If God told me to go into woods all by myself, I would because God would keep me safe.” And this little boy was one of the children particularly afraid of the woods. To hear him speak those words of faith when I knew how afraid he was brought conviction to my heart. He trusted the Lord completely with all things even through his fears, why can’t I? Why do I worry about what tomorrow may bring, why can’t I have that child like faith?

It is amazing to me the things Jesus shows me through these children at the shelter. I am continually challenged by them.
 

Outside the Leland Hotel
By Rebecca Hill

One hot summer day a girl came screaming into our JPUSA lobby, her eyes wide with terror. She grabbed my arms and begged me to help her. “He’s coming, he’s going to kill me!” Another woman came in and started trying to drag her out. I stepped in between them and yelled for her to let the girl go.  “She’s fine, this is none of your business!” the second girl screamed. I told her that I wanted to call the police. “No, no, she’s fine, there’s no guy she’s just high.”

She talked the girl, whose name was Donna, into leaving with her. I wasn’t  sure if donna really was just high, or if the second woman had been sent by  whoever “he” was to come retrieve Donna.

I saw Donna later that week, standing on the street corner, waiting for a prospective customer. She grinned at me sheepishly, lit a cigarette and spit on the sidewalk. “Glad to see you’re alive, Donna. Who was that woman you were with at our house?”

“Aw, that was just my sister-in-law, Chris. She looks after me.” “You gotta take better care of yourself, Donna.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, and started walking away in search of a corner where I wasn’t.

I would see Chris sometimes, too, walking along with her common-law husband, a red-haired guy who looked a lot like Donna. Chris caught my eye once, and winked at me. I sensed she respected me for standing up to her and caring what happened to Donna.

Her “husband,” Ray, would come in and ask to talk to some of the guys who worked with our porch building business. He had worked on different jobs as a laborer before he was beat up or shot or however he felt like explaining his partial paralysis at the moment. Sometimes Chris and I would talk, mostly just chatting about stuff going on in the neighborhood. She was pretty in a poor southern way, long bleached hair and homemade tattoos, but her eyes wee intelligent, and she engaging. You just got the feeling she was too smart to be living in Uptown with a guy like Ray.

One labor day I was walking through the lobby on my way to our pcnic by the lake. The deacon for the day, who took care of household needs and emergencies, called me into his office. There, with her head down on the desk, was Chris, not moving. I said her name softly, and she slowly raised her head to look at me. I gasped in horror, for her face was a mass of cuts and bruises, dried blood and dirt. I got some ice and tried to clean her up. She wouldn’t come with me to the hospital, but she did agree to let me call the police.

I called, and got transferred around ahile. I finally got hold of a guy who advised me to “not let her go home until her guy cools off.” What? “A  crime has been committed,” I said, trying not to let my voice go too high. (People tend to think I’m a kid on the phone.)

“Hey, come on honey, it’s Labor Day.” So much for “We serve and protect.” Experience told me she probably wouldn’t press charges anyway. I got her up to my room and let her sleep in my bed. I sat by her while she slept, all afternoon, and wondered what drove women to destroy themselves. I’d been in some bad relationships, and hated myself so much that becoming numb via substance abuse was my daily goal.

How did I explain to people like Donna and Chris that there was something better? How do you convince someone of God’s love when they’ve never seen beauty, only squalor and hate? I brought Chris a tray of good and we ate, and talked. I did my best to explain to this thirty year old that god cared for her, about hope. She smiled sadly and told me she’d like to believe that it was true. I asked her to pray with me, she did, and wound up sobbing in my arms. Chris stayed for a few days, working in the kitchen. I believed with all my heat that she would stay and serve God. We’d sit together in the venings, not talking, but we’d pray before we went to bed, and she seemed to really feel God’s presence. I admired her so much for trying.

Then one morning she was gone. No note, no nothing. I looked around the neighborhood, and someone said they’d sen her with Ray. I left her a note, saying it was okay, that if she needed to come back she could. I walked home in tears, and when I got to the corner, there was Donna getting into some guy’s car.

I’d see Chris and Ray occasionally, and Chris would give me a wink. I wanted to scream, “You’re better than this!” But I would just smile and give a half-hearted wave.

I saw Donna one day on the corner. She regarded me cooly. “Chris is dead.” She said it with no expression, as if she were commenting on the weather. Chris had O-D’ed on downers at the Leland Hotel. I sat down on the curb and cried. Donna ignored me.

I went to see Ray the next day. He was on his way to being drunk, crying and swearing. He seemed concerned over who would take care of him. I wanted to scream at him that he had destroyed something beautiful. What hurt the most, though, was that Chris had not wanted to live.
I spent a long time grieving for Chris. She didn’t even have a funeral. I’ve thought of her every day for the years since her death, every time I pass the building where she and Ray lived, and whenever I see Donna, standing on the street, hopping into some guy’s car and pretending not to care.

Is He Okay?
By Chris Ramsey

I was surprised but happy to see Robert (not his real name) again. It had been about a year since we had last talked. At that time he had been particularly down and had shared how he was struggling to regain the very real, very deep faith he once had in God. Though we left that conversation without any conclusive answers for his life, I had sensed that Robert would find his way back.

“Hey, Rob,” I warmly welcomed him. “How have you been? Long time, no see.”

“I’ve been okay… doing pretty good, really. I’ve been working. Everything’s been going good. I just remembered that Jesus People serve a meal on Wednesdays, so I decided to come over and see how everything’s going.”

“Well, it’s going pretty good, but I could use some help. We’re a little shorthanded today.”

“Sure, no problem. What do you need?”

“Right now I could use someone to pour the drinks.”

Rob pitched right in.

Later I was in the middle of giving one of our dinner guests a food bag to take home, when Rob came over to join us.

“Aren’t you going to say, ‘thank you’?” Rob asked the man whom he obviously knew.

“Oh, yeah, thanks,” said the man, shyly,

“I hope that helps,” I replied.

“Chris, aren’t you going to say, ‘You’re welcome,’”Rob reminded me.

“Oh, yeah, you’re welcome,” I said humbly.

Then the man slowly walked out the door with his bag of groceries.

“Is he okay?” I asked Rob. I was wondering if I had been taken in by his hard luck story.

Rob hesitated for a moment, and then looked at me quizzically.  “Sure he’s okay. He’s one of the ones Jesus died for,” he said matter of factly.

I was caught off guard. Of course, I know that,, I thought. But then it hit me, all my friends, all Jesus dinner guests are okay. They’re okay in the sense that God deeply loves them and continues to reach out to them. After all, Jesus died for them. And what’s more He’s told all of His followers (of whom I call myself) “As you do it (whatever it is) unto the least, you’ve done it unto me.”

So the real question became not, “Is he okay?” but “Am I okay?” Am I serving Jesus Christ with as much humility and simple, kindhearted obedience as I should.

Thanks, Rob, for helping me see more clearly what it is God has asked me to do.

First published in Cornerstone (ISSN 0275-2743), Vol. 27, Issue 115 (1999), p. 19, 32
© 1999 Cornerstone Communications, Inc.
Electronic version may contain minor changes and corrections from printed version.