January 2012 Late Night with Raymond
Last night, January 11th, we had a long night. Raymond had a longer one. With very few people at the OC, we departed expecting the same. Then in two spots we found people where there had been none. We found Walter and Robert at the old shack by the tracks, and John and an unknown in the Hooker Street Apartment ruins. The unknown man slept on a short ledge way back in the ruins. He never stirred as we left him food, water, and socks. There wasn't a soul at Battlefield park and the restrooms at the ball fields had been padlocked, the dugouts - empty, and the scorer's stand was unoccupied. Jake and Deanna were at Jake's shed with a roaring fire in a 55 gallon barrel. Deanna let us pray for her and allowed Kelli to hold her finger - I can't even begin to explain that miracle, it is an entire story on its own. The store was cleaned up and Khemo and a new Scotty were there. At the Bridges by Rally's we found our old friend Scotty, Roy, Willy, Donna, and a few others including Henri and his buggy. Twin was at the Regency and we were surprised by a visit from Shorty, it had been many months. He was in high spirits with several job offers. Then we went to Raymond's bridge to check on Raymond, Bruce, and Andrea. Bruce and Andrea were good, Clay was there, and so was Raymond...with at least a four inch gash in his forehead over his left eye. He carried on and talked as though he were fine, even walked down off the bridge embankment on his own power as we debated what to do. Roland Hall called an ambulance, and an officer showed up. Raymond immediately struck out for the woods. John and I trailed him, not sure if he was just taking a restroom break or what, but he walked into a patch of woods by the off-ramp. We followed. Raymond repeatedly told us he was not going till in the morning, and he would go on his own, no ambulance. We coaxed him back out of the woods, and later a great lady named Melissa and a helper arrived at about 12:30am. After about an hour of constant urging, Raymond got into the ambulance. I don't know who would hit a guy like Raymond with whatever was used. It is a mystery to me, for he is always the whimsical old man seeminly incapable of hurting a flea. But the streets don't play, and they could care less about your countinence, easy going nature, joy, or peace. I don't understand it, but maybe it is not to be understood - only encountered in the love, grace, and peace of Christ. His light dispells the darkness in dark places, and He allows us to dispense grace-orbs of His light. I pray Raymond will be okay, and I felt a lot better about it as he was getting strapped into the ambulance. "Maybe I better get this taken care of," he said, "It has been bleeding some." Raymond being Raymond. Pray for our friends - every day in the streets is a battle for survival. -malcolm
December 2011 Interesting answer to an innocent question
It was an innocent question. I didn’t expect much more than a number from the inquiry. I’m not even sure what the number was supposed to tell me. “How old are you, Scotty?” “I don’t know, I was born in ’59.” The nights and days they all run together for him as they do for many of our friends. As we age days become weeks, and weeks become months. Months become years, and years become decades until finally a life nears the end of the journey. We can all be subject to this alteration of time where the details of our daily existence blur amid the routine of our days, but on the street this phenomena is ramped up to hyper-warp-speed. When you’ve worn the same pair of pants for three months, socks for four weeks, and shoes for six months – the passage of time may be marked less by calendar days and more by the passing of seasons as they change or new articles of clothing. This makes you remember the year you were born, but not how long you’ve lived or even what year it is. Last night Philip gave Scotty a new pair of jeans. The pants he had worn for three months literally were coming apart…another passage of time marked by the significance of a new pair of pants. I got up this morning pulled on my trousers and never thought anything about them. They were clean. I don’t know if I’ve worn a pair of pants twice before washing since I was twelve. I have a closet full of shoes and a rod hanging with shirts – some I’ve not worn in ages. I have a drawer full of socks – none with holes. Unlike Scotty, getting things never mark any part of my journey. There is a calendar on my phone, in my computer, and they tell me where to be and what to do every part of the day. Scotty has no such device, no such schedule, no such life. And, the wheels on the bus go round and round. The clock ticks. The ability to number your days aright as Moses would say (see Psalm 90), to hold to them like the precious gifts they are can be missed in Scotty’s world. He recalls and numbers his days differently than the rest of us. We of the Jackson Street Ministry endeavor to walk some of those days with folks like Scotty, maybe help slow the tumult of the passage of time and at least for a night anyway – walk with our friends in the lofty pastures of dreamy landscapes far far away from the dark streets of their daily walk. Perhaps in the process of this walk of dreams hope might spring from ashes, a green sprout in a decaying mass, a silver lining on a dark cloud, a fresh pair of new jeans. From these meager starting points through Christ - a new world of possible outcomes become reality. I pray new realities for Scotty. May he know his days and find meaning in them.
-Malcolm
November 2011 Being Thankful in the Street November always make me think of Thanksgiving. Many times I've written about the strange thankfullness we find on the street from folks most people classify as not having anything worth being thankful for. Those people miss the point. Having nothing actually creates significance for everything. A blanket suddenly is worth its weight in gold, a sandwich when starving may save a life, a cold bottle of water may stave off dehydration, someone stopping by to check on you may help you understand you mean something to someone else. I don't know what you'll be doing this Christmas season, but consider doing some volunteer time at one of the many organizations that cater to the homeless. You will go home being thankful. As Skip Mathews has often said, "I came down to fix homelessness, and homelessness has fixed me." -Malcolm
October 2011 News in General... October was an unusual month. Unseasonably early cold weather caused the opening of emergency shelter at the OC, and the number of folks we serve has been chaotic. One night, Mead spotted a small fire in a clump of trees one night and we met a drifter called "Curtis." Perched above a small creek way off the road, he had a small fire going and welcomed water and eventually food. His biggest concern was - how we found him. I guess if we could find him the those who would wish to do him harm could find him. To be honest, I could never see the light of the flame that Mead saw. I assume that God led us to this man for a purpose either in something we did or said. No one was at the camp-site on nights to follow. We had over 300 Bibles donated for the Buddy Bible drive. We believe this will keep us supplied for the next 12 months. Buddy would have been very pleased that in his memory the Word of God was collected and gifted to those who live on the street. Signs of folks in the woods where Connie and Mark lived have been seen, but no one found. We did meet a forelorn soul who claimed to figuratively be Mark's brother. He was very sad for all that had happened. He had seen our van parked by the woods and he stopped to talk with us. The police tape still hangs, and some of Mark and Connie's possessions still lay strewn about the grounds. Most noteable to me is a ball of yarn used by Connie to knit with. There was more to knit, more life to be lived, but both ended tragically. We continue to pray for those who will find shelter in these woods in months and years to come. We are seeing much more activity in the Battlefield park area. We have made some special friends here, and look forward to sharing more with them. Red has been taken to Gateway after charges resulting from an altercation with Amanda. She was in serious condition - pray for her safety. She and James are still out on the street. Pray that the help Red is getting will make for a life change and free a captive from the streets. When you pray, please remember a man named Phillip. I'm guessing he is in his early 20's and works when he can for Waste Management. He says he can't go home and is trying to find regular work to be able to find temporary housing. It is clear to all of us that Phillip has a bright future, and we pray he gets off the streets. Right now he stays with Twin most nights in the old shak by the broken down tree.
So many needs... So much pain... Prayer is the balm for both. -m
September 2011 September Buddy Bibles
This September the JSM is honoring the memory of Buddy Campbell by asking for Bible donations. They can be used, hardback, paperback, it doesn't matter. God's Word is more powerful than the binding or cover. We want to place as many Bibles as we can in the hands of our friends over the next year, and we are hoping to make our September Buddy Bible Drive and annual event. It was September one year ago that Buddy passed on to be with his Savior (see story - Buddy Goes Home under Sept. 2010). If you would like to donate a Bible, email me (malcolmwoody@rocketmail.com) and I will let you know how you can do it. Thansk - m
July 2011 July 21, 2011 "Under Meade's Bridge" “Malcolm, are you gonna check Meade’s Bridge tonight?” “Yeah, we can.” But Malcolm had already moved the bus into the go straight lane and had to make an illegal right turn to do it. We hadn’t seen anyone under that bridge in over a year but still checked it occasionally, just for Meade. Just in case. We were a little down since the OC is so frustrating; everyone in the neighborhood comes out for free food and gets mixed in with the truly homeless. It’s hard to single out those in real need and those that are there just for what they can collect and take home. On the I-20 route we didn’t find Jake and of course Dean is off the streets and living in Alabama with his sister Carol. Praise God for that. JR has asked us not to stop anymore sighting that there are folks that need food much more than him. He has gone dark for now as well. Connie’s woods remain empty and even Raymond was nowhere to be found. Red was not out; Melton was not out and the only one we found at the old store was a new guy named Phillip, whose ‘girl had kicked him out’, and he had been on the street for four days. We left him a pizza and a Bible. Donna called me on her cell phone asking if we were close so we swung by and left food and water. Also, we’re not sure why but, apparently we never gave her a Bible. It was probably because she never showed interest and I know for a fact that she is one of the most hell-bent people on the street. Donna has survived two near fatal car accidents. One of which I remember visiting her in the hospital on life support, the day before they were to ‘pull the plug’. I thought I was saying good-bye, but she later recovered enough, yanked all her tubes, except for the feeding tube in her stomach, and headed back to the street. The story has it that one of the ‘girls’ visited her in the hospital, introduced the old crack pipe, and Donna started yanking. Her desire for death overcame her need for life and she was back to the old ways. Hell-bent. So tonight, I signed a Bible for her, with my name and number in it so she wouldn’t loose it. No one on the street would ever throw a Bible away. It’s ‘very superstitious’. Anyway, with not having seen but a handful of our homeless friends, we were headed home, as we were led to take that illegal merging right toward Mead’s Bridge. Just in case. I just stayed put on the bus, still thinking about Donna, and gave my flashlight to Mead. It WAS his bridge anyway. We named the bridge after him because he insisted that if he were ever homeless this would be the bridge he would live under. That’s why we still check it, on Meade’s hunch. They weren’t gone 30 seconds when Meade charges up the hill and announces, “You’re not gonna believe it. Twin is under the bridge.” We all jumped up out of our seats and ran down the hill, finding Twin, dirty, feeble and drunk. The story has it that he had been in the hospital to remove an abscess on his leg due to wearing his prosthetic all the time. When he pulled it off to show us, the smell was indescribable. Medical attention mode kicked in and we made him sit and let us sanitize and bandage it. He hung his head and cried. He repeated that he didn’t want us to see him like this and that he knew that he didn’t have much time left in this world. Though he didn’t say it, we knew that he felt that he had disappointed us since we helped him get off the street almost a year ago, and now we was ‘a street man’ all over again. Twin told us, “When I die, bury me with a red rose under my right arm just like my brother.” Thus his street name: Twin. His twin brother, Dennis, was killed years ago. He has morned the day ever since, remembering it now, as he believes that he is close to death himself. Now that we know his whereabouts, we can keep a watch over him and care for him as he will never go to a shelter. Twenty-six years as a ‘street man’ never leaves the blood. We prayed and left Twin to the night, but not before he declared his love for us and sang his song, “Sanctuary”. Of course, as always, we joined him. “Lord prepare me, to be a sanctuary, pure and holy, tried and true. With thanksgiving, make me a-willing sanctuary for You.” May we always be willing to ‘check the bridge’. You never know what or who you might find. Kelli I.
