It’s the life one never imagines when they’re in 7th grade. How could a child see so far and know the things a child should never have to know?

Yesterday afternoon I met a child new to Siempre Para Los Ninos.

No idea how many children I’ve had the opportunity to welcome into the safety of our work since the doors first opened in 2004.

No idea how frightened and alone she must have felt last night… longing for her mother or grandmother or someone familiar. Like every child, regardless how loving a place they’ve been rescued into, I’m guessing she cried into the night.

Somehow, she’s going to have to find a way to fit in, to make her new home at Siempre her new family.

What a hard task for a 9 year old to be required to take on. Her grandmother had been her legal guardian, no longer able to care for her, she signed everything over to us – por vida – for life.

Siempre.

This morning I stood with a family as they wept – lump in my throat – at Riverside National Cemetery as service men conducted military honors for my friend, their husband, father, grandfather, brother, uncle, son… now given his final resting place… so near my parents.

When I arrived at National, his mom asked the question every mother has ever asked me – the one there’s no right answer for – “How could this happen. Why did God do this?”

My heart broke just a little more as I gently wrapped my arm around her fragile shoulders and gave what comfort I could.

Thanked God she was surrounded by so much loving family. The moments ahead weren’t easy.

So many tears were shed.

In 7th grade I felt like I’d never be good enough. Buddy Johnson, Bob Thurston, Mike Cordell… they were all so cool… so good at sports… they’d been playing since they were at least 9 years old – in 4th grade.

I often felt like quitting. How could I ever catch up to their talent and ability?

I was 12. I couldn’t imagine surviving the current semester of Algebra 1, much less what my life could be like when I was 25 or 50 or even 64. My vision for the future was clouded by my desire to be accepted in the here and now.

To even make an effort I felt like I needed to be “as good as…” or “better than…” or I might as well just throw in the towel… at just 12.

I’ve long since learned that life is filled with heartbreak beyond what I imagined as a child. There are children, abandoned and in poverty, who need a home. We can give them one. So we do. There are children, forced to let go of their father, their dad, long before they ever imagined needing to. We can be there with them. So we are.

And there are still 12 year old’s, getting ready to start a new school year, wondering if they’ll make a new friend, fit in, or be able to be as cool as Buddy or Bobby or Mike… and some of them are foster kids – stuck in a home they don’t know yet – other’s have recently lost a loved one and aren’t sure who they can trust with their grief and pain.

Scripture teaches us that there’s a time when every tear will be wiped away, that sorrow, pain and the chaos they rain into our lives will be gone forever.

I believe it.

It’s just not today.

That’s hard for those walking a path of pain and confusion. Those who feel lost and like they’ll never fit in.

Be kind to the people around you. Some of them recently lost a loved one and can’t believe that the world just keeps on turning like it’s business as usual.

Be gentle to the kids you see heading off to school. They’re probably afraid of what the year holds and wondering if they’ll be able to make it through the day without embarrassing themselves and ruining their lives… por vida.

And when you hit a rough spot – I know I’ve hit a few recently – look forward.

A time is coming when every tear will be wiped away, when the pain we battle in this world will be gone, a time when they will be “no more.”

“All these things will be gone forever.”

Life, this part of it anyway, is short, give it your best. Try something new. Don’t quit. Celebrate a new beginning. Coach a team – for the first time or the fiftieth time – live a life of “scandalous generosity…”

Love. Love completely.

Trust God.

This part of life – the part that robs our joy, confuses us and makes us want to throw up our hands and walk away – it’s just this part of life… there’s more to come.

And “All these things” pain, crying, sorrow, death, “will be gone forever.”

Don’t look back. Look forward. Trust God.

In 7th grade I could’ve never imagined sitting and writing this and my life at 64 anymore than we can imagine the wonder of what’s yet to come.

Don’t give up. So much of life is waiting to be discovered.

Trust God.

fb live has become a terrific instrument in nearly every aspect of our work.  Opening doors to people around the world, folks who aren’t able to make it out to church can view it live at home on their smart tv or anyone – anywhere in the world – with access to the internet, can listen in and share the life changing lessons of love.

