The Spirit of Christmas Present

It's Christmas day and for the first day in awhile, the sun is bright and warm on my face. I could say that it matches the warmth in my heart. It's quiet, my young adult kids are outside playing ( I can't spell it correctly) but you know, they're throwing that disc around and catching it. That's funny--just as the sun is warming my face and my heart is warmed, people have caught the joy of Christmas as sure as my kids are catching that disc. Oh boy, that's a round about way of saying something, but sometimes that's just Alice's way. Let me tell you why I can say people have caught the joy of giving:

A young woman came to the True Light Family Resource Center about two months ago. She had two to three gallons of chilli left from an event. We were more than glad to receive it inasmuch as we feed six days a week. The meal was carefully poured in manageable containers and frozen and used once a week. The young lady, Kelly is her name, then phoned and said she and her family wanted to do something for Christmas. We were delighted because we had the desire to do something for the homeless and near homeless women who come to our doors. You might say we had more desire than means. My mother used to say where there is a will there is a way and we were determined to make something happen for these women. Then, along comes Kelly and Linda her mother with a gourmet menu and a plan to gather hygiene items. God bless them! And He did. Kelly was inspired to share their plans with family and friends and the Christmas dinner plans got bigger and bigger. On that day there were gifts from a beauty school and gloves, scarves, backpacks filled for children with Christmas goodies and a warm throw. Kelly's father Bob carried delicious smelling food to tables while the glow of Christmas settled on True Light's Emancipation Station like a warm blanket with Geneva and Cheryl singing and the women joining in with laughter because we are first verse people. Anything else is ad lib. Oh what great joy! More than we could ever imagine. Sisters and in-laws and other family celebrating and serving the least of them with love. And when we thought it could not get any better Melissa and her fiance and family with more gifts and well wishes. Now, you can see why my heart is so warmed. Now you can be reminded what this season is all about. The greatest gift ever was given to humankind. Like those homeless women, He had no place--was laid in a manger borrowed from the beast of the field. His birth announcement was to poor shepherds out in the fields watching over sheep by night. It could have been given to the rich and powerful but instead came to the lowly--the least of these. And the announcement--a savior is born brought them exceedingly great joy.

The Wrights could have done anything on that blustery day where sheer ice threatened the safty of drivers and pedestrians alike but they came to 31st Street bearing food and gifts and the greatest gift of all--sharing themselves and their great love. Thank you Wright family. Thank you friends and family of Kelly, Linda, Bob and many others. Thank you little Caleb with the beautiful red hair for helping me say a little prayer with the women from 31st Street. And may the spirit of Christmas premeate and warm our lives each and every day of the year. Happy 2009!

A Blast From The Past

Maybe it started with the old doo-wahs that Richard, our good neighbor and helper on 31st Street gave me. I was instantly taken back to Gary, Indiana's hot sultry nights when the street lights came on and we were required to be on the porch. Oh those long nights--too hot to go to bed (pre-air for most folks) and nothing else to do except radio--Living with Vivian (Vivian Carter of Vee Jay records fame--the Spaniels, Goodnight Sweetheart and many more) and on a good night, Randy out of Nashville, Tennessee, I believe. Oh what nights. I was a tween and my friends Maxine and Margie could think of so much mischief to get into from that porch between the time the street lights came on and maybe 1 am, depending on how impossible it was to get comfortable in our tiny apartments. Those were the days--sweet innocence. Vivian called those of us under 18 powder puffs and everybody else sponges. I guess we were soft and tender not yet having absorbed life's lessons and toughened by God knows what. I listened and remembered. My how far the journey, away from Gary (It had become foreign to me) to our neighbor to the West-- Chicago and back to the Dunes country and now Kansas City--31st Street. Many things to remember--some happy, funny, some sad but all a part of who I am now--all a part of my relationship to the many people I meet on 31st Street.

I found some pictures stored away in a drawer since movin g to Kansas City. There's my brother 1st Lt. Ronald, lean and mean in January 69, securing Highway 1 between DaNang and Chu Lai and another in Jump School always confident and brilliant. Dance books are passe but I found mine from the sophomore class party of Tolleston High School. Pardon me if I say I was stunning in my sister's pink sheath dress with black suede spike heels. I can tell from the guys recorded that I dance the night away 7-9:30 p.m. And I have the commencement announce--the first of new beginnings and pictures of U of I at Chicago commencement procession. No one would have bet a plug nickle that I'd make it past Tolleston.