Mark... Recently, I recieved an email detailing the passing of Mark Hughes. Such sadness always accompanies this type news which has been more common than uncommon the last year or so. A body was found last month near our I-20 route who was a man we never encountered. So the story goes, on and on... Concerning Mark, the story is an old one. It has been years now since our first meeting in the infamous woods along Frontage Road near I-20. Our relationship was abruptly ended last December when Connie was found murdered and Mark left the woods to go live with his parents. We have encountered no one in those woods since, though recently there have been signs - a sleeping bag and mattress just on the far side of the yellow police tape which still spans the area. Sad is the one word that comes to mind when I think of Mark. I'm saddened that we couldn't have done more to help Mark with his addiction. I'm saddened about what happened in those lonely woods to Connie, which changed Mark's last days like no other event in his life. I'm saddened that there is so much incompleteness when death takes away a soul. I'm saddened that I didn't get a chance to talk to Mark in the last six months. I'm saddened for Mark's family. I pray that peace will return once the pain of loss has run its course. This peace is only found in a loving God. It is a peace so profound that even a master word-crafter like Paul could find no words to describe it. He simple said it transcended all understanding. It is a good description of God's peace. If you've ever felt it - it is the hope of the world in Christ. As I write this I realize many people have many questions and so many want closure to this entire episode of Mark and Connie. The truth is we may never find closure in this life. I can't find the word in the Bible. Closure only happens in the perfection of the next life. Until then, peace is what we hold to. Not justice. Not worldly wisdom or knowledge, just hope and peace. We may never have all our questions answered that swirl around the homeless existence of our friends. It doesn't bother me because answers are not what I seek. I seek the people. I miss both Connie and Mark. They are both gone, and their passing motivates me all the more to bring the love, grace, truth and yes - peace of Christ to all He avails to us. I can do nothing more now that they are gone like Natalie, Jeremy, Anthony, Kenny, and others, but make sure the next person that crosses our path will know of Jesus and the victory that can lead to a life of hope and peace - a life off the street, free from the bondage of addictions, liberated to a life of hope, restored and delivered to healed relationships with people that have cried real tears and prayed for them. They are out there wondering if anyone cares, if anyone is praying, if anyone really loves them, if they are even worthy of love. May they never wonder as long as we have breath.
June 2011 Divine Appointments and strange missionary journeys...
Last night we approached the old cabin on Frontage Rd. like we had seemingly a thousand times before. It looked the same by all appearances - dark, run down, cluttered with trash and debris, and above all empty as usual. If our friend Harold is there his bike is always a clear sign of his presence. There was no bike.
-malcolm
May 2011 Burning Dollars
Under the bridge lay coins. They are strewn about the slope of the embankment as a single solitary figure lays up under the bridge nothing more than hands reaching out of the darkness. Kojo is in his familliar spot by 10pm as I-20 traffic races over head shaking his home. Travelers are oblivious that a human being is under this bridge. He is tucked away beyond a low girder, which makes it impossible to see him and we hand him bottled water and a sandwich bag from our knees. "Kojo, you've got some money out here!", someone shouts over the traffic noise. He probably doesn't hear us. Then I notice a dollar in the rubble of Kojo's home. It is half burned. The thought strikes me as it punched in the gut. Kojo has next to nothing and he is burning money. I think about that as I pray and I'm unaware of what words are forming and coming from my mouth. As I finish, Kojo begins to sing. I couldn't identify the melody or understand the words, but I did feel his joy. How could he be so joyful? It is these moments that makes it crystal clear to me why we come out on Wednesday nights and do what we do. We don't bring judgement. We don't bring seven part sermons on how to fix yourself. We don't bring condemnation. We bring love. We bring grace. We are agents of His mercy. For a man burning dollars sleeping under a bridge it evidently means a lot. Hearing his song of joy makes me refocus my life on the blessings I take for granted every day. My complaints melt away in the reality of Kojo's existence and gratitude. I do hear him say, "Please come back," as we depart. My mind immediately goes back to the financial struggles we just experienced as a ministry the past week. We got down to our last $10. That should never happen. Some have already given and more have pledged money. It costs about $300-$400 per month to feed our friends and we can introduce them to Christian rehabilitation programs for $750. Please consider giving to this cause, His cause. Kojo is burning dollars sleeping under a bridge. Help us bring the love of Christ to him. -Malcolm
April 2011
Lives are Being Changed at the Opportunity Center Dear Friends and Family: Most of you know that Opportunity Center (day shelter for the homeless) had to shut down almost a year ago because of a lack of funding. Thankfully, in late November, funding was secured to reopen the Center for at least 6 months. The Center was able to serve those in our city who had no where to stay warm and dry during the very cold winter we had. People have been able to take showers, wash their clothes, and hook up with much needed services such as housing assistance and mental health care to name a few. Many of you have been very supportive of the Center providing detergent, warm clothes, hygiene items, and money to help the Center meet the needs of those who depend on it. We are forever grateful for your prayers and support. People are constantly asking how they can get more involved in the work of the Opportunity Center and help people move toward self-sufficiency. In response to those requests we have created a face book page for Opportunity Center with updates on events, clients successes and ways to volunteer. Here is the link to our page: http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/pages/Opportunity-Center/190700564307847 or type Opportunity Center into the search and"like" us. We have also created a brochure (attached) that you can print out and share with your church, civic group or anyone who may be interested. If computers and brochures aren't your thing, I am always available to speak to your group personally. We are fast approaching the end of our 6 months worth of funding. We are busily trying to secure more funding to be able to continue serving. The clients of Opportunity Center are planning a $5 car wash fundraiser for May 14. We are looking for people willing to sell tickets for us between now and then. If you are interested in helping out or want to donate to Opportunity Centers general fund, please contact me via email or by phone at 601-949-9540. Thanks for your support! Heather Ivery
I Saw Angels Fall Down “I saw angels fall down, at the glory of the Lord. And as I raise my hands I sing. I saw angels fall down and as I hit the ground I sing. And I fall down afraid and shaking here. And as I fall down I am perfectly safe down here. Lets lift him up tonight. He is worthy!” - Skillet These are some lyrics by Skillet that put tonight’s events into perspective for me. It was an unusual night. At the OC, about 40, I’d say, had come to collect a sack dinner. We had plenty, so we were liberal with the distribution. I met 3 beautiful young girls that came up and announced their dreams of what they wanted to do in life. They claimed to know Jesus. We all prayed together about their ambitions, that God would keep them focused on His path. Although I prayed with several at the OC, I didn’t feel like my prayers were focused somehow or burning in my heart. The words that came out of my mouth were awkward and difficult to phrase. Sometimes they had a natural flow, but tonight I seemed to be searching for the right words that would not come. I didn’t feel the hurts even though I saw them, plainly. Somehow, I felt useless. Strange. Eugene was there, along with Doristeen, Michael Lewis and a man named Frank who called me over to his perch under the pavilion. Frank was in tears and said he needed to talk with somebody. He had been drinking and I felt that another man would better serve Frank, so I called Bob Green, who came over and prayed with him as I left with the others for the I-20 route. Did I abandon Frank? I wasn’t sure. Twin had called me earlier today and said he would be on Gallatin around 9 o’clock to see us. He was. We all talked a while and Claire told him to sing. Twin refused, “No singing tonight.” Strange, I thought. He never refused to sing in the past, before he got off the streets. As we talked more, asked about his mom and he told about how his sister-in-law was mad at him, he just broke out singing “Lord prepare me, to be a sanctuary, pure and holy, tried and true. With thanksgiving, I’ll be a willing sanctuary for You.” His burden was lifted. I was learning. We dropped him off at ‘the park’ and continued the night. No one had been at Jake’s shed, so we routed the bus backwards on our route down Hwy 80 toward Terry Rd. and found Milton hustling down the road with Christy. I knew this was not good. We had seen Christy 2 weeks ago when we dropped Kitty (Rene’) off at the hotel Phillip rented for her. The other street prostitutes do not like Christy, as she is the youngest and still bears her youth. As I got out of the bus and moved over to her, I could see that she was probably still in her teens. Questioning her about how to pray for her, Christy never looked me in the face. She could not stand still and just wanted to get this over with. Apparently going with Milton for either sex or drugs or both, she had one brief moment of honesty and requested me to pray for her to get off ‘these streets’. Asking her what kept her on the street, she responded ‘these relationships I have with all these men’. Looking down, I could see her feet were dirty and she may as well have been barefooted. Some relationships! Taking her hands I told her to look me in the face. ‘Do you seriously want to get off the streets?’ “Yes.” Was all she said. Still holding her hands, I said, let’s pray. And I stumbled thru another prayer, stopping at times, waiting for the Holy Spirit to give me the words, hoping for perspective and clarity of thought, but it never really came. But at that time, I could hear the others in the bus praying hard for Christy and for me. Awed and amazed, at the Body of Christ, I hugged her and we left them for the night. ‘I saw angels fall down, at the glory of the Lord, and as I hit the ground I sing.’ I was getting the picture that this night was not about me! We visit Kojo’s bridge. Even though I’ve been to his bridge, I’ve never seen him or formally met him. Kojo lives in a little crack under the bridge, so small that I can’t believe that a man could wedge himself in there. After we pray a brief prayer with him, I reach my hand inside the crack and introduce myself. I feel him take my hand. It is hard and sad to my touch. I hear his voice in acknowledgement. As I turn to walk away, my heart breaks down. “And I fall down, afraid and shaking here. And as I fall down I am perfectly safe down here.” Mead’s Bridge: empty. We drive on. Last stop: The Bus Stop. We meet a man named Leon; he is a brother in the Lord, homeless and on the street; A blessing to talk to; solid in his faith. As we turn to get on the bus, we nearly pass by the last divine encounter of the night: A man, standing back, care-worn and sad. We had given out our last sandwich but had water. He said he would take that. His expression did not change when we asked him if we could pray for him. He just nodded. As Ernie and I talked to Chris, he shared very little about his sadness except that he needed serious prayer. It didn’t take us long to realize that what Chris needed was a Savior. I would love to tell you that the offered ‘sinner’s prayer’ came smoothly from my lips like a pro, but the words were labored as I offered them to Chris. Graciously he nodded as we spoke and we were privileged to pray with him to receive Jesus into his heart this night. No, this night was definitely NOT about me! Giving Chris a Bible and our cell phone number, we told him to call tomorrow and we would get him hooked up with a church that could help him grow as a new believer. Finally, he looked me in the eye and told me thank you for praying with him. We left him with his head bowed, calling out to Jesus to help him handle the struggles that awaited him tomorrow. And Skillet sings: “Lets lift him up tonight. He is worthy!” He is, as I fall down. Kelli Irby April 7,2011
March 2011 Unmarked As we pull out of the raunchy hotel parking lot, we breathe a sigh of relief too soon, because as I look in my rear view mirror, I see blue lights.
