The Lights of Tenth Street (48 page)

“Looks like that hymn affected you the same way it affected me.”

“Whew, it’s those words. ‘Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, prone to leave the God I love …’ ” Eric choked a bit, his eyes watering with emotion. “It just kills me.”

“Because it’s so true. I know exactly what you mean.”

Several others stopped by, shaking hands, giving hugs as the foursome stood half-in, half-out of the aisle. Sherry left Doug’s side to intercept a forlorn-looking woman, placing a gentle hand on her arm.

“Hey there … how are things with your husband? I’ve been praying for him.” She pulled her aside, glancing at Doug as if to say “I’ll be a minute.”

Doug watched as Sherry found an empty spot a few rows down, and the two women sat, talking intently.

There were others watching as well. Caliel surveyed the room, his face radiant. Here and there, dozens of people stood or sat in small groups, talking privately, praying for one another, even crying together, sharing one another’s burdens.

Caliel rejoiced! The cloak of secrecy had been torn away, the cloak of darkness under which the enemy had been able to torment so many in solitude. Sure, there were still those who wanted none of the new honesty, the new transparency that had swept this body. But to most, it was like water to a parched soul.

There was still a ways to go before this body would be ready for the task entrusted to it. But—as in so many times and places before—Caliel had seen firsthand what happened when the Kings hand moved and His children were willing to go beyond what was comfortable, to step into His plan. He had also seen enough of the waywardness of God’s children to never take anything for granted. But here, in this place, Caliel marveled anew at the majesty of his Creator. His strength truly was made perfect in their weakness … as they submitted their weakness to Him.

The fast-food place was deluged with the after-church rush, the members of Eric and Lisa’s small group pushing tables together to accommodate their number. The talk turned, as it had so often in the past few months, to the pastor’s message and what God was saying to the church.

“I don’t
want
to be just a Sunday Christian.” One of the women slapped her hand on the table as she recalled their pastor’s challenge. “I’ve been there, done that, bought the T-shirt. I don’t want it anymore.”

Sherry paused in helping Genna with her food. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t
know
.” The woman sat back, frustrated. “I’m just feeling like my faith has to translate into something more meaningful, somehow. I want to be like—well, like this nurse friend of mine who went to work on a mercy ship that travels to the poorest places in the world as a floating hospital. They treat people who’ve never seen a doctor or a nurse in their lives, who can’t pay, people who live with crippling pain or deformity that can be solved by a simple operation. My friend has nothing anymore—no possessions except a few clothes and a tiny little hammock on board this big old ship—but she writes me these letters just
bursting
with joy over seeing the little faces of children who could walk for the first time, the mothers or fathers who could hear or see or talk because someone cared enough to leave the comforts of their home and go reach out in Jesus name.”

Her eyes looked far into the distance. “Sometimes I wonder—I’m not tied down; I don’t have a husband or kids yet. Why
shouldn’t
I just leave my cushy job, my cushy house, and go make an eternal difference somewhere?”

“Why don’t you?” Eric’s voice was calm. “It sounds like this is pressing on you. Have you ever seriously thought about it?”

The woman crossed her arms. “I’ve tried. But I can’t get past my selfishness. I like my cushy job. I like my cushy life.”

Sherry chuckled. “At least you’re honest. It’s so hard to admit that we’re just selfish. Selfish and insulated from what so many people go through every day.” She looked sideways at her husband. “When Doug and I bought our house, we realized
it was pretty expensive, and bigger than we needed, but we justified it. We said ‘Well, now we have extra room we can use for ministry.’ ”

Several of the others in the group gave wry chuckles and nodded in agreement.

“Been there,” one piped up.

Sherry shook her head in frustration. “But you know what? We haven’t used it—not like that. Oh, we’ve had friends come and stay; that sort of thing. But we had originally said, ‘Wouldn’t it be great if a pregnant teenager could come live with us so she wouldn’t feel she had to abort her baby?’ Or, ‘Wouldn’t it be great if we could use the extra playroom downstairs to care for the kids of single moms who otherwise couldn’t afford childcare while they worked?’