Last weekend I shared on The Gift of Belonging – and what a treasure it is that we share – this sense of somehow we belong – to something, to someone, to each other – we’re not alone.

Telling a story about family vacations as a child and traveling across the country in our Rambler station wagon, I shared how Dad drove until we arrived at the home of a family member, friend or someone from some church he’d once visited… we didn’t stay in hotels… as kids we wanted to but we spent our nights on couches, in strange beds and even on floors with blankets, hotels were out of the question, there was someplace, with someone, where we belonged.

I usually dreaded it and longed to experience the wealth of a room where no one knew us, no stories were told or songs sung.  A place where we could finally eat at an advertised road stop and maybe even buy a pecan log.  To be just another family of anonymous travelers along the road.

But that wasn’t us.  We were Denton’s.  It seemed that someone always had a place for us somewhere.

We belonged.  As kids, we took it for granted.  Abused it.  Assumed everyone enjoyed that belonging that we’d done nothing to acquire – other than to be born into our family.

On my own, I stopped dropping in on people.  As an adult, even when visiting family out of town, I made sure to get a hotel room.  Not for my kids or Debi… I’d just stayed in enough dens, bedrooms and on other peoples couches… I was over it.

Even in the ministry, I’m not proud to admit to this, when traveling to speak – and I was asked how much it would cost, I’ve always said “Just get us a room in a nice hotel.  Something the family will enjoy.  Nothing more is necessary.”

People have been generous.  We’ve stayed in some great places.  But I often think about the many couches, strange smelling bedrooms and late nights of conversations – filled with laughter, tears and song – that I’ve probably missed and that my children didn’t have the opportunity to experience…

I grew up assuming everyone stayed in the homes of family and friends – together – all crammed in – wherever they’d fit for the night.

“Do you realize what a blessed childhood you had?  What a wonderful family life?”

It was a simple question from a member of Central Community following the message.  My experience hadn’t been his experience.  He knew nothing about that “Gift of Belonging” but he knew a whole bunch about being alone, apart, and another hotel room being just that – another empty room.

If you’re experiencing a time of loneliness or feel like you can’t find a place where you belong, listen in to this message and follow the simple steps I outline to discover a greater sense of belonging.  Then, when your done, take a risk and follow through.  Get involved.  Knock on a friends door.  Invite yourself in… they may have been waiting for a visit.

We belong together.

I’ve often thought that if I suddenly found myself alone and needed a new sense of purpose and adventure, I’d begin by purchasing an old Triumph 650 Bonneville on craigslist – somewhere back east.  Buy a one way ticket to where ever it was, clean it up, then begin a ride home to California and only stay with friends from fb, just dropping in and knocking on doors.

“Surprise!  It’s me.”

Reacquainting with people from across the decades face to face – wake up in the morning – journal a bit about the reunion, kick start the bike and head off again, uncertain if I’d go 50 or 500 miles in the day, just hoping there’d be someone who’d let me crash on their couch, share a cup of coffee, and spend a few minutes celebrating the gift of belonging.

We weren’t meant to ignore each other or be alone.  We belong together – even when it’s uncomfortable – sometimes especially when it’s uncomfortable.

We’re family and belonging is a gift that too many of us fail to open.

“The gospel alone liberates you to live a life of scandalous generosity, unrestrained sacrifice, uncommon valor, and unbounded courage.”                         Tullian Tchividjian

If I ever knock on your door, let me in, please.

blessings,

Eric

These two… their smiles, laughter, brutal honesty, their beauty… think they made me fall in love with Jackets for Jesus all over again.

That happens some Sunday nights.  When it does, I realize how fortunate I am, how genuinely blessed to be who I am, doing what I do.

This transparency, the open vulnerability on their part, telling their stories for the whole world to hear.  It wasn’t like that when we began.  It wasn’t like that in the first decade of our work together.  We never knew what the night might bring – from angry people with weapons to uncertain police officers needing to keep the peace – we had some very, very scary moments on the streets in that first ten or twenty years.  years…

My parents were alive then and they would stay up late in prayer – waiting for the phone to ring – mom always expected the worst to happen.