The Mystery of Harvey He was just standing there on the side of the road. It was a stretch of frontage road where we've never encountered a soul. Too far from others, too far from known places, too close to areas of darkness. Across the road was the old log cabin where folks used to go for consultation on a new log home. Now it stands defiant yet empty - just a shell really. Maybe Harvey had found shelter there. We stopped the van and we approached as Harvey came toward us. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, and we didn't suspect anything really, just a man out of place along a lonely stretch of road. We gave him food, he said his name was Harvey, there was some other small talk and then Randy asked, "Can we pray for you?" Be began to back away. He was unsettled. I sensed we had threatened him in some way. His actions were the actions of a man who had come upon a snake. Back away slowly. Don't agitate the snake. Don't get these church people to prayin'. There was a strange tick with his head. I began to wonder if he was insane, but my mind was all over the place. Was he high? Insane? Both? Was he possessed? How he reacted to the word "prayer" was hard to dismiss. Harvey walked away from us and we just sort of stood there, nobody really knowing what to do - it was all too strange, beyond our frame of experience. Harvey then did a strange thing; he walked to our van and stood in the doorway. I thought he was going to get on, but he didn't, he just stood there. The tick going, glancing back at us, looking about as though the snake were about to pounce at any given moment. Randy ushered him on, what else could we do. We had given him water and a sandwich, and offered to pray. His bizarre actions piqued everyone's discernment. We prayed for Harvey anyway, in the drive of the old cabin, as he walked away from us. As we left driving toward the way he had walked, we didn't see him. It was though he had vanished. Later, we encountered Raymond just down below his bridge and pulled over to talk with our dear old friend. In the distance a figure approached. It was Harvey. His pants were loosened, barely about his waist. His jacket hardly around his shoulders. The tick and the nervous actions were still there. He didn't turn the other way, but again approached our van and stood by the door. Randy and a few others excused themselves from Raymond's company and talked with Harvey again. He began to move away and Randy asked him, "What are you afraid of?" The response was almost immediate. "I ain't afraid of nuthin'," Harvey replied. It sounded confrontational, but then he moved away. We began to pray with Raymond, and I could feel the stare of Harvey, looking on viewing the "snake" from a safe distance. Raymond told us he had never seen Harvey before, and Raymond knows everyone in this forlorn area. I have prayed for Harvey and this past Wednesday there was no sign of him. We may never encounter him again, but still I lift him up to the One who knows no mystery. He created Harvey the same as He created me and the rest of us. Whatever Harvey's issue - I pray God intervenes and places people in his path with a heart to help and the means to help. Join us in lifting up this man's name to God. You may not know him, and frankly we don't know much more than you. However, God knows him. Pray for Harvey, God will know who you're speaking to Him about, thank you.
-Malcolm
February 2011 A New Face: When out on the many streets of Jackson, we often encounter a new face, a new name, a new situation of hopelessness. A key question to ask when this occurs is, “What does God have in Mind Here?” This place, this person, our meeting, a sandwich, a water: Is there a greater purpose? In Acts 8, God’s angel sends Philip down a desert road, he meets a Eunuch, the Spirit prompts Philip to talk to him, and the man’s life is permanently changed for the good. These types of interactions and promptings occur regularly within Jackson Street Ministry. It is exciting to see what God has in mind. The story of Bill is one such incident. Our first encounter with Bill was in October of 2010 and he was with Kenny, one of our dear friends. We exchanged the usual courtesies, provided food, water, a coat and a prayer. But something seemed different with Bill; perhaps God had more in mind. As the weeks passed, Bill showed up each week and we began to establish a friendship beyond the niceties and learned more about Bill and him about us. He was a veteran, he was intelligent, he had family in Alabama, he felt hopeless, and was tired. Bill on a night in November asked a question, “What about a bus ticket, could you help with a bus ticket?” Several thoughts went through my mind and I quickly justified a “No” response, after all I had only known him a few weeks. However, within a matter of minutes the Spirit of God was asking me in a powerful way, Why No? I quickly calculated in my mind and put Bill to the test. I told him if he showed up at Billy Brumfield and attended “Church” on Sunday, I would take him to the bus station afterward. What that had to do with anything I don’t know, it seems rather foolish now, but the story continued. Bill did not show up on Sunday and this has been a normal pattern from some of our friends in the past. While disappointed, I figured I may not see him again and hoped he was well. Three nights later, Wednesday before Thanksgiving, we saw Bill again with Kenny. He told me he had overslept and had intended to show up. I wanted to help, but at the same time I wanted him to do something to earn it. That doesn’t sound too much like grace, but it is true. We made plans to have Thanksgiving lunch together and we would try the bus thing again next Sunday. Something else interesting on that night, we found out he was staying under “Meade’s Bridge.” You may ask, “So what?” The “so what” is that one of the regular teens, Meade, has searched under this bridge countless times never to find anyone. Each week, stop and look, but no one. However, the last few weeks there was evidence someone was staying, but no person. Had we found our first person under “Meade’s Bridge?” Yes, and it was Bill. Thanksgiving lunch pick up came and went and no Bill. A second pick up and still, no Bill. Why was this so complicated? The question was answered on the drop off. As we were dropping bus loads off from a great lunch, I saw Bill in the distance. A bit angry, a bit excited, I pulled over and talked with Bill. He said he had eaten elsewhere and was headed back under the bridge. I re-reminded him of the Sunday routine for the bus ticket and left. Something wasn’t right. Once again, the Spirit prompted me and asked, “Why Sunday?” I was burdened for an hour and decided to go back and look for Bill. I would buy the bus ticket now, but Bill was not there. With disappointment, we left and returned back to the building. This is where God kicks in strong. There was one more group needing to return from the lunch. They were picked up late by another van. As you can guess, upon returning that group we see Bill. What joy filled my heart, I was never so glad to see anyone. We pulled over and got Bill then went to the bus station. There was a bus late that night or in the morning. Bill wanted to go in the morning. I didn’t feel good about in the morning, but agreed and bought the ticket. We went and got Bill something to eat, snacks for the trip the next day, and called his family. They were excited and would receive him tomorrow. The next day my friend and I were out and about and decided to go see Bill off at the bus station. Only when we arrived; no Bill. Many thoughts ran through my mind, we were so happy the prior day and now disappointment loomed once again. Many of his things remained under the bridge, but it was not clear where he was. That question was answered on Saturday night. A voicemail on my phone, “This is Bill and I couldn’t wait and took the bus on Thanksgiving night, I am home.” Wow! What joy, Bill was home. As time passed I wondered what happened with Bill. That question was answered last Friday. An unusual number called my phone and on the other line was Bill. He said, “I was just calling to say thanks, I have gotten my life back, I have started a pressure wash business and tree service, I have bought a truck, and am buying a house.” Pick me up off the floor! Bill, Meade’s Bridge Bill, is buying a house and is back on his feet in three short months. He couldn’t say thanks enough to all of the Jackson Street Ministry team. He asked about his friend Kenny and I informed him of the sad news of Kenny’s death. It was that moment that he and I both realized the significance of a relationship, prayer, and a sixty dollar bus ticket. Praise God for His Spirit’s work in Bill’s life. Phillip Street The Jackson Street Ministry
Women on the Street
I first met Crystal nearly two years ago, shoeless and addicted to crack. Not much has changed.