I found Mama's evangelist license and a newspaper announcement for State Sunday School Superintendent Piggee's week long Sunday School Convention. Now, I am beginning to see the light and understand what makes me tick. There are scads of pictures of kids with salutations on the back to Mrs. Piggee, counselor Lake County Children's Home. I remember that she'd bring two or three kids home to our tiny ranch style home for Christmas. They had no one to pick them up for the holidays. I got a double or triple whammy--daddy's call, mama's caring and Ronald's determination. I'm a SPONGE now Vivian, but the girl on the porch, the sophomore, the mischief maker is just a doo wah or two away.

I Must Be Dreaming

The day after election, negative ads, standing in line for almost three hours, full of anticipation that a wind is blowing and change is coming and it's here and coming. I can hardly imagine even though I saw with my eyes the sea of humanity in Grant Park and Times Square and..., euphoric, each a small part of the change. I am so proud!

Weeping May Endure For A Night

Wow! Yes, that my word. It's hard to believe what I see and hear with my ears what I hear. For instance, on this this bright, bright sunshiny day, cars lining the curb waiting for Christmas assistance for another agency, I walked into the Emancipation Station and there was this lady and sitting with her, one I assumed to be her daughter. The lady introduced me to the young one as a new client at the shelter. Teasingly, I asked her age and was astonished to find this one was only 17 years old--sexually molested--one of three siblings. Grandma could only take two and one so young was left to fend for herself. I felt like crying!

She walked into the Station. I don't know her age. Black women wear their age well. A staff member approached and said, "I'm sorry about your loss and tears--big tears rolled down her face. I wished that, perhaps, she had been allowed time to sit and adjust. It was her brother's passing and his death had left a big hole in her heart. He was the one who held the family together. What can one say to grief of that sort? I remembered my mama and the dream I'd had after her death. So I told her the dream. "I dreamed that I was walking down the beach. I lived in Gary, Indiana and once you pass the steel mills there is Lake Michigan and beach. While I walked, I saw two people walking toward me. As I got closer, I saw the two were my oldest brother and Lola, my friend who had helped me care for my ailing mother as if she was her own.
My brother handed me my mother's shoes." Me, the one who saw herself as not capable--competent--was handed my mother's shoes. My mother was a giant--a strong women, soft and feminine with a fist of iron. How could I fill her shoes? In time, my siblings began to call me for counsel, prayer and I began to grow. I'm more like mama than I ever wanted to be and daddy too. Sometimes I sound like him. "Do you know why I'm saying this to you," I said. "The mantle is always passed and maybe you are the one who will receive it and become the cement of your family like your brother." "Weeping may endure for a night but joy comes...." Experience the pain and lay on the breast of the Master; He can hold you. The sun will shine again.

She sat on the sofa watching a "judge" show. I sat down and she began to share. " Going to get an apartment soon. My case manager is helping me. Can't get into section 8. Got an eviction and it takes 10 years to get into another section 8." I didn't know that. "My boyfriend busted up stuff and got me kicked out. He got killed right in front of me and I have flashbacks."

Wow, the sun is bright on 31st Street even though the fog of pain lays heavy inside the Station. As I have experienced fog, I know that the sunshine always prevails, if we let it.

Moving Day and Wanna Moves

She was excited! It was moving day. She's been sleeping in the bushes the last couple or three-four days, rising when the sound of traffic picked up, coming to the Emancipation Station for breakfast, a change of clothes from her small duffle bag stored out of sight, then to Metro Lutheran Ministries (MLM) to work on that place we've been praying for, waiting and waiting for. Finally moving day--Emancipation Station has a box of dishes, dinning chairs and stuff waiting for her and around the corner at MLM a sweeper, bookcase and more stuff to be piled in the little Subaru already loaded down with donations. We trudge two flights up, sweating, lifting, dragging and now salty/sweet smelly arm-pits wet from sweat, but happy. Happy about the neat apartment--one bed-room and more amenities then dreamed of. What a thrill! And can it really be after the crack and drugging and partying and nearly dying. Yeah, left for dead in the park. She remembers having a good time at a crowded party and feeling light-headed then being flung over a shoulder and kicks and pain and kicks and fist until---blackness and blankness and nothing waking up, broken up and...a rape kit and being nursed back. She's going to wear a dress soon. Going to take off that "manish" look soon. Going to let peace and joy move back into her life soon and maybe even love again someday.