“But you know what? We’ve never done it! We’ve never housed a pregnant teenager or helped with high-risk kids. It would mean inconveniencing ourselves. When we know that ministry almost always means inconveniencing ourselves—at least until it becomes a way of life.”

The previous woman gave a sad nod. “Part of me just doesn’t want to think about it. I can go on as I am just fine if I ignore the needs all around me, thank you very much.”

“Well, I know one small thing I can do about it,” Sherry said. “Maybe you can join me. It’s not the same thing as taking a needy person into your home, or some such thing, but it’s a start. My friend Jo Woodward from college goes to Good Shepherd Church—you know, just a few miles down the road? Well, they’re having an outreach on Friday night at a community center in one of the public housing projects. They’re going to show a free movie for anyone who wants to come, and will have childcare for the kids, and games and popcorn. They do this every Friday night as a way to give the project families something to do and keep the kids off the streets. They always need volunteers. I was thinking it would be fun for our home group to join them from time to time.” She looked over at Eric and Lisa. “I don’t mean to put you on the spot, but what do you think?”

Eric’s gaze was thoughtful. “I think it’s a great idea. There’s so much that’s needed in those communities. So many of those kids have no fathers at home—”

“I know.” Sherry felt excitement rising. “That’s one of the things Good Shepherd encourages. They’ve actually seen these Friday night deals turn into special, ongoing relationships between some of the church members and the needy kids. They’ll bring the kids to church with them, or take them out to the movies once in a while … just show them that someone cares for them. But even if you only go once, Jo said that just having godly men there makes such a difference. She says you should see all these fatherless kids just flock to the men that come in. They just want someone to roughhouse and kid with them like a dad should.”

There was a long silence around the table. Several of the couples looked over to where the children of the home group members chattered contentedly away over their burgers and fries, happy, fed and secure in their parents’ presence.

“Why don’t we do it this Friday night?” Eric said.

Sherry beamed as the others agreed. “I was hoping you’d say that!”

The little boy ran up to give Doug one last hug as the volunteers finished cleaning the almost-deserted room. Doug scooped him up and threw him over his shoulder, laughing as the boy howled in mock protest. The others looked on as Doug set the boy down again, looked into his eyes, said a few words for his ears only, and sent him on his way.

The child ran out the door. His mother, moving slowly from an apparent injury, waved a listless good-bye and limped out without a glance.

The volunteers were left alone. All the lights were on, the movie screen had been put away, the linoleum swept clean of popcorn. Only the last few bags of trash were left to be hauled to the dumpster.

Doug and Eric hadn’t been able to participate much in cleaning up, but no one minded. They had indeed been swarmed by children the moment they walked in. The little boy who had just left had hardly let Doug alone for a moment. Brandon had eyed the other child warily but had seemed tolerant of the preemption of his father. As long as it was temporary.

Doug walked over to Brandon and ruffled his hair. “Thanks for being such a good sport tonight. You were a big help. Did you have fun?”

Brandon nodded, then shrugged, then nodded again. “Jamal was nice. He doesn’t have a mom or a dad, though. Says he lives with his grandma.”

“A lot of these kids do. I’ve got to finish cleaning up and then we’ll get going, okay?”

“Okay.”

When Doug rejoined the others, he found that a heated discussion was in progress, the Trinity Chapel volunteers deep in debate while the Good Shepherd members looked on in some amusement.

“Well, why
don’t
we do this at our church?” One of their home group members was looking at Eric. “Or something like it? I mean, goodness’ sakes, we collect a lot of food, you know. But we just give it to other churches and hope it reaches people it should. Why don’t we do any of the actual ministry ourselves?”

Before Eric could respond, Sherry jumped in. “Yes, and look at all those low-rent apartment complexes right along Tenth Street near the church. Just a mile
away, you’ve got subdivisions filled with ritzy houses, but there at the gas station on the corner—at that little minimart—there are immigrants waiting every day for someone to come along and offer them a day labor job so they can feed their families. I’d think we could easily set up a system to bring some food or clothes to those folks who need it.”

