The rhythm of the Tenderloin

Another week has whizzed by. About 160 children and another 35-40 parents, grandparents and aunties attended the BJM neighborhood family fun fest.  Faces were painted. Bounces bounced. Food inhaled - including popcorn and cotton candy so we wouldn't forget for a minute that this was a PAR-teee.  Games. Family photos. Free books and school stuff.  AND, the UC Berkeley street-dancing troupe came to get everyone dancing.  Everybody had fun - especially the wonderful young professional-type men and women who volunteered to help.

Weeks are intense. Fun. Full.  I am falling into a rhythm of life here. Nail Day. Bible Study. Hangin' out with a young transgender person who is discovering the power of forgiveness.....both given and received.  This week, observing another public hearing about a massage parlor asking to be re-zoned as a bath house (I haven't heard so many lies spoken with such straight faces since....well...never...and I used to teach juvenile delinquent boys in the department of Corrections in Illinois!).   

I'm learning to listen more carefully.  To see beneath the surface.  What I'm seeing is an amazing depth in the women of the Tenderloin.  They are not too proud to say they need God.  They are not too hardened by the trauma in their lives to deny the many times God has rescued them. 

Met a woman on the streets named V.    The early evening had grown cold and she was wearing short pants and a flimsy sweater. Socks and holey tennis shoes.  Would I pray for her, she asked. Her hands hurt. And her arm. And, she was sad....something about her family...she sobbed quietly and I couldn't make out the rest.  I prayed and hugged her.  Please come to Nail Day, I ask.  Stop in any time.  Ask for me, please?

Sometimes I forget how powerful prayer is. I think I "should" be able to do something. Something more than prayer. Something more than asking my heavenly Dad to come and do what I cannot do - save and heal and rescue.   So often I feel inadequate.  I don't have a housing voucher or a solution for the driving voices of schizophrenia. I may or may not be able to run upstairs at the YWAM base and find warm clothes among the boxes of donated items.

But I do have love. I can introduce my new friend to my most faithful friend, Jesus. I can share the promise that we are never alone. My God is the God-who-sees.  And what He sees is US.

This morning the staff gathered to worship and wait on God.  We sang, "I will climb this mountain with my hands wide open.....Trusting you will make something beautiful out of me...."

AT first I thought about climbing some wilderness mountain, trudging uphill through the dust and rocks. Thirsty. Tired.    Then, I realized this was the climbing of my imagination.  I asked God about climbing.  Where? What is this mountain like?  Why are my hands open?

Suddenly the picture changed. I was climbing through green grasses and flowers. Under an umbrella of blue sky and clouds.  Into the blue. Up. Up UP UP.  Pushing. Panting a bit.  stretching into each step.  And, coming over a rise to the top, where blue sky stretches to heaven.  And, my hands are wide open. Over my head. Raised up.  And I am singing. Because my God is the God who sees. And He sees US.