Tag Archives: Los Angeles

The Unexpected More

Wiping away tears, he said: “I didn’t think any of them would ever want to talk with me again.”

Middle of the evening a friend on the streets had asked me to take his picture.  He hasn’t been around for a number of months so he’d already filled me in on the loss of a job and getting back to work.  He looked better and said life was improved in every way.

I don’t know where he sleeps.  He may have one of the small room’s downtown or he may have etched himself a “safe spot” somewhere in the city to get a night’s rest, stash his stuff and be able to head to work.  He has a smartphone – probably through one of the free phone programs – so after I snapped his photo I simply attached it to a text and he had it.

Looking at himself.  Clean.  New haircut.  Smiling at me he said: “Wanted something to send my family.  This will be perfect!”  I gave him a thumbs up and headed back to my work.

As the night was winding down – men and women living in varying degrees of urban poverty – having been fed, many getting clothes or shoes, Sunday evening conversation at a close, people began to wander away.  Some stop to say goodbye.  Others take a few minutes to pick up trash while a few wait to close the evening in prayer.  My friend, looking at the picture of himself on his phone, stood next to his bicycle and waved for me to come to him, he said he had something he wanted to tell me.

He jumped right to the point of the story: “I never knew anything about facebook, the internet, or any of that stuff until about five months ago.  When I first got on facebook it was little more than an empty box with a question.  It asked: ‘What’s on your mind?’

Like a journal I started writing everything; how I lost my family, ended up on skid row, how much I loved and missed them, how it was all my fault.  I just poured it all out thinking I was the only one who’d ever see it.  I didn’t know other people could see your name, read what you were writing, look for you…”

His family, like so many others who’ve lost someone into poverty and feel like they’ve come to the end of hope and help, had been searching the internet, spending time on facebook, holding out the last shred of hope that he must be somewhere – maybe he was on facebook – somehow, impossibly, maybe they could find him.

They found his personal journal.  The words he thought no one would ever read.  His apology to the universe.  The words he wished he’d find the hope and opportunity to someday tell those he still loved and carried with him daily in his heart.  They read it all… and asked to be his friend.

They’re in the process of reconciliation.  He said; “I can’t believe it, they said they miss and love me – they want to see me.  I can’t wait to send them this picture.”  He was crying.  How could he not?  He’d sent out his heart, without hope, to the universe and it responded with hope, love and an invitation to family and home.  He still belonged.

We hugged.  Quietly, silently, I marveled at the life God allows me to live and I gave thanks.  He’s too good.

Every Sunday night doesn’t have this story – but every Sunday has a story – a miracle – a knock you out of your socks kind of “Chicken Soup for The Soul” moment that you can experience but you have to open up your heart, your life, your time, even your finances to the vast expanse of the unexplored and unexpected “more” that awaits us when we love and serve.  It can happen every day.  It’s what we were created for.

My time this week has been made a bit fuller by the image of family, carefully sharing with family, spreading it across fb, in texts, in emails a simple photo that I took of a friend.  It’s a miracle in their homes.  Like a sacred document, holy text, a masterpiece – the photos been printed and printed and printed again, through tears, with love as they put it in a frame, a wallet, on the refrigerator – where they stop – search out every detail – suck in the reality, he’s alive.  Dad’s alive!  My son’s alive!  My brother’s alive!  The years that once felt like the dark cavern of death once again hold hope, the stone has rolled away, He’s Alive!

People ask why we go to the streets on Sunday nights.  Miracles live there.  We get to share the adventure.  To give our lives.  I’m always amazed that we’re ever broke.  I read this story – and I’m living it – and I want to send money!  Who doesn’t want to restore hope, feed the hungry and bring new wealth to the wasteland of urban poverty in the heart of our city?  We can be the miracle!  The answer to the prayer that every family prays when their loved one is missing.  We can be that first step towards home… and sometimes we get to hear all about it.  We did last Sunday night.