She would’ve loved these two.  The Sunday night video’s would’ve kept her riveted in disbelief at what God has done.  We use to get threatened if we brought a camera.  It’s why there are so few early photos of our work together on the streets.

Now we broadcast live – with a telephone – worldwide… every Sunday night.  And I doubt any of my own family watches it all.

It’s like we’ve become numb to the pain and suffering of others.  Don’t we have enough of our own.  Isn’t something on Netflix?

In the last three weeks I’ve interviewed a friend, a young Hispanic woman, who’s fought hard to get it together in the midst of urban poverty and somehow just can’t find her way out.  She’s amazing and my heart breaks for her.  I talked with a middle aged white guy who’s lost everything – he’s talented, educated, has family – but prison happened, drugs happened, and he’s spent the last five years on skid row.  And this couple – so full of life – so lost to their addiction – so longing for more…

I watch the interviews and I see God in them.

I hear the laughter of friends – poking fun at me – so old, so many Sunday nights – and I feel Grace radiate out from them.

I look at myself, at this point of my life and calling, doing something brand new… running an interview while trying to be the camera man… in the midst of dtla… while the team works in the background and this last Sunday night, hundreds of people go through line and are loved as they receive a meal, someone greets them and friends connect again.

Watching this I fell in love again; with God, the people I serve with, my calling, the people who allow us to serve them and with this young couple… they’re us… in many ways, the very best of us…

They Just Don’t Know It Yet.

We’re blind – or just busy looking at something else – if we miss it.

Jesus said “as you have done it to one of the least of these My brethren, you have done it to Me”  and welcomed folks into the Kingdom.  (Matthew 25:40) and conversely, to those who turned their heads and did nothing… well he had some eternally harsh words.

It’s the reason you “feel good” when you do good things.  You Were Created To Do Good.  It’s what we’re here for.  It’s our Ultimate Purpose in the grand scheme of things.

Even still… there are those moments that spark something new in us again, even when it seems like we’ve done the same thing and heard the same stories so many times… happened to me last Sunday night – I fell in love again with the amazing lives we get to live.

Couldn’t be happier about it.  Nothing like having that “sense of wonder” kindled anew… in hopes that it’ll break out into an all consuming fire within us.  The Fire that never goes out.

Watch the video.  Imagine they’re your kids, siblings, grand kids… then whisper a prayer for their safety and healing.  When you’re done, whisper a prayer that God would wake up a new sense of wonder in you again.  Wonder enough to get you out of the house and onto the streets with us this Sunday night.

Because we didn’t get to spend the last 30 years of Sunday nights together doesn’t mean we can’t make a great effort towards the next 30.

You’re Invited!

Eric

Dee was waiting for us last night. Many of you’ve met him across the years. This picture from a year or so ago shows him well and healthy.

He’s been fighting prostate cancer. He got out of the hospital yesterday and looked like death warmed over – hospital band still on his wrist – struggling to stand, he said “Eric, I think they’re trying to kill me.”

It would take a lot. In our nearly 3 decades of Sunday night friendship – that’s spread to Jackets for Jesus burying his wife, Debi offering to bring him home when he was sick on the streets, loss of parking lots to sleep in… Dee always seems to find a way through the darkness. Last night he told me “Don’t know if I’m going to make it.”

Hundreds waiting, still, we spent a couple of minutes together – me just listening. He said the hospital treated him beautifully, the doctors just won’t set a date on surgery they said he needed a year ago. Resting his hand on my shoulder he said what I’ve heard many aging sick people say “Think they’re just hoping I’ll die.”

Ran over to tip off Jodi, who with only 3 workers and the multitudes waiting had no time for interruptions. Simply said “Keep an eye on Dee. Help him out”

Somehow, managing a bright smile, she said “I always do.” She does. Lovingly each week spoiling him with a special meal – no line to wait in – as our long time friend. But I wanted her – for her sake – to be prepared. Stopping her completely, I said “He’s bad. Really bad. His cancers back.”