She's lovely, slim in an almost child-like way with enchanting eyes. She says, "Where do I know you from." Gazing, she says with certainty, "I know I know you from somewhere!" I think to myself, God knows. A lot of people go in and out of my life! I wonder if she might be related to the .... She wants to speak with me. She sits and talks about her journey much longer than I have time to listen but I am caught in the depth of her eyes and words. Raised a Moslem, her path changed somewhere along the way. She knows she's on a journey. Just yesterday evening, homeless, not knowing where to go, she felt a tug that pulled her in hope's direction. She felt hope when she came upon a bag of clothes someone had thrown out. Rummaging through the bag--black pants needed to start a job promised--the job where the needed black uniform pants were unaffordable. On that path, she found the shelter she would sleep for however many nights, safe from whatever menaces that had driven her to this point. On this path, she remembered dreams and visions of starting a gift shop--a beautiful shop and another of helping troubled kids find a way to make a few dollars without standing on corners doing the drug thing. Oh, she dreams of a room with lots of people microphones in hand waiting for her to say something--fame--yes, she dreams of fame. I tell her, "I believe you have what it takes to have your shop, to have fame and recite my life's Proverb, "Trust in the Lord with all your heart, lean not to your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will direct your path." I tell her how she knows me--spirit to spirit--sister to sister that's how you know me.

She used to sit in the door way across the street--long, oily blond hair, clothes a little soiled. She didn't say anything--just sit and smoke an occasional cigarette. Sometimes, she would sit near the corner or walk--always alone. She started to come inside for breakfast. Never said a word just walked to the bathroom and to the table for coffee and the days offerings. She'd eat and leave without a word. Then, I started asking her if she'd had a hug and she'd sit stiffly as I wrapped my arms around her shoulder. One day she started to answer, "No, I haven't and reach back." She comes daily now and sits-- taking in the morning show. She likes to read too--thick non-fiction novels. Friday, Jane was doing a sing-along with us. Jane and I believe that music lifts the spirit and her folksy music style makes us laugh as we add our own nonsensical lyrics. I ask Jane to play, 500 Miles. "Lord, I'm one; Lord I'm two, yes I'm three...Yes, I'm five hundred miles away from home." I look at her and her face is red and sad. Her eyes--did I see tears? I move slowly across the room and put my arm around her shoulder and wonder where she comes from and where she's going.

What's Wrong With This Picture?

Wow! It's been a long time since I've been on 31st Street--the blog of course. The problem, I've been quite literally on 31st about 8 days a week. A brief rundown: Yesterday I sat down on the curb with the guys. It felt good to be in touch again--like back to my beginning on the street. No, it didn't bother me that, somehow, the guys can buy beer and drink in their little hubs, but still go into the Holy House for dinner. In fact, True Light Church will take up a little of the slack by taking one Saturday each month to feed the needy. Yeah, I said needy! You see, these guys have kind of dropped out of the mainstream. Some have a felony conviction. If you walk alone 31st Street in Kansas City or any street in your city, you'll see some of the same faces--toothless grins, foolish talk, idle time, panhandling (for the next beer) without much hope and surviving. You see, a fella can run into the same wall only so many times before finally learning that, ouch, this hurts, I'm getting nowhere fast. Do you know how hard it is for a felon to get a job? I believe prisons are designed, like the drugs on the street to keep the consumer coming back. And back they come--maybe not to the prison but to the local jail house. My friend Rebecca says, "At least I'm guaranteed three hots and a cot!" What happened to rehabilitation, and redemption? Why do we continue to punish after men and women have served their time. Isn't that punishment enough?

