“Defend the weak and the fatherless; uphold the cause of the poor and the oppressed.
Rescue the weak and the needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked” (Psalm 82:3-4).
I do not know what I expected to see that September morning but the scene before me was not it.
Twenty minutes earlier, approximately 30 ServeErie volunteers gathered around Team Lead, Erie City Mission Chaplain Rob O’Connell, in the parking lot adjacent to our project site. After an inspirational muster and prayer, Rob gave this directive, “We think of the homeless as our kids. Our kids have left a mess, so we are being good neighbors to the city and cleaning up after them.”
We then crested the soft slope leading into the wooded area behind Erie Tool Works that, up until recently, had been the site of a large homeless encampment. My breath caught. How could this be? We live in the wealthiest nation in the world and yet an entire population of human beings are living in squalor. As a nation we have not taken care of our “kids.” Praise God for the city missions, churches and individuals who stand in the gap.
Aside from the steady hum of skid loaders and dozers a deafening silence hung in the air. Piles of debris strewn around makeshift hovels displayed the artifacts of lives not chosen. Of the myriad causes of homelessness, such as poverty, racism, addiction, mental illness, and domestic abuse, this way of life is never a conscious choice. No one who picks up drugs or alcohol for the first time plans to become an addict. The playing field is not level for those caught in generational and situational poverty or for those born with a less favorable skin tone. Cinderella’s dreams never included the sting of Prince Charming’s hand across her face. And the adage, “but for the grace of God go I” soberingly applies to us all.
Our emotions at sea, we attacked the project as muscle memory kicked in. The goal was to create large piles in the center of the camp away from trees and fences so that the heavy equipment operators (the Dream Team) could scoop them up and into awaiting dumpsters.
Men using sweat equity and chainsaws began to deconstruct a crudely constructed structure. A skid steer offered additional force. It had been built to last. As a few of us stood aside awaiting the go ahead to carry out debris, I admired its builder’s innovation. Somewhere in his journey, before whatever events had landed him here, he had developed marketable skills. I hoped he would be given the chance to make a living with them someday. His domicile was situated between the trunks of four young trees, which served as vertical corner beams. The walls were a patchwork of wooden pallets and corrugated plastic signs left behind after some long-forgotten community event, which were braced by scraps of wood. Tarps draped over slender tree branches provided a roof.
A single strand of red Christmas garland hung from its rafters. Additional tarps and blankets were wrapped around the walls for insulation. Inside lay a plastic slab covered with blankets, which would have served as his bed; his scant belongings surrounding it. I wondered if the master of this house was also the architect of the somewhat sophisticated septic system located in the far corner of the grounds.
Floormats placed at the entry of another domicile offered an intentional separation of home from the surrounding filth for its former occupant. Nails and bungee cords were commodities. Shreds of clothing tied to trees served as property line markers. I pondered whether there had been a sense of community or a dog-eat-dog mentality among those sharing such misfortune. Or like the rest of civilization was there a little of both?
This archaeological dig revealed the remnants of more than 30 disenfranchised lives. Many of the items found were expected necessities: clothing, boots, blankets, sleeping palettes made of miscellaneous salvaged substrates, odd pieces of broken-down furniture and even a few mattresses.
There were surprising objects, too. A ceramic cookie jar. An artificial Christmas tree. Wind chimes. A curio cabinet. These are not practical, but pretty things. Someone was longing for home. God had instructed the Israelites to leave wheat in the fields to be gleaned by the poor. Panning the encampment, I understood what He meant. Here society’s leftovers were transformed into treasures.
Personal items included mud-caked, faded photos of dimply infants and happy couples, and I wondered about their stories. Remnants of an American flag—the heavy cloth kind with double stitching—made me think that a military Vet had sought sanctuary here. Perhaps the horrors of war had altered his equilibrium as the pendulum swung between night terrors that ignored the clock and self-medication that numbed the pain and every other part of him. “Thank you for your service” sounds trite compared to the weight he will carry for the rest of his days.
Unearthing children’s items was the most heart wrenching. Dilapidated toys and trading cards. A baby’s bottle and pacifier. A single sparkly shoe now tarnished and filled with dirt brought to mind an image of my 3-year-old granddaughter dancing in her “pretty” shoes. The disparity between the two worlds broke me as I imagined the child who had worn this one. She had no shelves lined with toys and books, no frilly dresses, no baby doll. Her playroom was an overcrowded camp filled with desperate strangers; her princess bed a makeshift palette laid on cold, hard ground. Innocence could not survive here. I pictured her snuggled next to a heartsick mommy who would clench her baby girl tightly each time the sun set, foregoing sleep to keep the bogeyman at bay.
I have an unwavering belief that we receive postcards from God—tiny reminders that He is at work. They arrive in the most unexpected moments and often amid life’s chaos. We received one that day. Just as the enormity of our task and our despair for the souls who had been scattered were about to overtake us, God delivered His postcard. Buried amid the rubble lay an open Bible. The inscription read:
Presented to Husband King Arthur
by Your Wife Queen Victoria
Friday, April 26, 2024
Let’s grow together with God’s plan and Each Other’s
Forever & Eternity
This single item among thousands was God whispering, “They were not alone. I was here.” I pray that Arthur and Victoria were filled with the fire of the Holy Spirit and shared the Gospel message with their campmates. I pray that they, too, sought comfort within the tattered pages that breathe life. And I pray that, although this Bible was left behind in the exodus, they have hidden the Word in their hearts and will continue to share it with their comrades as they walk along the road.
I can only describe that day’s experience as profoundly emotional and spiritually convicting. I (we) needed to see the harsh reality of our neighbors’ lives against the softness of our own. Now Jesus’ sheep and goats analogy in Matthew 25:40, “The King will reply, ‘truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me,’” is seen through a crystal lens. I loved Chaplain Rob’s perspective that the homeless are our kids. This requires that we have a relationship with and responsibility to those who have fallen through the cracks. They are not invisible. They are not without value. Compassion and grace are not optional. They too are image bearers of the Most High God. We. Must. Act. Jesus will take us to account for the stewardship of our “kids.” Which side will you be on?
ADDENDUM: If you missed the opportunity to join the Serve Erie mission trip, the Baptist Resource Network is planning Serve Wilkes-Barre/Scranton, which is scheduled for next summer. Two days and 10-20 mission projects will enable us to descend on that area with the love of Jesus to be His hands, hearts and feet. Please pray and mark your calendars for June 27-28, 2025. We would love to serve beside you. Visit www.servepasj.com for updates.