As if there wasn’t another person on the streets it registered on her face. “I’ll take care of him.”

I walked into the crowd. The insane knife fight happened. People waited as long as an hour for a meal as we served them.

I forgot about Dee.

Never asked Jodi about him on the ride home. But there was a weight on my heart this morning… when it hit me “Dee.”

Unlike so many, he’s refused to enter social media and free cell phones. He works lugging boxes by day, paid under the table, and sleeps in the back of businesses looking for cheap security by night. Everyone trusts Dee. I have no way to reach him. Breaks my heart that he’s fighting cancer alone, in urban poverty. After last night I wonder if I’ll see him alive again.

Years ago I gave him all my contact info to carry on his person as someone to call in case something happens. He has family. But I don’t remember where. Realized we needed to update everything. Realized I can’t imagine my life without Dee.

He’s not alone. Nearly 70 now, he’s one of millions of seniors across America facing end of life issues with almost no one to turn to.

So many of you have shared an evening, a meal, a backpack… Some have shared the funeral of his wife one family even gave him a van to live in.

Will you share your heart with him again in prayer? I fully understand he’s just one out of so many – but he’s one we know. Will you join me today in praying for Dee?

I don’t begin to presume to know all of God’s plans but I’m quite certain they never include us abandoning a brother or sister to die alone in an alley of cancer. At the very least, we can pray, hopefully by next Sunday night God will provide an opportunity for us to do more to help a friend.

Thanks

Ann Mehlmauer – one of the many “Mom’s” in my life. Not that she didn’t already have her hands full with 11 children of her own. Not one twin in the bunch. Even still, working full time at McCoy’s Market, she still had time for me, a kid from a house two doors down the street – and so many other’s beyond her very own.

I never called her Ann, except maybe the day of her funeral – she was always Mrs. Mehlmauer. Summer’s we’d run up and down Stearns Street, going into each other’s houses. Ours was among – if not the biggest on the street – because Dad had added on. There were 6 of us after all.

That family of 13 – plus the many of us who felt like we had been adopted in – lived wonderfully close to one another in less than 1,500 sq ft. Debi and I once had a hotel room nearly that large… for just the two of us.

Reconnecting with my buddy Mickey has brought back so many good memories. Last week he emailed me the above picture – taken in 1963 – the only known photo of everyone together and he wrote “the only person missing in this picture is you.”

I cried.

I do more of that now.  As you can see – we’ve grown to be old men.  But don’t let that fool you, we were neighbors, buddies, together for years.

Mrs. Mehlmauer made me my first fried bologna sandwich. I still remember standing next to the stove as the bologna bubbled up – I’d never seen anything like it. Asking her why their family ate bologna sandwiches fried and we just ate them cold, she bent down, with 11 kids of her own, wrapped me in her arms and said “Oh honey, It’s just because different people do things differently. This is the way I was raised.” Spread mustard on white bread and handed me a little slice of heaven.

Pretty sure I’ve never eaten a fried bologna sandwich that didn’t come out of that kitchen. Joan, Nancy, Larry, Mickey… someone was always feeding me in that household.

David and Ron have both been gone since the end of the 60’s. Many of us – me for sure – felt the deep cut of young death and loss for the first time and grief that seemed like it would never leave. Never has.

Learned last week that John, the oldest, passed away last year. John and I had become friends as adults. He would come by my office to talk, write me letters, send a check to the church at Christmas. This year Debi and I had been talking how the season had come and gone and we hadn’t heard from John. He was Home. The family is already gathering. I’ve grown more familiar with grief. Age does that…

Mrs. Mehlmauer was famous among all of the kids on the street for two big reasons; 1. We all did calculations on how many years she’d been pregnant. Easy math. 11 x 9 = 99 divided by 12. Over 8 years of her life pregnant. We didn’t talk about it around her but among ourselves… wow! 2 She was on an old Television show called Queen for a Day. We were convinced she was the most worthy candidate ever. I’m sure my childhood memory is wrong but I think she won a new washing machine, $500- and a mink stole. My mom always liked to say she deserved a whole lot more than just a mink stole! (and mom liked mink – even if it was just on the collar of her coat)

Like many other kids we grew up with, this picture will elicit both a tear and a smile; there they all are again… and look, George has got his finger in Marilyn’s ear! Most of all, there’s Mrs. Mehlmauer, who, busy beyond anything we could ever understand, still remembered our favorite foods, took time to love or scold us and sadly, after most of us moved away – went without a visit for years at a time by the kids she’d been a surrogate mom to, when she should’ve just shooed us out the kitchen door and back onto the driveway.