“And then we could invite them to church!” one of the other women chimed in. “After all, that’s the whole point, isn’t it? So many of these people need the hope of Jesus, but they don’t know where to find it. It’s just a matter of connecting the ministry outreach to the church.”

“You know,” Jo Woodward said, “our church has been talking about setting up a program to bus all these kids from this community center to church each Sunday. We’d give them breakfast on the bus—big incentive for the parents to let them come—and they’d go to Sunday school just like all the other kids. We’ve seen it work really well in other places, and we’ll probably start it in the spring.”

She stood with her hands on her hips, her face thoughtful. “I think you’ve got a great idea about turning your food pantry into a real outreach. I’ve been in those apartment complexes you’re talking about, the ones where so many immigrants live. Our own family has had so many financial problems this last year that it’s easy to feel sorry for ourselves—but one visit to those complexes puts it all in perspective. I think so many people are struggling to just put food on the table each day that they don’t have the time or the inclination to seek out a church, to seek out reasons for hope. But if your church came to
them
, well, that’s another story. I think it’s a great idea.”

“Yes, great idea,” Lisa Elliott said, “if we can find someone to take the responsibility for it … and actually do the work.”

“Well … why don’t we do it?” Sherry raised her chin, as if expecting quelling looks, but got none. “Even if we just did it once, as a test, sort of, before the holidays. What could it hurt?”

Doug looked at his wife with affection. “It could just shatter our complacency, that’s all.”

The others laughed, but looked thoughtful. Sherry looked uncomfortable. “But then there
are
the inevitable tough problems, and I don’t know that we know how to solve them. Like these women here tonight, for example. I can tell that a bunch of them are on drugs.”

She paused and turned to the others in the group, her gaze rueful. “Don’t ask me
how
I know that, I just know it.” The others laughed as she continued. “How can we—or should we?—give handouts to people who are misusing the resources they already have?”

“That’s a hard question,” Jo said, “but I think we can get some people from our food pantry to help you decide your parameters. It’s all about exercising compassion and wisdom at the same time. We’ve got some people who are really experienced—have done this for years—and know how to avoid the pitfalls. If you’re really serious, I’ll set you up with them.”

Several people nodded.

“But in the end,” Doug said, “it comes down to whether we’ll be able to get the people in the congregation to do the work. It can’t just be
us
or it won’t work. It has to be something that people not only think is a good idea, but something they’re willing to put shoe leather into. And … well … I’m just wondering whether we’re up for it. At least right now.”

“What do you mean?” Jo asked.

“I mean—Well, look, you’ve been to our church, right? We can be so … so judgmental. Whether they say it or not, a lot of church people will be judging the people that come to the food pantry, wondering if they’re trying as hard as they can to find work, thinking that if they hadn’t had three kids out of wedlock they wouldn’t need our handouts. I think all those things myself. Are people who think like that really going to be able to minister to someone they’re secretly judging? Because I can bet you that the people getting the ministry will be able to spot it a mile away.”

“I think our church has matured more than you realize,” Eric said, “more than may be apparent on the surface. The issue isn’t whether the volunteers think that the single unmarried mom with three kids was irresponsible—in most cases, they’d be absolutely correct in thinking that. The issue is that we have to realize that we
all
have warts, that we
all
have logs in our eyes, as Pastor Steven said so eloquently that day. I have found that it really is impossible for me to hold in my head a realization of my own sin—say, that I’m being insensitive to my wife—and to be judgmental of someone else’s sin at the same time. It just doesn’t work.”

He shrugged. “I think we should try it. I think it would be good not only for those we’d be helping, but also for our church. It’s just the sort of thing that would help solidify the work that started when Pastor Steven stood up in the pulpit that day.”

“This is just the sort of thing I’ve been praying for!” Pastor Steven was on his feet with excitement. Doug and Eric watched him pace back and forth in front of his desk. “We need something to galvanize the congregation, to get us outside ourselves, for pete’s sake!