January 2011 So long, Kenny I wanted Kenny to go back. I wanted him to get into John Hart’s pick-up truck and allow us to take him back to My Father’s House of Freedom to continue his rehab. But, Kenny wouldn’t go… In a few weeks it would be too late. On Friday morning Kenny’s body was found near the shed where we saw him last only two nights before. That night he was flat on his back as a man named Bob slept near on a lawn chaise. Jake told us later that Kenny didn’t care anymore, he just laid there. Kenny told us he was too much of a burden to us. As his health failed him, none of us were shocked at the news. I can still see Kelli praying with him on that last Wednesday night, asking for protection, petitioning for well being. Bob prayed, too. Kenny was dying right before our eyes. Two days earlier a hospital had discharged him, why? Was he healthy? Or, was he unable to pay? Was he too much of a burden? Jerry Varner was back on the streets after being stabbed multiple times that same Wednesday night after a short stay in the hospital. He was visibly shaken and hurting, still wearing his coat with the knife holes. Meanwhile, the news of the day is centered around a dog that was killed by a neighbor… people were outraged. Jerry almost died and Kenny did, I couldn’t find any news on either. There was no outrage or concern. Maybe if the world had helped Kenny know he was loved, things could have been different. I doubt it though, the world loves only those that are acceptable to be loved. Why do you think Kenny thought he was a burden? Because, the world had taught him that. I want to go back in time and tell Kenny how much we at the JSM loved him. I pray he knew that. I pray that he knew it when we told him the truth about his condition and possible help. He wanted out and off the street so bad, but not bad enough to take advantage of what was offered. I don’t understand that, but it is not for me to understand. Jesus doesn’t tell us to go “understand” people, no, He tells us to go love them, and share His grace and truth. Maybe, we all need to understand Jesus more, yes, maybe then Kenny wouldn’t feel like a burden. I’m thankful we got to see Kenny one last time, and as I look back on it, the thought crossed my mind that it may be the last time. Shock wasn’t what I felt Friday when Kelli called and gave me the news. I only felt sadness. I only wondered if we could have done more, loved more, given more. I’m told that is only natural, but it doesn’t feel natural to me. I will miss Kenny. We have known him for over a year, and countless times he displayed an ability to survive horrible circumstances. I felt his despair, but he always seemed to land on his feet. Kenny doesn’t have to land on his feet any longer. I pray he is being held by his Savior. He doesn’t have to worry about being a burden either, because in heaven there is no question about how much you are loved. So long Kenny, your memory will inspire the JSM to go and love like never before with a great sense of urgency. Your friend – Malcolm. Psalm 103:8-17 8 The Lord is compassionate and merciful,
The Hardest Part
I’ve often been confronted with the overwhelming feeling of doing something more while serving the homeless. We sometimes feel like the boy on the sea shore desperately trying to save as many starfish as possible getting them back in the water. Knowing he can’t save them all, he attempts to look at them more individually than collectively, thus we gain a secret to successful street ministry – battles are won individually. Look there for sustained hope, for it may be hard to find when you step back and survey the collective whole. The hardest thing we must do is leave our friends in perilous places, amid tragic circumstances, and overarching feelings of despair. How do we deal with the hardest part? #1) We entrust them to the Lord. We pray for protection, deliverance, redemption, hope, surrender, victory and a multitude of other aspects of the challenge of their homelessness. #2) We expect the unexpected. God moves in ways so very different than our own, and with timing that is usually contrary to our sense of timing. We can’t circumvent the will of our friends and certainly the Lord gives us freedom even to point of rejecting Him. Only an all powerful God would allow such a thing – therefore, we temper our expectations trusting the Lord both to answer prayer (whatever that answer may be), work in the hearts of those struggling, and to work in our own hearts. #3) Understand this is a personal ministry and not a corporate ministry. As stated in the first paragraph, we must look at each individual, and volunteers will be drawn to different people creating a web of relationships. These are multiple points of contact, sharing the love, grace and truth of Christ. #4) Acknowledge tragedy is real and dangers are part and parcel to those we reach out to. We lose some of our friends to fires, exposure, murder, health issues, addictions, etc. Whether you have chosen to be homeless, are addicted feeling trapped on the street, mentally unable to process how to exit the streets, or have suffered life altering events for which you feel you don’t deserve any better – these are all real and personal reasons. Whatever the reason, the ramifications of being homeless places our friends in real danger, and they are subjected to tragic consequences. #5) Communicate clearly that we can help with addictions. We can partner with Teen Challenge, My Father’s House, Common Bond, Gateway and a host of others to sponsor those who want to make a life change and surrender their addictions to treatment. #6) We never give up hope, never give up. We have seen enough to know and believe that anything is possible in street ministry. #7) Know that fixing them is subservient to loving them. We don’t fix anyone – only God can do that. We attempt to love them and part of loving them is being straight up and honest. Once a person knows you care then they may decide they are worth fixing. Love melts barriers put up by the enemy. #8) We are certain our purpose gives light to our steps. We know what we are called to do, so momentary set-backs and failures are viewed as the pits and valleys along the way. They make the mountain top moments even higher! Truly, it is the goal or purpose of the destination that gives all meaning to the journey. To know we walk with Christ is to know we are doing His work, responding to the leading of the Spirit. #9 We Realize consistency matters greatly. We keep coming back, keep loving, keep reaching out, regardless of what others may think or how we are evaluated as successful or not. Some folks have stopped coming feeling as though they just can’t save all the starfish on the beach, so what is the point. The point is that all the failures are forgotten when one is saved. Didn’t the shepherd in the parable leave 99 sheep on the hillside pursuing only one? Perhaps then not all are to be saved, but loved. Keeping score in street ministry is like counting grains of sand in a windstorm. It is more important to be in the storm and know Who has the true power within your purpose than attempting the futile act of counting anything. Besides everything I’ve ever counted in my life always starts with “1”. -malcolm
December 2010
Sweet Connie It is never good to see a woman homeless. I met Connie almost a year ago. She was in her truck cab bundled up under a blanket with a terrible cold, trying to stay warm. ‘The men’ were down in the tent camp, drinking of course, and she wanted no part of it. She had the door locked and the motor was running, temporarily. It would not be long before the gas would be gone and she would be cold again. As I sat there in the cab with her, she told me briefly about herself. She was there because of Mark, whom she apparently had great affection for even though he had a drinking problem and a bad judge of friendships. After a prayer with Connie, we left socks and another blanket. That was my first remembrance of her. From that time on, she always looked for me to pray for her and talk. Much of our conversation was unspoken, as 50-year-old women can communicate with their eyes. Connie had a way of being able to do that without words. She could tell a story with her eyes. Every Wednesday night, I read her story. I prayed for their comfort and protection as I always do, but God was not to answer my request this time.
