Advent: Thoughts on Waiting While the World Burns

Advent. It's been so long since my family sat around the dining table every night and sang "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel." So many years since a child placed one more square on our advent calendar each evening. I still have those felt squares. Each one a beautiful, hand-made labor of love. One year, I created them - one at a time. Scissors and felt and glue. Tiny beads and bits of gold. Night after night from fall until that first Sunday of Advent. "

A tree stump with a tiny sprouting branch. A small green leaf. "The root of Jesse shall spring a branch" A small cottage-like house with a thatched roof. "From you, O Bethlehem...little among the thousands of Judah, from you will come One who will rule Israel" An angel, with pearl-edged wings and lifted arms and a small, kneeling figure with long, dark hair. "Greetings, favored one!.... The Holy Spirit will come upon you and you shall give birth to a son."

Advent. A time to make our hearts ready. A time to make room in my heart for Jesus to be born. For Jesus and His ways to be formed again in me.

This Advent, the world is burning. Our nation is in deep darkness.
This Advent I will either choose to be a Light or I will harden my heart in anger.
This Advent I feel discouraged and afraid. I cannot convince anyone to change. I cannot convince anyone that trusting God while the world is in flames is freedom - not foolishness. I can't force anyone's eyes open to actually SEE human beings instead of images or fears.

I can only try to be Light and speak the words again.

"O Come, O Come Emmanuel. And ransom captive Israel. That mourns in lonely exile here. Until the Son of God appears."

Hairy Week, Smart Friends

Saturday Morning in the TL

This has been a hairy week. Monday someone had suicidal thoughts. Tuesday I didn't accomplish ANYTHING. Wednesday a woman who meets her needs by manipulation and control crashed Movie Day. By Thursday I decided nobody anywhere was allowed to have any more crises. The royal decree didn't work so well, but I tried!

With a week full of hearing stories of pain and hurt, I've been looking for wisdom. Well, mostly I've been muttering, "Helpmehelpmehelpmehelpme....I don't know what on earth I'm doing."

Good thing that I'm surrounded by wise people.  Here are the conversations that got me through the week (in my own words):

Jolene: No matter what happens, I can choose LIFE. It doesn't ever look the same for anyone, but in every situation, I can ask God, "What does it look like to choose life right now. Today. This minute?"
Tomorrow, it won't look like it does today. Maybe today I'm crying my eyes out. Maybe tomorrow I will have hope. But every day I can choose life.

Karol: That rhythms of discipline lead to life. That discipline isn't about punishment or 'doing right' to avoid God's displeasure. It's about practiced, steady, determined walking with Holy Spirit. In God's moment-by-moment presence. "I don't want to skip my quiet time because I don't want to miss what He has for me. The goodness of my time alone with Him."

Justine: In all the demands of being mom to three children under the age of 5, it's easy to just "keep going" and "keep doing." "I can end up believing I have to do it myself. And then I do it myself." Her wisdom is showing me how, in doing it myself I miss the opportunity to partner with God. To be carried and supported and built up by His love. Often, I can "pull it off" (what ever "it" is) but, in doing so, I miss the offer of intimacy and love that God wants to give me in the very circumstance I'm busy doing.

Laina: This week Laina recognized that she had two unique skills: a degree in nutrition and training as a life coach. So, she comes to YWAM San Francisco, intending to help staff the Discipleship Training School. A big need is someone to manage the kitchen - with 3 daily meals to cook for students, staff, speakers and other random people, someone needs to bring order out of chaos.
After a few weeks with Laina at the helm, the atmosphere of the kitchen has changed. People are coming to make coffee and hang out while she cooks. Students come to talk and help with dinner prep. She said, "Sometimes I just chop and listen."
Of course! Laina cares about feeding people good food. She cares about listening and encouraging people. She's not just managing the kitchen - she's making the kitchen into the heart of the base.

Tim: There is a difference between expectancy and expectation. The hopeful rising-up of expectancy comes from trust and a history of being loved. Of God's dependable care and Presence.  Expectation is something we try to define. We expect to receive. We are expected, in turn, to earn and deserve.  In expectancy, my heart is encouraged and free.  In expectation, I fear disappointment. I wonder if, when things don't look the way I expected, either I have failed or God has. In expectancy, my eyes are on the always-dependable, always-trustworthy love of my Father for me.

I am so grateful to live surrounded by wise, loving people.
After a not-so-great week, I was lifted up and brought back to shining hope by the lives and thoughts of my YWAM San Francisco family.

Article on Homelessness....Previous Post continued

http://aplus.com/a/canada-solves-homelessness-problems

Isaac Saul @Ike_Saul

Solutions to Homelessness: Thoughts from the TL

I just read an interesting FB post citing an article about a Canadian city addressing homelessness i a unique way (http://aplus.com/a/canada-solves-homelessness-problems)

Because I work with, love, am friends with and daily get to hug homeless women in San Francisco, this approach to homelessness interests me very much. I've been following the outcomes in Utah as well where cities like Salt Lake are seeing pretty drastic changes in BOTH the costs of helping homeless people and the actual results in terms of health, sobriety, ability to get jobs etc. 

