“Your love, Lord, reaches to the heavens, your faithfulness to the skies” (Ps. 36:5).
My life wasn’t perfect. In fact, I was the farthest from perfect I thought possible. I was antisocial, painfully shy, and had to take anxiety medicines to get through the day. My safe haven was what I referred to as my shell. I locked all my emotions, opinions and expressions inside my heart to avoid embarrassing conversations. To me, my life was useless.
Though I called myself a Christian, I always seemed distant from God. I knew He was there, but I never knew how to reach Him. I felt as if I were a burden on everyone’s life. I was always too nervous to attend youth group regularly at my local church. When the church rejoiced, I wouldn’t lift my hands in praise for fear of being judged. I knew my life was heading downhill if this continued. The church I had been attending since I was an infant was still out of my comfort zone.
The opportunity to attend a mission trip, My Mission 2014, cam up while at youth group. I’m ashamed to admit, but my first thought wasn’t, “I can’t wait to serve God!” but instead, “Perfect, a way to get service hours!”
I signed up.
The camp had no showers. That small detail made me feel as if the five days were going to be a living hell. I began to talk myself out of going, but decided against it. For once, I was going to step out of my comfort zone and see what might happen.
We all gathered at our church before we went to Wesley Methodist Church, where we would be staying for the event. I awkwardly sat next to a few acquaintances. I kept my hands in my lap, opening and closing them, hoping to stop my trembling. During the ride there, I remained silent as the others talked. Occasionally, I whispered something, but when asked to repeat myself, I shook my head and said, “Never mind.”
After everyone had arrived, I became overwhelmed. People were buzzing around, carrying luggage and talking. I already felt intimidated, watching people make friends with groups from other churches so easily. I struggled to make friends with the people from my own church. I basically was forced inside the traditional style church, seeing a large group of Servant Team members. They all smiled and said hello cheerfully, almost in sync. I signed myself in and escaped to where I would be sleeping with the other girls.
I set up my sleeping bag on the cold tile floor. A group of girls set up their air mattresses and cots around me. I picked my spot against a wall to feel safer, as well as be close to an electrical outlet.
Once everyone was ready, we all gathered outside for a meeting. We would have worship sessions outside, in the open, in the middle of a neighborhood. Our task for the evening was to knock on doors and ask neighbors to join us. I followed a few of my acquaintances around as they led the way down a foreign street.
The houses looked as if they were withering away, dying from the inside out. Street signs were knocked over, twisted and crippled. Walls and fences were painted with scribbled vandalism. Vines clung to the base of houses like leeches, crawling their way to the roofs. Each yard was overgrown with damaged lawn chairs, couches and tables strewn in a haphazard pattern.
I nervously followed my group as members picked houses to approach. I stayed behind on the cracked sidewalk and focused on the lawns. Every few minutes, I would see a cat peer at the group from the bushes before taking shelter again.
The first door was opened by a woman. She looked tired, her brown hair tangled into a bun, resting at the base of her neck. Her eyes widened, probably feeling overwhelmed by the number of people at her door. One Servant Team member started off the conversation, inviting her to join worship. I remained quiet, listening and watching. From behind the woman’s leg, a tiny face peaked out. A toddler, also was listening and watching from behind his mother’s leg. She smiled and nodded to the conversation, placing a hand on the little boy’s head. The mother and son happily listened and spoke to us, accepting our gifts. Each person who answered each door was happy.
Once I noticed that detail, something clicked inside me. I wasn’t afraid of the neighborhood anymore or revolted by the trashy look. Instead, my perspective changed. I viewed it as a beautiful land, housing beautiful people.
We all returned to the church for worship to hear my youth pastor, Ruben Saenz, preach. That day, I learned God is relentless. God will travel across mountains, dive to the bottom of the deepest of oceans, and scour the entire earth to find you. I felt loved and valued in that moment. My heart fluttered a bit.
The director, a man named Todd, stepped to the microphone to give a small speech before starting the prayer.
“God always will search for you because He is relentless.” Todd spoke, his eyes drifting across the crowd of students. “Is there anyone He isn’t seeking? It is our job to reach out to others, in the name of God, to love them and show them God’s love.”