A Deserted Warehouse or Domicile? You have to watch your step. The refuse piles are high and scattered with a floor being a rare sight. “Is that the ground?” someone asks in shock. Bottles are everywhere, broken signs – one speaks of water on an old marquee. So many things are unrecognizable. We hear voices shouting in reply to our proclaimation of food, water and socks. There are shadows in these places where you only have dark shapes and darker, and your flashlight does little to illuminate anything beyond your next step. Others clamor around, some turn back to the vans, everyone who stays is desperate to stay in the light. There is an old platform of wood and two people are found, then three. It is a walkway over the refuse in a large open space. We search for another friend and have a sleeping bag for him. He told us he lived at the end of the “Black mile” a play on the “Green Mile” from movie fame. Those we encounter know where he is and tell us they will escort us through the cavernous storehouse. From the expansive space where the platform is that was once a busy dock, we are led back toward hallways that sprawl away. There is no straight path, but a winding route that zigs and zags through the rubble. I glance up to an office space where a man named Dave once stayed. I thought of how much happier he is today now that his home is back in Alabama where he is surrounded by family. On cold dark winter nights such as this Dave is warm and can turn on a light whenever he wishes. His darkness is gone. We reach the hallway known as the “black mile”, and it is well named. It looks less like a hall and more like an infinity of darkness with only spots of gray light emanating from somewhere in the distance too uncertain to know for sure how far or how close. It looks as though you could walk for days and never move for nothing around you moves. You feel as though you are walking in place. It is light that travels and darkness is not the existence of darkness, but the absence of light. The flashlights cause small bits of the darkness to dissipate, but it appears a lost cause upon the “black mile.” The ceiling is somewhere overhead. To the side are fissures and crevices that lead into even darker areas, small and tight, less hospitable. A door leads to a room we know, where the roof has burned down and is cleaner. Another way, a better way in is discovered. The darkness is less there, but not a soul is found. We journey on and the “black mile” proves to be less cluttered than our initial path. Slowly the journey reaches the end, far back in the bowels of the beast. The building takes on the feel of a creature, dark and powerful, unpredictable and mysterious, seemingly asleep, but very much alive. There is a strange taste to the air as though a tangible dust floats among the ruinous remains. You breathe in the beast with every breath. You become aware that getting out is better than staying, and the longer you wait the more expectant you are towards emerging from the belly of the beast. At the end of the “black mile” there is a stairway. It is made of rusted and grated metal. Climbing those stairs you are aware that if you could see you would be looking right through the grated metal toward the floor below, but in the dark there is no sign of the floor. You can only trust it is somewhere below. The stairs are sturdy and much longer, higher than they appeared from the “mile.” Finally, a landing. We turn and enter our friends home. There are gapping holes in the roof and it is cold even if the air is measurably less vile. He lays asleep oblivious to our being there. We rouse him awake, but have no idea if he knows we are there or will remember us. He coughs incessantly struggling for air. He says, he is cold. We unzip the sleeping bag and lay it over him. Someone says something of having a Tylenol. Perhaps it will break the fever – I couldn’t see if it is given, but recall someone saying they had to go get it. I step out to the landing where flashlights can be seen coming and going on the “mile” as though it is now a super highway. A powerful prayer in the name of Jesus is prayed over our friend. A prayer of healing and protection, a prayer of faith. I know our friend knows the Lord, so I can leave him entrusted to the One who continues to look out for him in spite of the circumstances, in spite of the “black mile,” in spite of the darkness, remoteness, desertion, cold, loneliness, etc. Simply put, He is greater than those things and our friend rests easy in that knowledge. We leave the way we came and shut the door. The light is gone and the darkness resumes the dominance over the domicile, but never the heart of our friend, and the others we hope the same. We continue to pray with hope that perhaps one day these that call this place home will do as a man named Dave once did. He left it behind. -m
Alma
1/30/09…Father, this past Wednesday I saw Alma. Thank you for her showing up. I had not seen her for over a month. One of the reasons we made a connection is come to find out both of us have a love for art. Over and over again she tells me about the new museum of art opening up downtown. I can’t help but think seeing the beauty of color on canvas is her escape from this world. She is an ex-con and she is currently living with a boyfriend whom she readily has told me is on crack. To look at him, one would never know this. He is young and in shape; the crack addiction has yet to take its toll on his flesh. Quickly after exiting the van, I hastily make my way over to her. It was easy to spot her because she is so short. I laugh at this, she does too. We give each other a big hug and hello. I say hey to Julian, her friend. Months earlier he was telling me about trying to start a dry cleaning business but lacked the money. She proceeds to tell me about what is going on in her life and about Kimo (her ten year old son). The connection is good; I missed seeing her all these weeks. Yet I really worry about her. As I am talking to her I see live-in mate across the street wondering around and ask her what is going on. She tells me he is high and looking to score a deal. I see him duck behind some bushes and vanish in between some houses. As she tells me this, you can hear the stress in her voice. Alma really desires to change her life but as an ex-con living with a crack addict, it seems the odds are stacked against her. I pray for her because I am not sure what else to do. Alma has never asked anything from me, clothing, money, or food, she just is there for my company so I try to provide as much comfort for her as I can. She is also there to get her picture taken by Gerry, one of the street ministry team. Gerry is an amateur photographer who randomly takes pictures of the Jackson homeless and with their permission, posts them online http://gprintz.smugmug.com/Street-Scenes. Usually, he will show up the following week and hand out copies of the photos to the people he took pictures of. Some seem to get a real joy and kick from this. In particular, Alma is giddy as a school kid to get her picture taken and she always makes a point to find Gerry and ask for a memento. For her, I think seeing herself in a photo means she exists. It almost seems like she is crying out behind her smiles and laughter as if she is saying…remember me. Postlude 12/7/10…In an email from Gerry, I learn Alma died. Sad cannot adequately describe how I felt when I read that email. I do not know if Alma made it to heaven, and I have serious doubts. Because of this I am feeling deep remorse. Here was Alma, a living breathing person with a soul. Someone who befriended me as much as I befriended her. Both of us coming from opposite worlds and yet somehow God provided an avenue for us to meet. Yes, I prayed for her several times, but was it truly enough? Was I truly convicted enough to make her understand every time she walked away at the end of the night, there was no other decision that was as important as giving her life to Christ? I hang my head when I realize I did not. And now Alma is gone. - Greg Payne
November 2010 Passed Out... He has toppled over on his side. An empty bottle with no cap lay near - just a taste of the brown elixir pooling in one corner, the last remnants of hope, an escape. One side of his face buries into the earth, a mixture of tiny rock, dirt, grass and old cigarette butts. The rest of his body lay on a concrete sidewalk slightly elevated from his head. The sidewalk snuggles up to a package store, the source of the elixir. He purchased the bottle earlier on borrowed money begged from unknowing passers by who think they are giving him money for food. Next door a blues club prospers with patrons coming and going oblivious to the man sleeping a short distance away. The few that notice him, pay him no attention save a brief moment of pity erased by a righteous belief that he somehow is totally responsible for his condition, a condition they could never experience as they swig from their own bottles. Just another bum, down on his luck who drinks for a living seemingly hell-bent to die and leave this world. Nobody thinks to check on him. A worker from the package store empties the trash into the dumpster about twenty feet away. He stands peering attempting to discern a breathing chest, signs of life, the slightest of movement. He’s okay, isn’t he? He looks about as though seeing if anyone is looking. He is breathing, he notices and relaxes somewhat satisfied that the man is not dead. He pulls up his own collar to ease the chill and returns to his post to sell more of his contribution to society. He’ll be fine. He is one of our best customers and he’ll be back tomorrow night. There is a coat of sorts that covers the man. It barely drapes his body, mostly his legs. There is no movement just quiet breaths of life coming and going from a tired body. The van almost drives by not seeing the him. They quickly turn into the package store parking lot as some drive by wondering why a church van is in the parking lot of a liquor store. One person emerges from the van with a small amount of food and water. He knows the man by name and repeated calls to him as he approaches. There is no answer. He tells the sleeping man he is leaving some food and water, and would like to pray for him. Shockingly there is a grunt whether in compliance or protest no who could ever know. A gentle touch on the man’s arm is accompanied by words lifted toward heaven in earnest concern and expectation. Jesus listens. Someone else brings another coat and they make sure the sleeping man is better covered. He moves in his slumber adjusting to what is a mystery, and he says nothing, his mind a million miles away in a childhood meadow by a cascading stream. He has been to the meadow many times and dark shapes welcome him back like an old friend. They pat him on the back and smile with grainy teeth. On some nights when the blues are no longer wailing next door and the package store is closed – some say you can hear those dark figures laughing over their slumbering conquest. The dark figures hold their breath when others pray for their captive. They look about for those who will write him off as just another bum who’ll be fine. "Where are those people?", they demand to know as they count the seconds until praying ends. As all prayers eventually end so does the visit by the church van as it moves on to another while the dark figures again breathe easy, their laughter collecting in the bowels of the earth. He is not just another bum, but a created human being. He does want out of his condition, but is powerless to do anything about it. He may not be there tomorrow night. We must keep praying, keep coming, keep sharing, keep loving.
October 2010 Images and Reflections... A damp well worn path leads to a camp where lightning flashes through the trees almost continually, so distant not even the thunder is heard. Quiet tents after the rain. Slumbering souls before the storm. Spiders wait for meal and trains amble by on the way to somewhere else providing noise between long periods of silence. Another camp is empty as one lone barrel stands watch under the span of an I-20 bridge high over head. A small creek nearby has been resurrected by the rain where it once ran dry during the drought of the late summer, early fall months. It appears repaired. Everything will be alright. Hanging out down by the gas station people wander in and out, up and down the street, out into the light and back into the darkness. Some faces are familiar and some are strangers never met and in many cases never seen again. Emotions vary. There is tragedy mixed with a peculiar element of joy, swallowed up in sorrow, awash with hope and dashed by captivity. There are demons everywhere... I can only assume then - that there are angels as well. She is crying this night like many others. On the run from more than just an abusive male, searching in vain for a mother's love, wanting out, lucky to be breathing, blessed to be walking... Furiously, she phones several numbers on a borrowed cell phone. No one is home. There are no answers. She walks into the night by a bank. The irony is as thick as the brown water draining from the land. What the bank has is not the answer either, but it appears to everyone that maybe it is. Even her, sometimes, not always, she knows there is something more profound, more elusive, rarer still. A good story under the bridge on our last stop before the Depot. One talks and shares with us as though we are old family catching up over a holiday meal. The other stands with us and listens. He speaks when spoken to, and words are few even then. In different ways they both love to see us come, and we hate to leave them. The Depot looks empty then people emerge from shadow with long faces... One just sits on a bench and waves his arm seemingly not at us, but more passed us, beyond us, somewhere only he can see. Who is he motioning to? Who is he seeing? I dare not ask to see, but sometimes I want to. There is only water remaining. The last soul is given a couple, and a few remain, ice cool, and offering refreshment. We drive down Capital drinking the last of the cool water. The night sky is still threatening a storm and the wind has picked up. l look at my watch and it is 10:30, where did the time go? It is October 27th, 2010. I think back to our first stop across the street from Dean's place in a cramped parking lot by the shine of a new service station. Six people were there, again some old friends and some new. At least one seriously contemplating rehab, one continues to walk the fence between going home and staying on the street, the others are those of the margins, on the page, but not, seen but overlooked, remembered briefly then forgotten, planning for the future but going nowhere, longing for another time before life was broken, but seeing no way out of the shattered time they walk... a time for a scant moment that we merely walk with them and point toward the light. I turn left on State Street directily in front of the old Captial building. Leaves are falling and another season is in mid-stride. The cold harsh winter awaits.