This lady came into the office. She'd been in before for prayer--sometimes there is nothing else and it's free (free is suppose to be funny). Maybe some charge fro prayer. Stranger things happen. Well, she starts to share her story. She had been sent to prison and became very diligent and intentional about prayer. She read scripture and meditated. After not too long, the big folks, for lack of a better word, sent for her and told her she was going out on an administrative discharge. She said, "They gave me some shorts--way too big and I ran out to that bus holding up those pants. They were like balloons--so big and full of air but I didn't care, I was going home." She was so thankful for another chance--free of drugs, free of hopping in and out of cars, free of low self-esteem, freed from the icy grip of death. She road with the Kansas City serial killer and lived to tell about it. Still, she struggles to make it from day to day.

What's wrong when people pay their dues to society and continue to be punished, living without hope for jobs, housing, maybe even food; where do you cook if there's no housing? Why should some crooks sleep in mansions while others sleep under bridges, abandonmiums, porches and steps? I'm just thinking about 700 billion dollars needed to bail the country out of this financial mess--got to be some crooks somewhere, not on the curb drinking beer, probably in a mansion making a toast with expensive wine laughing all the way to the bank--no no they're part of the problem.

Time Marches On

I headed for 31st Street after dropping my son off at his job on The Paseo. Nothing unusual about this except I had to drive Phil's car--a stick shift and I haven't driven one in a long time and my timing was a little off--at first. I thought I would take a certain short cut to work but when I saw that humongous hill and thought about the coordination it would take to get out of first gear at that angle, I quickly, mentally mapped out an alternative route to 31st Street. To elevate my frustration level even the more, I couldn't answer my cell phone and shift at the same time. Oh boy, I missed Joe waiting for me at Truman's McDonalds, lost $1.00 in the parking meter in the coveted parking spot that I didn't need because my timing was off, Joe gone, and I was even later getting ready for the meeting True Light was hosting. To add to "bad timing" I forgot the water, mustard, and mayo and the only plastic table covering material was too short for the table and looked absolutely tacky! Did I say that the bread was not cut, the pickles were whole and nothing seemed to be going right? Ever had the problem of having your timing off a little bit? Whew! The good news is that I did not ruin the clutch, run into something, stop in the street unable to get the car into gear--my son said more than once, "Mom, you should have practiced like dad told you to." There are some things you just can't practice for.

Timing was off for the dozen or so people lined up to get into the nutrition class for the free food 45 minutes too early because we can only take the first 20 folks. Timing is off--those food cards that are supposed to last a month but most folks are looking to already severely stretch food pantries to feed themselves and their kids. It's summer and a lot of kids are at home. Do you know what kids do when they are home? They eat all day long. What's going to happen with the rising food cost and "food stamps" yes, I know they aren't called stamps, but by any name they aren't adjusting to meet the inflated food cost! My response to the too early line--let those people inside. They do not need the frustration of standing out on 31st Street suffering further indignity as if begging for a handout. We are all about hands up. Does anybody know what time it is? Looks pretty dire to some. Those folks argue about whether we are in a recession. On 31st Street, we're like feeling depression!

Speaking of timing, I got lost in the writing and burned the cabbage in Phil's good skillet. I can't get the window open to get the stinky cabbage smell out before he gets home and in a nice voice says, "Honey, what's that I smell?" Then, he'll come into the kitchen and with voice elevating a little say, "Alice, you burned up my skillet!" I'm always Alice when...."What were you doing; you know you can't do two things at the same time!"

You want to know something? I'm getting better!

It Ain't That Serious

Little Lady came to the office to ask for her brother's telephone number. So, I checked my numbers and no, no name found. She says, "Check D's name!" I did and found not that name either. I checked under Mike--nothing. Finally, I said, "Little Lady, I'm going to check under your name--Ann...." So I did and came up empty. Finally, I said, "Let me check under "L" for Little Lady and whoa...there it was. Little Lady cracked up! "Oh no you don't; Pastor Alice, you know you a mess!" "You the only one that call me by by real name." "Lady, you something else! Can I use the phone?" As Ann...was leaving, I called for her to stop and she said,"What you want now mama?" I asked, "You're a CNA (certified nursing assistant) right?" "Hup, that's right." Didn't you tell me you want to go back to school for an LPN (licensed practical nurse)?" "Hup, hup! "What's stopping you, alcohol?" "Hup." And the conversation sent on to sobriety and reasons. Well, I told Little Lady that I was going to write about her. Laughing, she asked if I was writing about finding the telephone number. I said, "Nope, I'm writing about the laundry." She roared with laughter. "Oh, no you don't, lady, you something else." I'll tell you about the laundry sometime. It ain't always serious on 31st Street.