His picture’s a little celebration on my phone.  I’d share it, but I haven’t asked his permission, maybe I will this Sunday night.  We’re going back to the streets.  It’s been so very many Sundays, even still, after all these decades, it’s only Tuesday, and already I’m excited.  It would be such an honor to surrender part of this joyous work into your hands.  To spend whatever remains of my life with you on Sunday night.  And if not side by side on the streets – with Jodi in the kitchen – in prayer throughout the week – in your personal financial support.  We belong together.  You’re needed, now, more than ever.  You’re Invited!

for changing lives,

Eric M. Denton

Jackets for Jesus

www.jacketsforjesus.com

Jackets for Jesus – Thanksgiving 2001

November 24, 2001

He stood across the street – maybe fifty yards from where we were talking – waving his arm, calling her back.  She stood with us, I’ll call her Suzy, and in five minutes or less began to tell us her story.

The first time Suzy came through line was summer.  One warm evening, in the midst of our “regular” crowd came a group of young people that appeared to have fallen out of a punk rock concert gone horribly wrong.  Bodies covered with odd tattoos, faces lit up with smiles that reflected thousands of dollars of dental work as kids, they waited, some laughing, some, like Suzy, in dark silence, for a meal.  In her silence, Suzy stood out.  She wears her tattoos on her head and face.  They’re hard to miss.  When I talked to her, she had little to say, but the visual impact touched each of us.  She became more than a topic of conversation, we made it a point to keep an eye out for Suzy.  Counting the nights she was not in line – sharing bits of information gathered from those she was.  Something about Suzy, in the middle of the poverty we see weekly, touched us uniquely.

Now Suzy stood in front of us, short of breath, asking for a meal, a jacket, anything.  She was too late, everything was gone.  Another five minutes and she would have discovered an empty corner, under a street lamp that works sometimes, in front of a cathedral that’s been closed for years, windows missing, door’s boarded up, next to an empty lot with a deep hole in the ground where the original Union Rescue Mission once stood.  A corner that’s little more than a lonely spot of concrete in the darkness of the heart of LA.  Long since abandoned by traditional commerce and Christianity, Home to Jackets for Jesus every Sunday night for 13 years.  A corner of Hope to the tens of thousands of men and women living in poverty we have served in Jesus Name.  Suzy may have been hungry, she couldn’t weigh more than 90 pounds.  She had to have been cold, fog rolling through the high rises and into the city, she wearing only a threadbare t-shirt and cheap pair of jeans that fit poorly.  Now she was too late and about to face rejection, again.

Suzy, in her poverty, is unforgettable, a question waiting to be asked.  The hard question on the final of life we would all rather avoid.  With nothing left to offer I reached out and told her how much we cared- how we were concerned for her and kept her in our thoughts and prayers.  She lowered her proud eyes, shadowing her tattooed face, put her hand in her hair and whispered, “thanks.”  I didn’t need much of an opening, so when she spoke, I jumped right in and asked her to tell us her story.  What a bold question!  What audacity!  Imagine, a stranger you’ve only met several times embraces you then asks you to summarize your life in five minutes or less.  Who could do it?  Suzy did.  No time to think.  No outlines or notes to go by- thinking on the fly, she jumped right in.  We soon learned that her tattoos reflected a heart that cried out for God.  We were family, prodigals all, some just a little closer to the warmth and fellowship of society, all of us longing to be secure in the Healing Arms of The Father.

Suzy ran away from home at the age of eleven.  Now twenty, she has spent nine years on the streets of other states.  Skid row has been home for just three months.  She has no room, she sleeps in a parking lot, against a building, several blocks from our corner.  When she was fifteen she had her face tattooed with the marks of a warrior, to show that she is fearless.  Last year she found Christ.  She had a crown of thorns, tattooed on her brow, covering her upper face and encircling her head and upper neck.  She wanted God to know that she was ready to be a martyr for Jesus whenever He needed her.  She was obviously crying out to belong.