That is when my heart exploded inside my chest. My shell had been cracked. In that moment, I felt as if I were almost a new person. I then realized the kind of person I had been.
How often had I walked past a homeless man on the streets, not giving him a second glance? I had done nothing. All he may have needed was a smile or to hear that he was loved, and I had done nothing. Now, I was going to do something.
“But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint” (Isa. 40:31).
I jerked awake at 6:29 a.m. and couldn’t help feeling a sense of pride, seeing as I set my alarm for 6:30. I changed out of my pajamas and put on some makeup. At 7, I woke my younger sister and a few others who’d asked me to wake them. I tied my hair into a high ponytail and headed outside for my breakfast: a small bowl of Frosted Flakes.
I made two sack lunches of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Cheetos, chocolate chip cookies, and a bottle of water. Everyone followed suit: one lunch for each of us and the other to give away. Soon after, we were assigned our groups.
My group was S4. A youth worker named Kristi was our group leader. When I first saw her, I was terrified. She seemed so serious, as if she would be strict and mean. We had three Servant Team members in our group. A boy named Sawyer, who was kind enough to let me store my lunches in his backpack; and two girls, Alyssa and Abby. Alyssa had dark brown hair that almost matched mine and was always smiling, laughing and trying to brighten up everyone’s day. Abby had thick-rimmed glasses and was serious about her job. She was friendly, but always tried to keep everyone on task. Chris and Mason were two boys from my church whom I never had spoken to before, but because they looked familiar I stuck to their sides. A girl named Natalie was also in the group, though she didn’t speak much either. Finally, there was Jacob, the youngest in the group (becoming a sophomore), though he sometimes behaved as an adult.
The walking began: along sidewalks, across streets and beyond highways. The sun was unforgiving, burning deep into my pale and freckled skin, tinting it pink with warmth. Every time I managed to find shade, I desperately took in the cool feeling as if I never would be sheltered from the glare again.
Seeing my discomfort around others, Abby attempted to speak to me. She asked me about my journalism, and I answered briefly. I have to admit, she was stubborn. She kept the conversation flowing despite my feeble responses.
During an awkward silence, I looked over and saw a man, walking on the other side of the sidewalk. He had shaggy, tangled hair and dirty clothes.
Without thinking, words flew out of my mouth. “Good morning!”
My heart stopped. I never had spoken to a stranger on the street before. The others in my group chorused me.
The man stopped for a moment before grinning from ear to ear. “Mornin’,” he replied, laughing to himself. “You guys just made my day.”
Just like that, he was gone.
My heart was pounding, and my hands were trembling from shock. My voice had jumped out of my throat. My shell disintegrated, allowing me to speak my reserved thoughts. I formally thought losing my shell would kill me, but it wasn’t killing me at all. It made me feel more human.
A simple good morning was all it took to make that man’s day. That’s when I discovered he could have been facing great difficulties. No matter the issues, I brightened his day by smiling and saying hello.
Eventually, we passed out all of our extra lunches and went to Central Park to eat our own lunches. We all sat in a circle and began to eat. Curious squirrels popped into the picture as Sawyer and Jacob tossed them bread. Soon, they were surrounding us and crawling into our laps. We played some games together and told stories. I told stories without feeling scared at all. I already had become comfortable with these people, and I couldn’t explain why. After Sawyer took pictures of himself with the squirrels, we were on our way again.
We were assigned a homeless experience. The goal was to find places to use the restroom, get water for free, and rest somewhere with air conditioning. Each time we entered a store and asked to use the restroom, we were turned away. If we looked homeless, our faces covered in muck with torn clothes, I’m certain we would be kicked out instead of being declined politely. My feet were aching. We had to use the restroom badly, and I wanted to sit down.
We entered a gas station and asked for free water. To my surprise, the man said yes. However, it was from the sink, not a bottle. None of us cared at that point. We filled our empty bottles with warm tap water and searched for a place with a bathroom—the gas station hot having one.
After crossing a few streets, we walked inside a CVS, knowing it would have a bathroom. The air conditioning blew against my face and calmed the rising temperature of my body as I walked through the automatic doors. There was only one mixed-gender restroom, but we were happy to take turns. We refilled our water bottles again from a much cooler water fountain. While waiting, we sat down in the aisle closest to the bathroom and water fountains, which happened to be an aisle dedicated to treating foot fungus and vitamins. We teased each other about needing the special creams and laughed.