Oh Happy Day

Let me tell you about the storm last night! The lightening was horrific--no, not quite, it was strickingly beautiful. The storm caused me some minutes of concern as the rain, hail and wind ripped at my car. The sound upon the roof top was l o u d like some irate thing banging and demanding entrance. As I passed under a viaduct, the silence was deafening like a movie with the sound turned off. I thought about pulling over and sitting there until the storm passed but I could not afford to stop (remember can't means I choose not to) and pressed on. I got home without incident and continued to gawk at the storm from the window. I have always been fascinated by storms, especially lightening--horizontal, vertical, near, distant, radiating. I learned from mama that when the rain fell while the sun shone that the devil was whipping his wife and that if I gazed in, I don't remember which direction, I would perhaps see a rainbow. I still believe in rainbow's promises. One Sunday some years ago, I sat in the Indianapolis airport. My Southwest flight had not arrived because of bad weather. The clouds were thick and dark. As much as I desired to get on board and home to Kansas City, there was something quiet and peaceful about the storm that said this is one of those special moments-- a moment to relax that I might not take otherwise. When the plane arrived and we boarded, I wondered about the safety of taking off in such grayness, such thickness of clouds. Then the plane began to race down the runway and swiftly lifted up, up, up. Suddenly, to my surprise we were above the clouds and it was golden--pure gold--the sun setting and casting richness, unspeakable richness everywhere! I could only think about "streets of gold" somewhere, off I hope in my future.

First Time Is The Hardest

As we traveled I35 from Kansas City to Saint Paul, I remembered the first time. Phil, Rebecca, and I were on that highway taking Blaise, my son, to Macalester College. We had been up most of the night meticulously checking off recently purchased supplies from the suggested needs list. There had been piles of paper, boxes and stuff underfoot. We were excited with thoughts of what this new road held for Blaise and us and at the same time filled with the dread of separation. That was four year ago--four years since we moved Blaise into a freshman dorm with other scarred boys and girls, four years since we sat in that gym overlooking 400 plus empty chairs--one for each new student, ears bent toward the mournful sound of bagpipes as the players led our children in like piped pipers to a place where they would be forever changed. It was not easy batting away tears that swelled involuntarily into my eyes nor battling the loneliness that settled upon me even as I sat in a nearby hotel. We left a boy in a tiny room; he returned a matured, confident young man-- unfolding, reaching, searching for ...God knows what. Discovery is the journey!

One hour outside of Saint Paul, I realized it was somewhat different this time. Yeah, the excitement was there and a little sadness too at the realization that we had planned his journey thus far but now, four years later, the road taken or not taken is up to him. Will he plan his journey well or simply drift?

Hearts Made Of Stone

What breaks your heart? When I was a little kid, there was this song called,"Hearts Made of Stone," or something like that. I almost always remember some part of the lyrics to songs that I suppose came at some formative period in my life. Anyway, it went like "Hearts made of stone will never break...."

I went with Rachael of CCO to this ministers forum on Ward Parkway--beautiful Ward Parkway. Quite a contrast with 31st Street. There was an interesting question poised, "What breaks your heart?" Most of the meeting was introspective. The Pastor spoke of Jesus in the temple overturning tables and somewhere the question--rhetorical as I remember. When I came back to the Center, Ms. B sat outside in her wheelchair smoking of course with maybe three bags of groceries from the nutrition class beside her. She was waiting for her ride. I had to resist the tug to pick up those bags and wheel chair and wrestle them into my little truck and reverse the procedure after the ten mile drive, but I did! You see, it breaks my heart to see my almost chain smoking sister captive to this habit even though it is slowly robbing her of health a little bit at a time.

Little lady was waiting at the door. "Can I have some gym shoes. Mine are wet and they stink." We went inside for shoes only to be bombarded with accusations that she had called staff unconscionable names. It breaks my heart when trust and respect for another is long g o n e because we have long since lost self-respect.

Before we could settle the shoe issue, I learned that Ms. T. had taken a sack full of knitting yarn with my non-existent consent and had taken off. I took off too and found her sitting on the curb at the "pawn shop" her back to me and before the Mayor of 31st could cue her in I had the bag and was at my car door. It breaks my heart that those I love and would give my last to would feel that it's ok to steal from me--themselves.