I said the final words over her grave. It was no where near enough. Thought of the many moments I missed if I’d only taken the time… not been so consumed with everything I was doing… she would’ve loved meeting our kids…

Most of us have someone who’s loved us and is still alive – a good woman who took the time to let us know we were welcome, without judgement, understanding that “different people do things differently.” Make the phone call on Sunday – the one you haven’t made in years – take time to visit in the afternoon and let someone know you care still, that you remember how they let you haunt the halls of their household and how you were held and shaped in love. That they made a difference. Say thanks. Tell them you love them. Be hugged again…

And if your mom is still living… take it from me – the divide is so great when they’re gone – beyond imagining… Their voice, smell, the soft strength of mom’s hand holding your own is something you never get again and struggle to remember as you find yourself entering your very own evening light. If you can, call your mom, fly to her, buy her favorite pie at Marie Calendar’s and spend the afternoon together. Life happens fast. Make the most of these moments.

Grateful. More than words can say… grateful. Not only was I blessed with the world’s best mom, I had the opportunity to share so many other mom’s. Their love transformed me… made me feel like I belonged in the family portrait – at home. I’m forever thankful for their love. Thankful for Mrs. Mehlmauer this Mother’s Day what a miracle she was. God is too good.

Happy Mother’s Day Mom’s! You’re all the very best to someone. Keep your kitchen doors unlocked and your arms open wide. The words you speak in love will be written across the hearts of all those you welcome in. Richest blessings with genuine gratitude from one of the kids down the street. Thanks for loving us all. We Celebrate You!

Grabbed from behind, in a parking structure, after an evening with friends, she was dragged into the adjoining field.  Held at knifepoint, hair clutched tightly in his hands, he breathed threats into her ear, pushing her forward, throwing her onto her back, beating and viciously raping her.

She spoke without weeping: almost stoic.  It was for a small local talk show I hosted.  That evening was filled with scenes and stories of horror that marked my soul.  Victims of rape sat and openly bared their deepest secret.  The heinous act of violence perpetrated against them.

Her story captured us all.  Without crying, with a surgical precision, she went through each detail as I, inwardly in shock, outwardly trying to convey compassion – said little things like: “Oh.  Did you fight back?  What were you thinking?”

My heart was being crushed and I was wishing I was anywhere else but on that little stage, in front of those lights, across from her unimaginable terror.  I’d been prepped, but I was far from prepared and so I asked a question that delivered an answer I’ve never been able to escape.

“Now, healing, putting this in your past, what was the worst of it?”

Who asks that?  In public?

She began to cry.  Until then she hadn’t shed a tear.  Her strong nature seemingly broken again, eyes averting me, head dropped, tears flowing freely.  I had no clue what to do – so I sat in silence and waited – then, different eyes, the kind that rage… but the kind that also become vulnerable and let you into the soul… she lifted her head and as if to invite me into her nightmare said the two words I’ve never been able to forget.  It’s been 25 years and sometimes they hit as sharp as if it had been last night.

“The stars.”  Pardon me, I asked, certain I must’ve misheard something.  “The stars.  While he was on top of me, raping me, pulling my head back, I didn’t know if I was going to live or die.  It was a dark field on a beautiful night.  The skies were so clear.  So many stars… I haven’t been able to look at them since.  He stole the stars.”

“The stars, I use to love looking at them, not anymore.  He stole the stars.”

She was the outdoorsy type.  Had been a hiker, runner, loved the night… loved the stars.  Now they only held the memory of him.