I already considered these people my friends. I made more friends in a day than I had in my entire school year.
Upon leaving, we decided to walk toward a middle school to sit in the shade and relax for a bit. On our way there, we noticed a man lying on the sidewalk, a 24-pack of beer next to him.
Kristi spoke to him and helped him drink water, seeing he was dehydrated, drunk and directly in the sun. Alyssa called 911, hoping to help the man. A police officer came. I sighed with relief. Surely, this man would get the help he needed.
The officer put on gloves before touching the man. My heart sank, and I was filled with anger and disappointment. How disgusting would a person feel if someone had to put on gloves before touching him or her? It broke my spirit.
The man wasn’t given medical treatment at all. He was forced to stand, carry his heavy pack of beer, and told to go uphill and find somewhere else to drink the rest. The poor man couldn’t make it a few steps. He collapsed several times, and the officer just stood, arms crossed, looking annoyed.
Eventually, the man was out of sight, and my group continued the journey to a middle school, recovering. The group took cover from the harsh sun under a large shade tree. We sat on a half wall built of cement. We began to talk to one another, and I learned how sweet and kind Kristi is. I couldn’t believe I was scared of her at first. I couldn’t believe I was scared of any of my team mates.
After discussing the squirrels at the park, Alyssa announced proudly that her spirit animal would be a squirrel and proceeded to give all of us spirit animals. Mine was a flamingo, though there was discussion of a cat. Jacob, the panda, referred to me as a “Caflingo.” In return, I called him “Cuddly Panda Bear.”
In the middle of our relaxing and joyful afternoon, a homeless man approached us, nervous and awkwardly making small talk. At last, he finally asked what had been gnawing on his mind and stomach.
“Would any of you happen to have anything to eat?” He breathed, looking at the ground, only giving us a few shy glances.
His voice was so faint, the majority of us didn’t understand at first.
“He’s asking for food.” Kristi explained, pointing at the bag which held our food.
We all smiled at him. We gathered the remains, which was mostly bags of cookies, and handed them to him.
He smiled and thanked us, before heading on his way. After we watched him leave, we headed to the church. Following dinner and worship, I collapsed into my sleeping bag on the hard floor. My feet were throbbing. My eyes kept trying to give up and close. After a goodnight prayer, I allowed myself to drift into a peaceful, though cold slumber.
“What good is it for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul?” (Mark 8:36).
My sleep was short, fewer than five hours. I woke at 3 a.m. to get ready, having to attend another church that hosts a free breakfast every Tuesday and Thursday at 5 a.m. for anyone who may be in need. My group tiredly crawled into a van and remained silent until we arrived at the church.
The number of volunteers was overflowing. Alyssa, Natalie and I were sent downstairs to the clothing section. While we were headed downstairs, the homeless were being let into the building, all rushing upstairs to eat. The look in their eyes mirrored the hunger that roared inside them. They trampled over each other to get up the stairs.
Downstairs, we organized clothes by size, so if anyone came there needing clothing, suitable items would be easier to find, though options were limited. I distributed the clothing to people who asked for them. Some refused while others jumped at the opportunity.
It was there I met Michael, an 85-year-old man. He told me he had been living on the streets for years. When I asked him about his life, he just shook his head.
“I’m running out of time.” Michael sighed, looking distressed.
I became slightly concerned, tilting my head. “What do you mean?”
“I have yet to fulfill my greater purpose.” He looked at me, a fire sparking in his eyes. “If I don’t I will surely have damnation. I don’t want that. So I will keep going strong until I fulfill that purpose.”
I prayed for him in that moment. After telling him to have a blessed day, he left.
Another man paused, looking at the counter where the clothes were displayed. He quietly spoke to himself. “I wish I could have a new T-shirt.”
“You can. You can pick out one,” I said, causing his eyes to wander from the clothes to me.
The man grinned, shaking his head. “No thanks, someone may need it more than me.” He waved goodbye and walked out the door before I could say anything else.