It almost Mother's Day. Last Mother's Day I received a call in the pre-dawn. It was my son calling from the emergency room. He had been assaulted and robbed. He's like his mother. There was 1.00 in his billfold. My son was 600 miles from home and there was absolutely nothing to do but pray for our peace and that his injuries were not permanent. God granted me enough peace for the day or two and then I began to unravel. I could hear his screams in my imagination and see his assailants kicking and beating him. I hurt for him. Then, I remembered how, in my Christian tradition, God forsake His son to a beating....It breaks my heart.

Ms. B, Ms. Little lady, Ms. T. the assailants--all hurt people. In the words of the Bee Gees, "How do you mend a broken heart; how can a loser ever win....
I have some ideas and know that inner healing is real and possible. That keeps me on 31st Street.

Test--Pass Or Fail

Last night was a hum-dinger! That' so 60ish--the expression I mean. I got home after dropping my daughter, Rebecca at Target only to find my husband, Philip was stuck at his job because tornados were touching down. Imagine, daughter at the mall, sirens going off, husband stuck in another county and the storm moving my way. First impulse--get in the car and get daughter. After running that idea past Phil and being advised to stay put--the mall would not put people out in the middle of tornado activity, I switched gears and phoned him every few minutes--on his cell phone. I had to ask Rebecca for the number!

Phil got home just as the activity was centered over us--drove into the storm. Rebecca phoned. She had scanned the mall for faces--familiar ones in hopes of getting a ride. Thought about asking three young men.Oh, my God, that's terrifying. Fortunately, a former high school girlfriend came into the mall and she made it home to find that the sirens were starting to sound in her neighborhood. I passed the test! I didn't run out in the midst of the storm. Rebecca will probably have to take it again.

This morning it was as if nothing had happened with the exception of waking up with a half inch of water all around me. Phil insisted I get out of my bed and go downstairs just in case and I was too tired to move. Stayed on that uncomfortable sofa all night. Ever tried sleeping in an "L"?

Imagine this morning being hit up for 15.00 for gas by two innocent looking young ladies--white girls. They followed some guys to Kansas City and were staying with his friends. He had disappeared. "Where are you kids staying?" "We slept in an abandoned house." I asked what had happened to him and the older said he had called last night and was in jail. I sent them out of the office to privately check my tote bag for any sign of cash--usually there is none and today was no exception . But, I had a Quick Trip gift card somewhere, so I went into the waiting area and said, "Come in my office." The older girl said, "Oh, oh, we're in trouble." Then I gave the lecture about following some guy off...should be at home... The older girl says,"Yeah, I can't wait to get back to my country town."

I remembered the card was in the car. And when I got outside, these two chicks are sitting in the car with two guys! Hadn't I told them about the number of people I see trying to hustle us?
I leaned over and asked, "Why are you trying to get gas money from me when you got a man--naw (that's really county for no) two sitting in here. You got a man, you ought to have some money!" I asked the young men their names then I looked and to my surprise recognized one of the guys from, you know, 31st Street! He kept saying, "I'm just trying to show where the station is. They don't know...." And I wanted to say I'm boo-boo the fool too! Instead, I offered my mama's advice, "Don't be no sardine and soda cracker hustler." "Do you know what that means?" She looks and says," No-oo." I said, "You'll figure it out!" They failed the test.

Test come in various guises until we pass! Don't be no sardine and soda cracker hustler!

We May Never Pass This Way Again

I can see 31st Street in my mind's eye. From 71 Highway westward, long neglected buildings that introduce streets where neglected houses nestle, small warehouses--some seemingly empty, broken windows, cars and little car lots carved out of little patches of ground between ugly buildings wrapped in wire fences, dirty faced buildings--used tire shops with dirty clothed men sitting in front waiting for the customer. Oh, there are the barber shops, and M&M bakery. It doesn't look so great from the outside but the sandwiches and pastries are fabulous on the inside. I always say white folks will go anywhere if the product is good. There's Grady's Cleaners and another I haven't tried and across the Paseo, a shell of a building, the broken shell that was once Walt Disney's studio, where he most likely created Mickey Mouse. There is Father David's Egyptian Orthodox church and the neat Catholic Church and school where kids in neat brown paid uniforms recess on the fenced playground. Holy Family House is a few streets farther. Men and women, some with undiscovered reason and purpose idle away the hours on its porch, sleeping bags of the "guest" lay and sometimes the guest themselves lay over night. There is Kitty's Cafe--best hamburgers and True Light Family Resource Center and Church and Emancipation Station and of course people and buses coming and going.