September 2010 Buddy Cambell goes home. The first night I met Buddy Campbell was years ago. He was sleeping up against the wall of the Opportunity Center up under the back door walkway and awning back before they tore down the building next door. Buddy was in the corner seeking the shelter the two buildings and the awning offered. The concrete was hard and unforgiving reminiscent of his life. There were others there, but Buddy appeared different. The first thing I noticed was his noble face. Buddy’s face was lined with wrinkles that instantly conveyed his emotion. These wrinkles were more like road maps revealing a past of rough journeys literally from one end of the country to the next. He saw all of it. Over the years I heard of the deserts, the mountains, the plains and prairies. Buddy saw them all. He once vividly told me how strikingly green and beautiful Oregon was. All these journeys were the wanderings of a man without a home, a home without a man. That first night I met Buddy he spoke about his favorite topic: The Word of God. He told me after a brief introduction to go to Proverbs chapter 8 and look for Jesus. He then began to quote scripture and this went on for awhile. To this day, I don’t think I have ever met anyone, pastors and bible scholars included, who have committed more scripture to memory than Buddy Campbell. I marveled as the Word spilled from this man with the noble face. There was an almost theatrical flair about how he spoke the words he had memorized through short breaths from failing lungs. The eloquence of the ancient King James English flowed straight from his heart where it and been inscribed. I would learn later this wasn’t a theatrical act, but merely the deep passion of a man who loved God and His Word. Later that night when I returned home I immediately found my bible and turned to Proverbs chapter 8 and beginning in verse 22, I found what Buddy had sent me searching for… and the verses he had quoted verbatim: “ The LORD possessed me at the beginning of His way, And I was daily His delight, Proverbs 8:22-36 (King James Version as quoted by Buddy) Buddy so loved his bible. It is one of the few possessions he left the rest of us. What he left me more than anything else was his realness. Buddy wore his emotions on that noble face and he shared some of his life with me both the mountain top experiences and the many valleys he walked through. In time we helped Buddy get off the street, but he never viewed himself as homeless. In Buddy’s mind, we are all homeless who believe in Christ. This world was alien to him and now he has gone to his real home. He now strides on streets of gold and slumbers in mansions with rooms too many to count. His lungs no longer struggle for air, but are filled with the air of heaven. If I close my eyes I can see him there. His noble face smiling broadly. The hurt of this world gone like a vapor in the morning. The last time I saw Buddy, Gerry Printz had brought him on a Wednesday night because Buddy wanted to go down to the streets again from which he came. At Farrish Street Park a frail Buddy rose and hobbled out amid the mass of people and began proclaiming and preaching. It was a short interlude and most people never heard it due to his weak voice and condition. He was so disappointed thinking he had failed. I told him to the contrary, some heard every word. I was one who heard his words and took them to heart. My life was richer having known Buddy Campbell, and I will miss him until we meet again. That will be a glad reunion day as the old hymn goes. Malcolm Woody Buddy Campbell around the time I first met him behind the Opportunity Center: http://gprintz.smugmug.com/Street-Scenes/Jackson-Streets/4204137_TM94i#257806835_EVoNy-A-LB Buddy preaching that last sermon at Farrish Street: http://gprintz.smugmug.com/Street-Scenes/Jackson-Streets/4204137_TM94i#334581531_aQfAR-A-LB
Another tribute to Buddy by peom. Written by Phillip Street. My Friend, Buddy The phone rang on 9/13, It’s 8:53 am, Strange, the name says Buddy. Buddy was a friend, Buddy knew the Word, Buddy was different than me. He was in prison, He was on the streets, He lived rough, but spoke of God. Who was this Buddy? Why was he calling me? What would he want? It’s not him, Buddy was gone, In a 1 minute phone call, he was gone. Just a few short weeks ago we spoke, Caught up on old times and made amends, Prayed and cried together to God. Buddy loved God, Buddy knew his need for grace, Buddy received grace when he went home. He taught me much, He sometimes rubbed the wrong way, I miss him, My friend, Buddy.
August 2010 8/5/2010 David "Smooth" Bradley gets on the bus! http://gprintz.smugmug.com/Street-Scenes/Volunteers/4205789_syXcq#822792566_Fkhbc-A-LB I look at this picture and I see exactly why God calls us to this ministry. We've known David for a long time and Bob, Kristi and Ally have built a tight relationship with David. I would venture a guess that Bob and Kristi have talked with David hundreds of times over the past few years - getting to know him, discovering what it is like on the street for him, sharing their lives with him, offering a hope for a future, etc. Well, as of 8/5/2010, David has taken the steps toward that hope and future. They called me just before he got on the bus and I talked with David. My mind was filled with a rush of images from the past. I recalled our conversations of how can prices have gone up and down. I thought of his old buggy filled with cans and how 30-40 of them would net him 35 cents on good days and only 15 cents on bad days. That's a lot of work for not much of a return. I thought of all these things, but that is not what we talked about. David wanted me to know how thankful he was that we kept coming out all these years. The sandwiches were nice, but it was more than that. The water and coffee may have hit the spot on cold and hot days, but something else was at work. The clothing, boots, socks, bug spray, coats, blankets and bags were all nice gestures of help, but there was something more. Knowing we cared, David allowed us to be a friend. I was more concerned with telling David how big an inspiration he was to me and how thankful I was for his friendship as we finished our talk. I told him we had been and would continue to pray for him. The journey is not over, in fact, it has just begun. There are difficult times ahead, but the freedom across the way will be worth the climb. Smooth has parked his buggy, and David has departed for Mercy House to change his life. Godspeed dear friend! May God carry you all the way! Malcolm Woody
July 2010 Images - What do they see? 7/30/2010 Gerry Printz is a busy man. You can click on the link to his street pictures from this site and see the extensive photographs he has taken of our street ministry and friends over the years. He is known by our friends as the "Pitcher Man", and Gerry has given away thousands of photographs. Our friends love the pictures Gerry takes of them and gives them. Right now Gerry is busy passing out the camera not the pictures. In an effort to bring the world of a homeless person out in the open for all to see, Gerry is passing out disposable cameras to as many homeless folks as possible. Their job? Simple. Take pictures. It is their turn to be the "Pitcher Man". Gerry hopes to collect the cameras, and deveolop the photos for a special presentation as part of Project Homeless Connect week coming up in September. What will they take pictures of? To be honest, I'm not sure what our friends will take pictures of, but I'm eager to find out. What do they see? What do they want you to know they see? What's interesting or important? I would believe the answers to these questions in the pictures taken will be a revealing step into the world of homelessness. Images are powerful... A bed roll spread out under a bridge. A blackened from fire rusty barrell. An empty bottle with no label. A candle in a campfire pit. A path through the woods. A single old tattered sneaker. A sofa sitting alone in the woods without cushions. A solitary figure backlit in the dark. An old store front with bars and broken glass. Weeds growing up through concrete. Empty cardboard boxes from cases of oil and beer broken down flat to sleep on. A dogeared bible protruding from a backpack. I see these images all the time. What will they want me to see? Will they want to world to see them? Out beyond the barrells, refuse, backpacks and bed rolls, can anybody see them? Or, do you look the other way? Click here to see some of Gerry's work with his camera: http://gprintz.smugmug.com/Street-Scenes Look at the images, the faces, the people... Better yet go find them, do something, get involved, make a difference, and love someone others don't want to see. -Malcolm
Homeless as a Box of Chocolates - July 2010 Our homeless friends showed themselves to be like a box of chocolates tonight. We never know what we're gonna get. And I like chocolate, so it was a pure adventure for me!