I could never relate to what she went through but raising my daughter, loving my wife, amazed by my granddaughters – listening to men demean women, I think of the stars… I remember her story… how she sat on a stage and shared her deepest pain as we, glued to our seats, forgetting to breathe, sat spellbound, as if at a show, and she let go of an entire universe one more time.

Sometimes I wonder where she is today.  Then I remember she’s in the women I meet everywhere.  The women who carry their secret pain; the abuse, the rejection, the rape… the stars… and I try to be just a little bit better of a person.

The stories we carry are not always filled with hope, sometimes they’re about little more than how we survived, amazingly survived and what we left behind.  Sometimes we leave the stars.

It’s about so much more than a backpack.

Patsy and Margaret, sisters, came to Jackets for Jesus Christmas Party on the streets Sunday night.  They’d flown in on Thursday – one from Florida, the other from Georgia – in hopes of connecting with Patsy’s son by Sunday night at the party.  Long estranged, knowing he was living somewhere on the streets, they’d started searching for him online more than a year ago when they found him in one of our videos.

Imagine… lost in the mass of our nation’s population of poverty, there was his face, his voice, being chatted up by me in an impromptu interview.  “He was lost but now was found, dead, but now alive, they had to celebrate.”  I’ll never forget the first time they called “How does he look in person?  He looks healthy in the video.  Is he okay?  Where’s he living?  Is he hungry?”  Every question asked with tears and laughter… disbelief… they had a connection.  “Have him call me… please.”

I saw him sometimes on Sunday nights.  Didn’t know the answers to their questions and when I told him I was in contact with his family he became angry.  When his mother started sending money, birthday cards, letters, gifts – he refused them.  There are so many reasons that people live in the heart of Los Angeles.  Jackets for Jesus doesn’t go to judge but to love and serve.  Just the same, by that time, friends on fb with his mom and on the streets with him, I heard both of their pain and it broke my heart.

Jay would get mad at me for passing along information and I’d flatly tell him that I was a parent, if he were my son, like his mom, I’d be desperate for any word of hope and life, I wasn’t going to stop.  He got a job this year.  Told me I could pass the information along to his family.  They’d been begging from the beginning to visit – just to hold him again – he said he might be agreeable.

Moms, the unstoppable force of love… last week I got a call from the heart of Los Angeles – they were here but couldn’t find Jay.  I wasn’t encouraging but we chatted and I mustered up any ideas of location – not many – and I wished them luck.  Remember getting off the phone and telling Debi; “50,000 people living in homelessness and 15 million people in the city… two women in Los Angeles for their first time… it’s going to take a miracle.”

Saturday evening I received a text that simply said: “Hello Pastor Denton: Just wanted to let you know we met up with “Jay.”  Wow! He was so glad to see us!  Looking forward to meeting you, Jodi and the entire team.  Patsy”

They were waiting for us in the middle of the crowd Sunday night.  They’d brought a donation from Jay’s very grateful grandparents.  They were easy to spot – HUGE smiles – like Martha and Mary after being with Lazarus – telling their story to anyone who’d listen, they served the line alongside us, meeting each man and woman as if it were Jay, laughing, smiling, amazed… they’d spent all day Saturday and Sunday with him, had a meal in the restaurant he’s working at and most importantly, discovered reason for hope and joy again.  No longer lost but found, they had to celebrate!

We celebrated with them.  It’s our prayer every Sunday night, with every jacket, every meal and at Christmas with every backpack – that someone might take one more step towards home – it’s not often we get to share the miracle.  We did last Sunday night and it was amazing.

Monday morning – after my faithful Sequoia broke down on the way home from the streets, one too many Christmas crowds…, well after 3:30 in the morning that we finally climbed into bed – some of the luster worn off the evening of wonder after sitting on the side of the freeway in a cold, hard wind, waiting for a tow truck and I received a text from Jay’s mom – waiting to board her plane home at LAX:

“Good morning Pastor Denton.  We are on our way home.  What a wonderful experience and time we had seeing my son and last night with Jackets for Jesus – Simply Awesome!  We truly Thank God for ALL His marvelous blessings!  A memorable visit.  Happy holidays to you and your family.  Patsy”

It’s about so much more than a backpack.  To say that our 28^th Christmas Party on the Streets was a success would be putting it mildly.  It wasn’t our biggest crowd – maybe 500 people – but we’d struggled to put together money for backpacks and to get people to fill them this year.  All the regulars – long time friends of Jackets for Jesus – stepped up in amazing ways but it’s a BIG EXPENSIVE venture.