Ann and Beverly were amongst those coming and going. One summer morning the doorbell rang at the small store front church called True Light. I hate to say store front but is was created out of a warehouse. My friend Linda Hollies said,"If its a store front make it grand." We tried. Anyway, two women stood and one said, "We heard we could come here and get something to eat. I nodded in consent as they stepped in. Beverly spotted the shower and asked if they could take a shower and then for clean clothes. They were excited! Once cleaned up they came into the "living room" and began to tell their story. They were staying in an abandoned building, huddled together at night for safety. There were others there--smoking crack and doing other things. That night they were awaken by a flashlight shinning in their faces--a big white man they thought might be a cop. They were scarred and decided they wanted to "come in".

We rustled up food and then began to talk about life. Beverly had been clean 6 or 7 years. She said one day she just got a "wild hair" and said "f... it." Ann was the more retiring, listening, always listening. She would sit at my feet and listen to scripture before going to Veronica's Voice--a ministry for prostitutes--that's how Ann and Beverly supported their addiction--no pimps, strong black women.

Ann and Beverly came to church from the shelter. Then Ann disappeared. On Sunday, she came back and showed me her breast area. She had been out there and a man grabbed her between buildings and started to cut her. " I was screaming and screaming and I was cutting him and he was screaming too." He let her go. I dropped her at the City Mission that late afternoon. She had a court appearance on Monday. She would come by the church after court.

Time passed, no Ann. Then, one Thursday she walked in during nutrition class, hungry and tired. Ann lie on the floor in a side room and slept until the late afternoon. I had to leave. There were no more Ann sightings until one mid August evening the news channel flashed a picture of a women whose body had been found at 35th and Prospect. I said, "I hope that's nobody I know." This woman was young and fresh and pretty. The next day, Beverly called to ask if I had seen the story--it was Ann.

Yesterday, Terry Blair, the serial killer was sentenced to life without parole. "The paper said, "Blair said his victims were "scum" and 'a disgrace' because they were prostitutes." Five women, maybe seven, some of whom passed my way.

"Speak up for the people who have no voice, for the rights of all the down-and outers. Speak out for justice! Stand up for the poor and destitute!" Proverbs 1 The Message Eugene H.Peterson

Two Sides To Every Story--at least

Wow, what a day or more accurately, last few days! Let's start with Wednesday and work backwards. Sorry, this day is just a blur--up at 5:45am to get a beautiful volunteer to out-patient surgery. She's okay! I'll remember to check on her before I turn in. It's raining and gray and I feel--well blue. I'm one of those people who come alive with sunshine although gray is comforting sometimes.

Yesterday was move, move, move--absolutely non-stop. I thought I had missed Gina. Gina's a single mom I've known since I came to 31st Street. She's come a long way in her sobriety--9 months tomorrow. That coincides with the birth of baby G. her lifeline. God is her anchor but baby G. changed Gina--focused her, gave her a reason for living clean. God keeps Gina grounded. Enough rambling, except I must say that Gina is intense and talented and nice looking. Gina lost her mother when she was just a teen. Maybe one day I'll ask if she will allow me to post the poem she wrote when mother was dying. Her road to sobriety is paved with hard knocks and obstacles and that's why I pick this single mom up from her server job once a week, take her to pick up baby G. and then to the northeast to the big pink trimmed house for her meeting. It takes guts! I was a single mom too.