I was in shock. A man who hardly had enough to cover his back refused the chance to get clothing, something he obviously needed. He reasoned that someone always needs something desperately. He didn’t want to take that away from anyone. Behind his messy appearance, he was a generous soul, giving up his own needs for someone else’s wishes. It amazed me that someone who has so little was able to recognize and understand the feelings and needs of others.
The men’s clothing soon ran out, and the men were becoming desperate enough to search through the ladies’ clothing.
A large man took a nightshirt with Tweety Bird on it. Another man took a girl’s luggage bag to keep his personal items. A man in a wheelchair asked me to help him find some pants. The pants that looked the closest to men’s pants were a baggy pair of sweat pants. He thanked me and took them.
As the day went on, our second task was to have lunch at an apartment building, where kids can get free lunches during the summer. After the children finished their lunches, they were allowed to go outside and play, which is where our group became of service.
Everyone in our group was outside except Natalie and me. Two little girls were still inside. Both had matching dark skin, pale brown eyes, and curly black hair. The older sister’s hair was shaved into a boyish style, while the younger, about 5, had a wild lion’s mane around her face.
The older, a 9-year-old, stood up, brushed off her pale blue shirt, and began to inch toward the door leading to the playground.
“No!” Her mother snapped, “You aren’t allowed to be out there without me. Play in here.” The girl obeyed.
I could tell in that quick moment that something wasn’t right. Why wasn’t she allowed to go outside, but her sister was? Shaking my head, I decided to mind my own business. I focused my attention on the younger sister, watching her eat and drink milk. Occasionally, I’d have to wipe the milk off her chin and shirt.
Natalie had given the older sister all of her spare attention, reading a book to her. The girl was so intrigued by the story, smiling whenever something interesting happened and laughing when a character said something silly.
The little sister noticed this and went to listen to the story, as well. As the story ended, the older sister clapped. “Again!” Natalie looked exhausted, a mixture of waking up early and reading a long children’s book. I picked a shorter book off the shelf and sat down. “Let’s read this one,” I smiled, placing it on the table.
The 9-year-old snatched it off the table and smiled. “I will read to you all now!” I sat near her, helping her read. She was having trouble pronouncing letters and words, so I taught her. It took longer than I thought, but we finally made it through the book. I praised her with a high-five and hug before she had to leave with her mother for a therapy session.
I was puzzled about why she needed therapy, but I was soon told the truth by another youth leader. The older sister wasn’t biologically related to her current family. She was a foster child. She had been taken away from her family because of males in her family of origin sexually abusing and raping her. As if that weren’t sickening enough, a few months before I had the privilege of meeting her, two 9-year-old boys cornered her at the playground and raped her. The boys went to her school, so she knew her attackers. I was told the boys were in the process of being punished, and she had fallen far behind in school, because she could no longer attend.
I wanted to vomit in that very moment.
One has to wonder what those boys have seen to learn how to perform such a horrifying act. A sweet, innocent girl had experienced something—repeatedly—that no person should have to experience at all. I felt physically ill. My fists clenched. I wanted to beat up every person who’d hurt her. I wanted to kill every person who’d hurt her.
Suddenly, my brain put the pieces together. She couldn’t read properly because of her lack of education since the incident. She wasn’t allowed to go outside without her foster mother because the mother was worried about her being hurt again. I completely understood. I wanted to cry.
Worship that evening was different. I had the chance to reclaim my faith for God, and I took it. I made a promise to follow Him and spread the good Word. I prayed for people I encountered earlier in the day. It brought tears to my eyes. I held students close and prayed for their peace. Everyone began to sob on each other as we helped each other accept Jesus. When the band began to close the service in song, I escaped to the back for a drink of water. I was about to return to my seat, but I saw a girl kneeling on the ground, praying.
I hesitantly walked over to her, when something took hold of me. I placed my hand on her shoulder, kneeling down next to her, and prayed for her protection, love and guidance.
When the song ended, she lifted her head and looked at me. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I nodded. “Are you OK?”
“Yes.” She smiled, stood, and left.
I brushed the grass off my knees and went back to the room to rest. However, I was awake most of the night, staring at the ceiling above me, crying. How could God be so cruel? So many people I’d encountered during this trip were suffering in their daily lives. So many kind people were living on the streets. A young girl had been raped several times.