People ask me if it’s worth it?  Ask Jay’s mom, his aunt, his grandparents… they asked me to pose for pictures for the grandparents of a man I only know on the streets… January 1, 1989, our first Sunday night on the streets – I never would’ve believed this improbable story.  Never would’ve imagined posing for pictures for grandparents – I barely had any – my one little granny, born in Choctaw Nation, daughter of a circuit riding Methodist preacher who also ran the little supply store on the reservation – was dead by the time I was 18, in the fall of 1972.

She would’ve loved Jackets for Jesus.  Her door was always open to people in the little part of Phoenix where she lived out the end of her life – impoverished neighbors coming to use the only phone in the area to reach out to family – picture of her missing son on the piano, lost at sea in the battle of Iwo Jima, it wasn’t uncommon for a knock to come at the door, and hope in her heart, the same improbable hope that Jay’s mother and aunt carried into the heart of one of the largest cities on the planet – no address, no knowledge of the darkness in skidrow – granny would go to the door and say “Maybe it’s your Uncle Doyle.”  I’d laugh under my breath, crazy granny, her perfect blue eyes would twinkle… when it was just a neighbor… needing the phone… she’d open the door and let them in and they’d take one more step towards home.

All these years later, now a grandfather myself to 4 grandchildren I love with my whole heart, I gladly posed for pictures for other grandparents – what if Jay had been one of mine?  I would’ve gladly written a check for all I had to know he was well again… surrendered a thousand well loved Sequoia’s… it’s about so much more than a backpack… it’s about generations of love – now living on the streets and treated by society as if they’re nothing – when they’re son’s and daughter’s – grandchildren – the little kids who once ran up and down our streets… neighbors.  Jesus told us to love our neighbors.

We call them homeless because it’s a much easier label then daughter, son, grandchild, neighbor… what kind of people would abandon their family, their neighbor’s into poverty?  Not just Christianity but every major religion teaches against it.  Every family that’s survived a single generation knows that it requires love that gets on airplanes and crosses continents just to wrap arms around a son, so very far away, and make sure that he remembers that he’s someone, that he’s loved, that he still has a place in the family.  That when back home there’s a knock on the door – someone’s holding out a crazy hope that it’s him… coming home.

Slept in Monday, exhausted in more ways than one and wanting to avoid some of my adult responsibilities of the days to come… Monday evening I watched some of the video’s from Sunday night’s party – I take them but rarely watch them.  One, nearly 40 minutes long, captured me completely at a moment three fourths of the way through where I walk up on Jay’s Aunt Margaret – “lining the line” as men and women walk through for a backpack – and she’s excitedly at the end of retelling the story of how they flew out, met Jay, the miracle in it all… everyone around her is spellbound… smiles growing wide… laughing in amazement.

Somehow they know they’re hearing the story that they’ll retell in their families.  One miracle was quickly becoming many miracles.  It was obvious that there was nowhere else they’d rather be then on the streets of Los Angeles with Jackets for Jesus.  They’d been touched by Christmas.

Thank you so very much for filling a backpack, supporting our work in the darkness, sharing Christmas with us.  Your monthly support not only feeds and clothes, it makes the way for Christmas Miracles.  What happened last Sunday evening at the party on the streets was the fruit of years of Sunday nights that hardly anyone but God, those who serve so faithfully, as well as those waiting on us in poverty, noticed.

We try to remember that every jacket, every meal, every moment we’re on the streets, we go for Him.  We pray that we’re going for you as well.  That if you could, you would be with us.  What kind of people wouldn’t be going as long as anyone’s child is drowning in the darkness?  Who wouldn’t celebrate a mother and child reunion, at Christmas?