Well, I'm sitting in the car at the bus stop waiting for Gina to come out of the nursery with baby G. I'm watching with interest what I think is a drug deal--maybe a dozen blocks from 31st. Two young men--one a school boy in uniform and a SUV the older sticks his head in for a few seconds and the SUV pulls up and parks. The school boy gets in and suddenly this kid on a bike comes whizzing through the intersection and thump--the bike lands thirty feet down the street and the kid in the middle of the street and people coming from nowhere. I jump out of the car and tell this woman to get the kid down on the pavement and another to call 911. Instinctively, kneeling, I begin to pray for the kid. I feel his heart beating fast and then begin to slow. I believe he will be alright. The emergency crews arrive and police take reports. I wonder if I should say I saw the accident--the driver is shaken. Gina says maybe I should, maybe I was there for such a time so I can tell the police I saw what happened. When finished, the officer says, "Everybody else says the driver sped up when he saw the kid. You're the only one who has a different story and I believe you." Gina says we never know why but I know that there are usually two sides or more to every and that truth lies, most likely, somewhere in the middle. I hope the kid is okay--I believe he is.

Expect Change

April 18-- Expect change-- Yesterday it was suppose to be dry and partly sunny after noon. It remained gray and overcast and suddenly roared with thunder and heavy downpour. The doorbell rang at the Center and Leroy, the self-titled mayor of 31st Street stood there. "Hey, Pastor when are you going to have something for the men? The women get breakfast and lunch and all of the nice things..." Leroy was soaked, pants wet and clinging.

Margaret called for food from the pantry. Her sister had dumped seven kids on her and she had no transportation. I felt for her and agreed to bring food on my way home. It was pouring. My nice jacket and decent pants soaked--bad hair day made worse by the pouring rain. I sat a mom.ent (maybe there is such a thing) in front of her house. Seven kids, surely one can run out here to get these bags. She was much younger than expected--seven kids--trying to keep them together. Wow!

Veronica's Voice called. Do we have ladies underwear, socks, and bras. Their client was going back to Iowa to turn herself in. "Tired!" We didn't--not new and white and in unopened packages acceptable to the jail. "I'm going back." "Death is getting closer." Stretching arms to demonstrate, "It used to be I heard of someone I knew dying, now its all the time. Death used to be this far, now its this close."

"Mama used to tell daddy, "I'm going to bury you at midnight so nobody comes." "I'm coming back when I finish my time. Can I help you?"

I got a letter in the mail today--only a last name and return address--no note. There were two money orders. I only saw one at first. It was for 100 dollars. Thank God! We need money so badly! Then I noticed there was another underneath--500 dollars. My God! We need money so badly! Who could have sent it? Check the files. Only two with that last name. Writing looks the same--he has no address, no phone listed. Homeless. Now he has an address and 600 dollars to give. Thank God! We really need the money. I can't remember the person nor the service but I know that things change.

--2 Lesson: You can't judge a book my its cover. It was late--almost 5:00p.m. at the Emancipation Station. Seven of the homeless women from the shelter were preparing to leave. I said to the ladies, we ought to do a video and send it to Harpo Studio, that maybe it would get into Ophra's(probably spelled wrong) hand. We'd say that we needed a place to house women from 6 months to a year to allow women to get a hand up. As we began to plan the house, women began to talk about what they could do--form a coalition to try raising funds, design the layout, do floral arranging to sell and on and on. Needless to say my day on 31st Street stretched out longer than anticipated, but I saw homeless women come together in hope, love, respect, dignity. They said, "People think that just because we are in a shelter that we don't have no sense. We are not dumb, just down. We need a hand up, not a hand out." This was evident in how they gathered to make beef stew today--peeling potatoes and carrots, chopping onions, and humming as if to say. we can. Don't count us out.

Hello...My First Post

Here I am, gathering my thoughts together before committing them to "paper"....
1 of 31 Everything that happens is preparation for the next leg of the journey. Everything is life is about the journey.

Today was a sunny, beautiful day. It was not until the end of the work day that I remembered the day was incredibly quiet on 31st--n0 sirens! As I drove down 31st Street this morning nothing seemed different. I wondered what lessons lie ahead for me. It was only upon entering the place we call Emancipation Station that the lesson began to unfold: The nutrition class was filled beyond capacity with women and men, some with children who came for the food that stretches their food dollar. Later, a speaker who does HIV prevention seemed to bring clarity to me when she said most of us are 30 days away from transitioning from one economic status to another.

Some of the women at Emancipation Station have gotten lost. We were encouraged to ask ourselves, "Where am I now, where am I trying to get to." We were encouraged to take time, change patterns, and change the stinking thinking. And, remember there is power in the spoken word. We need to circle ourselves with positive people. We are here for a reason! Enjoy the journey.