Looking into her eyes, no longer repelled or curious about the tattoos, I asked her if she was still serving Christ.  Tears stood on the brink of her eyelids, not hesitating to answer, still fearless as a warrior, she was direct and honest, “I still believe, but I’m not following Him.  There’s so much I need to repent for…”  My heart was breaking.  Her “boyfriend,” not skinny and emaciated, but apparently strong and well fed now began to wave his arm, to call

for her.  I shudder to think who he earns his money from.  Knowing our time was short, I reminded her that she could still call home, (not knowing if this were true or not), that God still loved her, (I’m certain about that), and that there was not better time than today, with Thanksgiving just days away.

Seemingly stunned for a moment, she hesitated to answer, than looking directly at our small group she asked, “What day is it?”  I felt as if someone had knocked the breath out of me.  There in the darkness twenty five years rolled away and I remembered living in the far country.  I remembered asking a stranger what day it was…  my heart went out to Suzy.  She was disconnected from family, from God, from time.  We would celebrate Thanksgiving in warmth, wealth and comfort.  Suzy didn’t know it was Thanksgiving.

Now angry, the man waiting for her made it clear she’d better move- fear was in her eyes.  Reaching out, I asked if she would do me a favor- she stopped – how many men must have pushed this young girl around over the years for “favors” – “Can we pray for you?”  “I can’t now- I’ve got to go.”  “Not now, but this week, we care about you, can I keep you in my prayers?”  “Yeah, yeah… that would be ok.”  Then I asked her what I always try to ask for from the people on the streets I pray for, “Will you remember to pray for me, my name is Eric…” by now she was in the middle of the street, she stopped and looked back,  “that’s Eric, will you pray for me?”  “Sure.  Okay.”  And she was gone.

This week as we prepared to feed over six hundred people on Thanksgiving through Central Community, with each meal I prayed for Suzy.  As I sat down to eat with strangers and discovered one of them was a man we had given a ride home from the streets late one night, I praised God for the miracle that drew us together again and wondered where Suzy was spending Thanksgiving.  As my twenty year old daughter and I put our turkey in the oven late Wednesday night I praised God for her safety and prayed that Suzy might be safe as well.  Sharing in the wealth, security and comfort that our family enjoys at Thanksgiving my heart broke for the certain loneliness, poverty and insecurity that Suzy experiences daily.  And I hoped that she was praying for me.  That somehow she would begin to take her first steps towards Home, if not for herself, as a lonely warrior for another.  I could never have survived all she’s endured.  The least and the most I can do is pray.  Will you join me in praying for Suzy today.  She’s not lost to Our Father.  He knows right where she is – He knows what time it is in her life today – His heart is breaking for her and all the other Suzy’s living in poverty.

Corners of hope, it’s a good thing to offer the many who are still lost in darkness.  There are bigger works to support with your prayers, work and finances, however, there are very few that are reaching out to Suzy, that even know she’s on our streets and looking for hope.  Christmas is coming.  My prayer is that Suzy is serving Jesus this Christmas and that she has the opportunity to celebrate His birth with people who will love and care for her in His Name.  You can help.  Will you join me in praying for Suzy?  It’s easy to point a finger in judgment, a little more difficult to humble ourselves and remember that we too once wandered in the far country.  That though our children may not have run off and put tattoos on their faces that still their hearts carry scars and they are often lonely.  Healing and The Way Home begins when we reach out to another in love and then leave them with Jesus.  He wore the only crown of thorns that counts.  He’s The Warrior who still calls us to battle for the hearts and spirits of every Suzy.  He’s The Light that never goes out on the corner of Hope we call Home.  He’s The Reason we go to the streets every Sunday night.  You’re an important part of the team.

Thanks so much for all you do.  Set a little aside for our Christmas party on the streets this year.  It will be December 23, (the Sunday night before Christmas day), you’re invited to join us.  Don’t forget to pray for Jackets for Jesus.  Don’t forget to pray for Suzy.

for changing lives,

Eric M. Denton