7/22/20010 A Homeless Stranded Family We entered the woods where our friends camp near I-20 expecting to see some of our regular friends last night, but as I made my way closer to the camp I heard something that befuddled me. In the middle of the dark, humid, and hot Mississippi night was the childish voice of a little girl. Her family had traveled through the east leaving upstate New York and found themselves stranded after losing their car. A kindly trucker gave them a ride from South Carolina to Mobile where he put them up in a hotel for a night and bought them bus fare to Jackson. A brother was supposedly coming from Texas with hope for the future, but he didn't show. From the bus terminal they moved south down Galitin to the I-20 truck stops looking for help. They were fed, but no ride could be found. Our friends from the woods invited them to the camp and that is where we found the family - a husband, a wife, and a darling little girl. Oblivious to the peril of her circumstances, the little girl romped and bantered with our volunteers. In everyway she appeared to be a happy little girl full of joy and wonder. Our hearts were ripped with anguish over the situation. The father said their new destination would be Denver, but he hadn't ruled out his brother in Texas - maybe he would show up. They were miles away from home, a home that is not home anymore, and even further from the comforts most of us share. I pray one day they find what they seek and the little girl from last night can know the joy of having a home. In the meantime, we pray for their saftey and well being. -m
7/19/2010 Another Town...some of the same issues... Recently while on vacation up north, I went with my Father-in-Law, Jim, to the ARC (Addiction Recovery Center) in downtown Toledo, Ohio. This wonderful facility is operated by the Salvation Army, and Jim is teaching a series on the book of Romans to those in recovery who want to come and learn. When we drove up and parked along the street, interestingly, the first person I encountered was from Mississippi. His name was James and he asked about Hattiesburg and Meridian where he had lived in the past. After talking with James we moved into an outside area where I met several more folks in recovery. Some where gregarious and open, some were closed and quiet, some were distant, wounded and hurting. I couldn't help but think how many times I've seen the same body language on our trips through the streets miles away in Jackson. We moved inside and a small number of folks came to the Bible study, maybe 10 or 12, but what followed was some of the most open discussion I have every taken part in. Those in recovery were under no false pretense, there was no worry of how you would "come across", doubts were opened and dealt with, beliefs were considered and truth, mercy and grace was shared. One young man talked of how he had received a letter from the girl he was engaged to be married to years ago. She married another. This sent him in a tailspin the entire day and he made poor choices in dealing with instructors and other recovery patients. At the end of the day, in this small class, he came to know that those ways of reaction were wrong feeling bad for what he did. We encouraged him that he had walked a difficult path, but failure didn't have to be the end result of the day. We helped him see that how he understood what had happened was a great victory. I'll never forget seeing his eyes light up when Jim said, "I'm proud of you today as though you were my son." The young man had entered defeated by the day, but left in victory to face tomorrow differently. Another man confessed of the attrocities he had committed in the past. The weight was heavy and the foundation of salvation was extolled. This is the real world, he didn't come rushing into acceptance, but the seed was planted. I have all confidence that the seed will be nurtured possibly bringing fruit one day by God's will. In street ministry you plant and trust sowing more seed all the way. Results are up to God. Another man came into the class down and out feeling dejected by his progress or lack thereof. He was very open, but the evening's scripture lifted him and he closed us in one of the most beautiful, surrendered, and grateful prayers my ears have heard. In the end I felt ashamed to say that I was the one who came away blessed more by them than by how they may have been blessed by me or my comments. A thunderstorm outside raged as we met. The storm wages on in the hearts of many. Pray for those in the ARC of Toledo, Ohio, then consider seeking out those who are hurting and being healed in the same way near where you live. I promise you will return blessed. -Malcolm
June 2010 6/7/2010 Fences I grew up on a farm and I remember fences very well. We had beef cattle back in North Carolina and fences were critical. They kept the cattle in the pasture with barbed wire, plank wood, locust stakes and metal gates. On occasion a cow, usually a yearling calf, would escape the fence and it was never easy getting them back in the pasture - but I do recall that most of the time they went back in at the place where they got out. We would then tighten and repair that section insuring their capture within the pasture. I think of our homeless friends and so often I see fences. These fences come in all manner of content that keep them separated from not only us, but a different life. The pattern appears to be that we attempt to tear down the fences while they keep mending them. Many times we have built solid relationships only to have them back away at some point deeper within themselves with no reason given. We stand from that fence praying and hoping we get another chance, but eventually trusting God to know we did what we were called to do. We just keep coming back to the fence. God has destroyed some fences. He has pulled up the stakes repaired the ground and some of our friends show no interest in rebuilding that fence. They bask in the sheer freedom of the truth... no fence... no boundaries... life to the fullest. The roles are reversed. We are the farmers, but we attempt to liberate not hinder the cattle. In this case it is the cattle (our friends) who build and mend the fences. The truth is we all have fences that keep us hemmed in and away from the plan God is working in our lives. Satan is the master fence builder and works right through us to keep fences in place. God, never one to override our own will, waits patiently by the fence to tear down what shouldn't be there - that fence that doesn't allow you to talk to your brother anymore, that fence that won't allow you to forgive your sister, that fence that keeps you from greater faith in how God could use you, that fence that says you deserve to be on the street, at the job you hate, or living consumed by some sin that eats away at your very inner core. God will liberate us from all the fences if we will let Him. I can see Him putting on those leather gloves, using a punch and hammer to pull the staples loose from the posts, rolling up the barbed wire, up rooting the post, and filling in the hole. It is like the fence was never there. It is a short walk (one step) from the pasture of capture to the freedom of the Kingdom. -Malcolm
May 2010 Where am I going?
5/24/2010 Where am I going? What will it be like when I get there? How tough will it be? What are the people like? Will it be like prison? Can I really do this? Isn't that a really long time? What happens when I get out? These questions assault every candidate that considers rehab and recovery. The enemy grinds these questions against their hearts and attempts to convince the them they can't accomplish recovery from addictions. At all our partners - whether Mercy House, Gateway, Common Bond, or others, folks will be treated by people who care. Yes, there is accountability, but there must be. Anyone looking to escape addiction without accountability is fighting a losing battle. Others can lovingly hold you accountable where you can't yourself. The truth is we can't walk this journey for anyone else. It is a step each individual must take and then allow others to come along side them. The truth is addiction is a journey alone. However, recovery is a walk together with God and those who love you. We can answer all the above questions... it will be difficult, it will be different, the people will love you and hold you accountable, you will give up some liberty so you can gain true freedom, therefore you aren't giving up anything. What is time? Right now you are on the street addicted to whatever - time is what you have and time is what transformation needs. The result will take care of itself. When you graduate recovery you will walk in freedom, then the world is at your doorstep. What do you WANT to do? Sure, we don't have all the answers, but all the answers aren't needed for faith would be removed. Come walk this path, throw the future in His hands and surrender. "You will know the truth and the truth will set you free." Jn 8:32 -m
The First Step off the Street is when the Battle Begins…
5/6/2010
A recent conversation with David Womack was very revealing to me. From our comfy chairs, warm beds, safe havens, and preened subdivisions, we view the first step off the streets as the victory. In fact, the first step is merely when the battle begins for many of our friends. How could a hotel room be worse than living under a bridge, on a sidewalk or in an abandoned house? Sounds like a totally silly question doesn’t it? It is not to them. One man who walked out of rehab felt the experience nothing short of prison. Now he is back out languishing on the streets somehow in his own mind – in a better place than before. For many the change is so radical to be pulled from their comfort zone the only choice is back to where they were. There is no doubt in my mind Satan intends that they be confronted with as many barriers as possible to obscure the view of a hope and a future. As street volunteers this is taxing. We want so much for our friends to “get it” and completely turn the change over to God allowing them to bask in a newfound way of life, that we often come away disappointed. On a certain level the disappointment is okay, but it is not okay to stop attempting to reach out to them, or cut off the relationship as the battle begins. They need us, and in just as many ways we need them to confirm in us the work that God is doing. Street ministry is not easy. I’ve seen first hand how the doubts of being accepted off the street can make being back on the street somehow appealing. The enemy tells them they won’t fit in. He tells them they won’t have friends, never be good enough, or that they don’t deserve this life. These doubts creep to the corners of their existence and many times are backed up by others who seem to confirm them. One friend tells them how “money” has changed them – something no one wants to hear. Another tells them they’ll be back on the street before the end of summer. Some even wager on the likelihood of when one will fall from the new life back toward the old. This is such a powerful spiritual battle. We are armed with prayer and the Spirit. We go in expectation that love never fails, prayers avail much, and the presence of the Spirit is always with us. I think of Dave Knepper, Big Tom Hamilton, David Womack, and others and I continue to pray that they stay the course believing that life really can change and that the Creator of the universe can enable them to rise above all the obstacles. So, remember that the physical removing of the person from the street is not the only answer. No, they must be moved in their soul and mind as well. Pray for Twin – after 26 years of being on the street, the first step off is testing him to his limits. -Malcolm
May 5, 2010 Huge crowd at the OC tonight! I imagine there were 60 or 70 people in all that came for a bite to eat and whatever else churches might have to give away. Eugene, Henry, Sandra and the kids, Anthony and lots of faces that I didn’t recognize. People had come from shelters, boarding homes, cheap apartments and abandoned houses from all over this part of town. Many homeless, but just as many that were not. It seemed unusual to me that there were so many people just 5 days after payday. I-20 bus leaves around 9 pm and first stop is Dean’s. Missy is not there tonight. Evidently she left with an older man who took her somewhere away from Jackson. Dean is there with a man named Kim. Carlos shows up a little later for a quick prayer. Dean requests that we try to help him get a picture ID and mentions that the JPD tore up his birth certificate when they closed his produce stand last year. All that to say that Dean is fine. We pray with Dean, Kim and Carlos and head up the road to check Mead’s Bridge.