That’s when my tears stopped. God wasn’t cruel. He was preparing them all for something greater than this world offers. I felt somewhat relaxed, being drawn to sleep. I felt as if God had worked through me and shown me His understanding and protective nature. I wanted to know more about God. I wanted Him to continue using me for good.
“So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom” (Ps. 90:12).
The next morning, my eyes were swollen from my tears the night before. The exhaustion was starting to make a significant impact. On the streets, my group spotted a long line of homeless people, waiting for a free meal.
I gave a homeless man a water bottle, asking him how he was.
“I’m OK,” he snapped curtly. He had shaggy gray hair and full beard. For a 45-year-old man, he already had wrinkles and tired brown eyes.
I awkwardly smiled, pushing toward a conversation. “Where are you from?”
With that simple question, he grinned an almost-toothless grin and began to tell me his entire life story and ancestry.
He became homeless in Wisconsin, because the house he was living in was too crowded, and he didn’t want to burden his family. His mother talked him into coming home. On his way home, he accidentally got on the wrong train, but still managed to get to their scheduled meeting place. After approaching his mother, he said her full name to make sure it was her. Later, she admitted to him having thought, “Why is this old guy talking to me?”
“It’s me, Ma.” He had said, recognition finally registering for her. She took him to her place of employment—a pizzeria—arriving two minutes before her shift started. His mother’s ex-boyfriend lived with them…and they were unable to kick him out because of a law that protects people who live at a residence for more than a year; he would have to agree to leave. Meanwhile, she helped her son secure employment as a busboy. He helped his mother pay the bills. Yet when the weather turned cold, he went to San Antonio, Texas, after discovering a family connection with the Alamo and feeling a strange attraction to the place. He moved to Austin, but now is trying to save money to return to Wisconsin. He has health concerns—diabetes and supra-ventricular tachycardia (SVT), which means his heart beats dangerously fast. He had to be taken to a hospital once, where his heart intentionally was stopped for five seconds in order to restore its normal rhythm.
By the time his story ended, it was time for him to go inside the building and eat. We shook hands, and he was gone.
So many homeless people had such great lives previously. One woman was a Spurs cheerleader; another was a middle-class citizen, who lost her home in an electrical fire. I also met a man with one arm, shaped into a nub at the forearm. On his shortened arm, he had a leash wrapped around tightly. On the other end of the leash was a happy dog. He told me he had taken care of the dog for four years and appreciated having a companion on the streets. I never gathered the courage to ask what happened to his arm.
We ate lunch at the apartment building again. The young girl I had met the day before wasn’t there. I stayed inside again to encourage a young boy named Nathan to eat. I tempted him with the idea of going out and playing with water balloons once he finished.
After I walked him to the playground, where my group was playing with the other kids, I began to fill up water balloons with Natalie.
It wasn’t long before I was soaking wet. Water sloshed around in my shoes and the children dumped water on me. Panda (Jacob) and I had our own little teams to attack each other with.
Once the children were gone, I painted a cat on Panda’s cheek, while he continued to scribble random lines all over my entire face.
I actually had a lot of fun, though scrubbing the paint from my face wasn’t so great. My last night there was peaceful. A young middle school girl named Sarah had crawled into my sleeping quarters. Her hair was long and blonde, and she had piercing blue eyes. She asked me about the girl who had been raped and how someone could do that to another person.
I tried my best to explain. I told her people who abused others weren’t mentally stable and were away from God. I told her the little girl was going to be OK, because God always was going to be on her side.
Sarah had looked at me with such understanding and such faith. She trusted my word and opinion.
As I went to bed that night, I prayed for everyone I had met on this trip.
The ride home was just what I had been needing. I had become so homesick I was becoming irritable.
I felt a new calling come over me: to spread the Word of God and support others in finding Him. This article is my way of spreading the Word of God.
God may work in mysterious ways, but that should only make us want to follow Him more. God may let us suffer, but only so we can see the blessings He offers. He always has a plan for each and every one of us.
For me, He cracked my shell. I’m currently mending it, but I know now that it’s OK for me to come out every once in a while. The world is a beautiful place, and it would be a shame to hide.
“Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see” (Heb. 11:1).