Sunday is Christmas, we’ll be on the streets again, still not sure how we’ll get there, but you’re invited.  January 1, 2017, New Year’s Day, Jackets for Jesus celebrates 28 years serving in the heart of Los Angeles – think of the historic events of the last 28 years… – God’s honored us and allowed us to continue through it all.  Lord willing, we’ll be going again and starting a brand new year of service together.  So many people are waiting.  The adventure, the miracles of our lifetimes are still out ahead of us.  You’re Invited!

Waking up I think about how we’ll meet the needs at Siempre Para Los Ninos. Wonder how we’ll have enough backpacks for the streets. Will we have money to feed the crowd. Like pastor’s around the world my mind goes to the immediate needs of our community; our Christmas schedule, the hole in our parking lot as Pastor Ken remedies our slab leak, year end finances around the church and in our ministries…

I briefly consider running away to the south pacific.

Then I consider how far we’ve come. How much God has given us the opportunity to do. How many doors have been opened for us. How many lives have been changed.

The young woman who grew up in the safety and security of Siempre – turning 18 today. The man who thanked us on the streets, “So many nights you saved my life,” who’s not on the streets anymore. The sweet thank you notes still coming in to the church after we served thousands at Thanksgiving. “Thank you for bringing Thanksgiving to our home this year. The food was delicious.” The 96 year old friend I helped lay to rest this week who found her spiritual peace and church home in her 80’s at Central Community. Such an unusual age for spiritual transformation. Who after her final years of waging war with her body slipped away in peace. Peace. The pastor in Kenya, from a church I worked with a decade ago, who still sends me updates – who text me this morning to share of their churches growth and strength – that they’re praying for another visit from me in 2017…

I wake up some mornings and I wonder how we’ll ever meet the seeming legion of needs – not of the months or weeks ahead – but of today and I think of the people who shut the door on Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus. Not bad people, just busy, overwhelmed, how could they manage room for even one more, much less an entire family? An expectant mother? In frustration, possibly with heavy hearts, they closed the door.

When I consider the pull of warm weather and empty beaches, I think of all of you who opened your doors to; cook a turkey, fill a backpack, celebrate with us on the streets, travel to Mexico, Kenya, Katrina, Birmingham and beyond… the many who’ve kept the doors of Central Community open through the years so that others could share the joy of the many doors God has opened because of our work. The doors you gladly and bravely stepped through in love and faith to serve others.

I think of the changes in my life, in my family, because of your faithfulness and I can’t help but thank God. Julia called to say our son-in-law Bill left for work this morning around 4am. Walking to his truck he thought “It’s so cold out today.” Getting in, he noticed an odd odor, when he turned to see a homeless man sleeping in the back seat, wrapped in our granddaughter’s blanket. Startled, he asked the guy what he was doing there? Waking up, he said; “I’m sorry man. It was just so cold outside.”

Bill’s a big dude – over 6’6′ – he opened the back door for the man to leave and he quickly jumped out, thankful I’m sure not to be abused or beat down, when Bill noticed his shoes in the back of the truck. He called out to the man and he returned, still wrapped in Callie’s blanket, and sat, put on his shoes and they went their separate ways. Our family’s been changed for the better. I’m thankful.

The needs before us are huge – as expansive as an open door to the cry of humanity – how we respond defines us and often determines the direction of our future, of our family. We can run or we can stop and notice that someone’s without shoes, without a place to stay, without dinner at Thanksgiving, without a gift at Christmas, without a family to love them, without room at the inn.

It’s Christmas. It may not be Jesus who’s knocking at your door, it may be just another Joseph, just another Mary but when you turn them away, you may just miss the miracle that they’re presence brings with them – the miracle of an 18th birthday, a life changed on the streets, Thanksgiving delivered, a church restored, a home rebuilt…

We need each other to make it through the day ahead. I need you. Most of all we need faith in this season of Hope to open the door, even when we don’t know how we’ll have strength to step across the threshold or move forward. We need faith not to run away at Christmas.

You’re Invited!