Mike England reports having seen a white bearded man wearing a flannel shirt headed to sleep under Mead’s Bridge this week. We do our illegal ‘U’ turn on Gallatin St. and stop at the bridge. No white bearded man wearing a flannel shirt but Mead’s Bridge has definitely been cleaned out. We just know that one day it will be inhabited again and we will meet yet another homeless friend, making ‘Mead’s Bridge’ official, since Mead discovered it and vowed that someday, someone would be found living under it. We’ll keep checking. Next stop is JR’s and the campsite. As is our custom, Mike, John Hart and Mead are the only ones to visit the campsite, while the rest of us hike up the road to visit with JR. JR is home as always, tarps surrounding his mat to block the rain and offer a measure of privacy. Once again, it’s a short and sweet visit. JR mentions that he needs more AA’s, some bread, bologna and mayonnaise packets. We leave food and water, pray and walk back to the bus. Paul reported that Connie was at the campsite, but felling sick, she stayed in the tent. Raymond and Jeffery are waiting on us behind the ‘Elite Blues Club’. Jeffery quickly downs his bottled water and we furnish him with 2 more along with his supper. Raymond is full of stories tonight, one after another. Give Raymond 2 words and he has a story to go with them. He started the night with a story of a man and his wife that use to live under what he calls the short bridge, until somebody let loose a box of snakes that ran them out. Now no one can stay under that bridge because of the snakes. Raymond said that these snakes were brought up when Katrina came thru and were actually New Orleans snakes from Lake Charles. Raymond knows this because he claims that the snakes have beaks that look like a duck and they make a loud racket when someone approaches. No one has a chance under that bridge now. Raymond’s kitten of 5 years is not anywhere around and we ask about the ‘kitten’. This insites another tale. Raymond had already told us about that kitten last week along with the tale about Twin being rich now since his disability had just come in and he was worth $49,422. It is well after 10:30 pm and we haven’t seen Twin yet, so we cut off the tale telling, load the bus and head toward Twin’s hotel. As we are passing Twin’s old bridge, Red flags us down at the Kasco convenience store. He is with 2 other men, Cutter (James) and another man. I can’t remember his name. We pray and continue to Twin’s, but not before investigating another site across the creek where we always find a sleeping bag. Same as the last few weeks we found the sleeping bag, but not the soul. We think he hands with Twin some. Twin hobbles out to meet us as we drive up, wearing his black shirt, pants and do rag. He is depressed. Twin had already called me earlier today, informing me that he was tired of being in that hotel room. Funny how a man can be on the streets for 26 years, come into some money that gets him off the streets and he becomes bored. Mike E. says that Twin’s mind is still under the bridge and that it will take some time to adjust. Twin forgets the number of times that he was robbed, conned, and beaten up when he was homeless. He forgets how his friend Ricky was nearly stabbed to death not 2 months ago while they slept under the bridge. Suddenly it appears that the adventure of being on the streets outweigh the safety of a hotel room complete with bathroom, phone and television. Twin can find nothing to do with himself but go visit his old bridge. But that doesn’t satisfy him either because on the street, ‘he is rich and his money has changed him’. He has friends only when he passes out money. Before Twin got his disability money, he asked Mike E. to manage it for him, since he was a self-proclaimed ‘beer-a-holic’, and knew that he would just blow it all on beer and riotous living. Mike graciously agreed, a task that I would never have taken on myself, to manage Twin’s money for him. Now, Twin is beginning to hate his decision, since Mike refuses to be his anytime moneyman. The terms were clear, but the reality was not and Twin is feeling trapped. He reminds me of a spoiled child who can’t have candy anytime he wants it, even though his grandmother gave it to him for Christmas. We leave Twin a journal to record all his adventures, pray with him and leave for home. The night’s events plague my mind while I drive home, as they always do, replaying them over and over in my mind. Dean’s demeanor, JR’s requests for food and batteries, Raymond’s tale about the duck billed snakes from New Orleans, Twin’s boredom with middle class life, the many people at the Opportunity Center standing in line for food. So many needs, emotions, situations and mental states. How does God do it? How does He know so many people intimately and still handle them just the way they need to be handled? I am reminded that Jesus is the only one that can break us without destroying us. Amid the spiritual battle that goes on daily for the souls of all men is the surety that Jesus will win the war. Ours is the process, His is the victory. To God be the glory, Kelli Irby
April 2010 Everybody Loves Raymond 4/28/2010 You will perhaps never meet a happier more talkative gregarious person on the street than a man called - Raymond. We hadn't seen him in months, but he was back last night with a vengence. No one can get more in, conversationally, than Raymond. He had a real joy about him last night and looked liked he had trimmed down - dare I say, even healthier than we've ever seen him. In the scope of 10 minutes Raymond covered several topics:
It was a deluge of information, but that is how Raymond talks. He is the type of person that no one could hold issue with. He is a delight to be around, somhow, strangely comfortable and happy in his homeless condition. It is funny to me when I consider how many people I meet daily that appear miserable. They have a house, car, family, career, job, money, etc. They have all the things that Raymond doesn't, save one... They don't have his disposition. He is always thrilled to see us and never eats till we leave, no that would get in the way of talking with us. I can honestly say that he always welcomes us regardless of the weather, his circumstances or anything else for that matter. There were lots of hugs to go around last night in Raymond's little corner of the world in between the blues club and a package store, a patch of earth with good lighting. A place to sit and talk at length with his friend Geoff. Raymond helps me be more thankful and take less for granted, and that is often how it works in street ministry as you get back something from the service. Hey, come join us one Wednesday night. I'll introduce you to Raymond - you'll love him, I promise. He'll regail you with stories that will make you laugh and think. Come to think of it - any day you get to laugh and think is a good day... even as in Raymond's case, you have next to nothing. See you next Wednesday night - Malcolm
Tom Hamilton's Story 4/26/2010 Big Tom called me today from Mercy House. "I ship out tomorrow around 3:00 or Monday morning early. I just wanted to say how much I appreciate all you all have done for me. I'm doin' good. I'm hangin' in there ...pray for me. Tell everyone I love them." "Hey, we're with Jackson Street Ministry, anybody need anything to eat? We've got food and water. " "Yea, we'll take it", they reply. Tom Hamilton had a beard and long brown hair, pulled back in a ponytail, wearing a baseball cap turned around backwards. After introductions, we find that Tom is hoping to hitch a ride to the coast to find work. 'D' had just been beaten by her boyfriend, her eyes darting around as if on lookout. Kenny was just happy to be included in the group. Tom seemed to be a wanderer, no real plan in life. He just took life a day at a time. He did have hopes of getting his life together, somehow. I mentioned a church group on the coast, 'Lagnappe Church', that was formed by a local group of Christians when Katrina came thru, and had grouped together for the common good of the community and anyone else that needed help with the basic necessities of life. He seemed very interested, thanked us for the food, we prayed with the three and left. Not knowing if we would ever see them again, I drew a picture of Tom, Kenny and D that night because I didn't want to forget their faces. Little did I know how much I would grow to love Tom and D over the next year and how deeply God was beginning to draw me in to loving the people of the streets. "Hey ain't ya'll that church group that I met that night coupla months back?" "Yep, that's us." We sit on the parking stob next to Dean and Tom and talk for a while; asking them if there's anything we can pray about for them. Tom tells us he needs help getting his birth certificate so he can begin to get his life together. We take his information and put it in the works. Tom is grateful and asks for us to pray for him, he repeats, "pray for me, pray for my soul." We mention rehabilitation for alcoholism to Tom and talk about what that means for a little while. We pray and leave the two men to finish their red beans and rice that we brought them. It is hot and the mosquitoes are bad. We leave bug wipes and hygiene kits, say our goodbyes, and are off to see the next homeless friend on our route.
Wed. 4/21/2010 David Womack – off the streets In many ways the scene was all too surreal. Twin was there as he has been for the longest time during our weekly outreach, but he wasn’t under his bridge. Matter of fact, just moments before seeing him we stopped by his camp. There was no fire. The recliner was there, but not a soul reclining in it. Ricky’s old mattress where he was brutally stabbed was still there. What was left of Twin’s tent was still standing with a healthy amount of supplies. The trash dump on the other side of the barrel was still littered with beer bottles. It looked the same, but Twin was no longer there. Twin was in a nearby hotel, the result of Michael England’s testimony on Twin’s behalf at a hearing to deal with his disability. I find it amazing it took this long for a man with one leg (the result of a hit and run) who is homeless to attain benefits for being disabled. I know some folks abuse this system, but this felt more like a system abusing a man – Twin – David Womack. The money had come through and Michael helped Twin secure a hotel room, and open a bank account. He also helped him find a refurbished (all but brand new) 2005 camping trailer and a place to put it pending the remainder of his funds coming from the government, which is now stalling to deliver his back pay, requesting installments over months. Twin doesn’t have months – he needs help now. I would suggest living under a bridge with no job or prospects of a job given his condition should be more than adequate evidence of “immediate need.” Twin said he would meet us outside the hotel – practically in the road no less. There he was – clean, sober, and in high spirits. A friend was with him who Twin had told to wait for us to get food. It turns out we had found this man’s home on the other side of the creek from Twin’s old camp under the same bridge. So, he got a meal at the hotel and another when he got back to his camp (sometimes we just leave a sandwich and water in empty camps where we think someone will return). Twin invited us in. Richard was there to see him and Twin has been a popular man since money has come his way. Donna even remarked to Kelli Irby that money had changed Twin. It hasn’t. We found the same man we always have found. Yes he looked different, but his mind was still out there under the bridge if not part of his heart also. You don’t walk away from a place you have been for over 25 years so easily without lasting consequences. Twin said he was bored. Did you get that? He has a roof over his head, a clean bed, shower, sink, refrigerator and TV… yet he is bored. This will most likely pass as he adjusts to new occupations for his time. He sang for us. The song Sanctuary he had never sung more beautifully. It was fitting that he now has sanctuary of a sort no longer in the elements under I-20 where the world passes over one car or truck at a time like an endless trail of ants coming and going without any knowledge of the soul beneath them. I pray for Twin now as much as ever because of this significant change. He is out of his comfort zone – though we who know nothing of living outside under a bridge could never see it as anything described as comfort. But it was for Twin. Now he has been thrust into a world of walls, beds, mattresses, phones and televisions. He calls Kelli and Michael all the time, because he can. Now the real journey begins… Pray for his steps – may they be on God’s path. Pray for spiritual Sanctuary. -Malcolm
April 2010 His name was Frank. We found him wandering toward Galitin from the truck stop on Frontage road. "Would you like a sandwich and water?" The question to Frank came out of left field. He had just been asked to leave the truck stip by his own admission, which was probably kind language meaning - "being run off", from the truck stop for panhandling. Frank was upset...about a lot of things. He wanted to know where a good Christian home could be found to get help. Frank got on our van for a ride to the bridge where he would spend the night, a "day" bridge we call Mead's bridge. We have never found anyone there at night. We pulled up the truck stop at the end of Galitin to which Frank paniced. Evidently, he had been asked to leave there before. We park at the bridge, turned on the flashers, and listened to Frank go on and on about his life. Life had been good, life had been bad, and God was to blame for both. God had turned his back and forsaken Frank, but it was interesting that the one verse Frank could remember was Phil 4:13. (I can do all thinkgs through Christ who strengthens me). Frank admitted that he liked to fight. When asked why there was no real answer, just a rant of how things had gone bad and/or most folks don't understand him. After an extended dialog (mostly by Frank) we prayed for him and Michael England promised to meet him at Gateway in the morning. Frank never showed up. He contines to wander somewhere in the dark both in a physical sense and a spiritual sense. I pray he finds peace - for that is what he needs. I pray he can someday claim this verse as his own. Pray for Frank...
17Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everybody. 18If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. 19Do not take revenge, my friends, but leave room for God's wrath, for it is written: "It is mine to avenge; I will repay,"[a]says the Lord.
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