Let me tell you one story that is a mirror of what I see EVERY TIME a homeless woman gets housing here. That housing creates a safety net where change can happen. 

D. lived on the streets. She is a survivor of horrifying childhood trauma and has had a rough life - in and out of addiction and mental illness. She was married at one time and had children (It's unclear how many) Her mental illness escalated when her husband became physically abusive. Her children were taken by Child Protective Services. To this day, she grieves these children and says, "I tried. I loved them. I wanted to be a good mother." 

When D lived on the streets, she used to carry a piece of 2x4 to defend herself. One day, I found her crouched on the sidewalk, pointing a piece of metal at passing cars - reflecting sunlight at them. She urgently called me to come and sit next to her. "Hurry up. If they see you, they'll catch you and put things inside of you." She assured me she would keep ME safe. (Oh Jesus! My heart cried out!). She let me pray for her, but she was pretty out of reality....Except the possibility of violence wasn't unreality. 

D let the women of Because Justice Matters (BJM)  love her. Let us pray with her. Sometimes came to Nail Day for coffee and brownies and kindness. BUT SHE WAS LIKE A SIEVE...SHE COULDN'T "HOLD" ANYTHING WE POURED IN BECAUSE DAILY LIFE WAS SO TRAUMATIC AND TERRIFYING. 

SO...about a year later, D's application for disability was approved (I think it was the 3rd request....BLESS her case manager, who had to lead her by the hand through every single step because she was too mentally ill to follow through on anything) Then, D had some money. Her case manager had been applying for housing. Then, one day D. came and told us she "had a place" We visited. It was in a filthy building. Third world squalor was the word that came to my mind. BUT it had a roof and a door that locked and, for the first time in years (decades? who knows?) D. could actually sleep safely at hight. What happened? Nothing at first. Then, we began to see changes. She began to wash her clothes. The started using her limited funds to buy clothes at Goodwill. Who knew D. was a vintage clothing diva? She stopped burning her hair off with a BIC lighter and got a haircut when a local non-profit brought in volunteer stylists. She gained weight. And, more and more, she began to make sense. Sometimes she still is "off" She is able to remember to take her medication which really helps her mental illness. She comes to Nail Day and sometimes to The Well. We laugh with her (she's absolutely hilarious when she's feeling sane and safe). We pray as often as she feels safe enough to let us. And, not long ago, a SF photographer saw her walking through the Tenderloin wearing a gorgeous vintage coat she found at Goodwill. He saw her striking blue eyes and weather-worn but still beautiful face. A photo of D. showed up in the San Francisco Chronicle. Today, it hangs in our office as a reminder. SO in all this journey, the turning point was HOUSING.

Balance Beam Living: Boundaries and Truth-speaking

Thinking today about a challenging balance...truth-speaking and speaking for myself.

 Like one of my heroes Danny Silk says:  I manage me. You manage you. I don't try to manage you.  I don't let you manage me. 

This has been a foundation stone of my growth in boundary setting (from pretty much no boundaries ever to generally sane boundaries most of the time!).

"I don't try to manage you".....The principle of not speaking for others who are perfectly able to speak for themselves. Not speaking as if I know who someone else is, what they should do and why.   

How do I balance this with the principle of truth-speaking with a loving attitude and intention?
here's my unfinished, in-process thinking: Jesus rarely told anyone what to do. He taught principles. Told stories with hidden treasures inside that could help someone change their way of thinking and seeing.

He also spoke truth to the controlling religious leaders of his time. he wasn't afraid to say, "No. That's not what love looks like" or "You put burdens on the shoulders of the people and don't do a thing to help them."

Realize that "managing me" means I speak for myself, not for others. When I speak only for myself, I don't "get" to be "right." I only get to take responsibility for myself. Darn! I want to be "right."  (Whining ensues...I should get to be right because I think alot. So much more than those "other" people. Or because I'm all about justice. Or because....")

Because I'm not Jesus - I'm only me...sometimes volatile and reactive....sometimes thoughtful..sometimes not....do I ever really speak "truth"?  Do I even know it?

Is it enough for me to do my best with the whole "light shining" thing and trust that Truth will be visible if I'm living it?

How can I learn to love and speak truth? To manage me and love others. To give up being right and still desire my life and words to reflect Truth?

Thinking a lot wears me out. I need lunch. Possibly a doughnut.

"I love you, but just stop talking"

today I stopped at Trader Joe's after church. Groceries after the YWAM retreat last week. Lugging them into the YWAM base where I live, I see Karin across the street. She comes to Nail Day often. We always talk and pray and laugh. She has lived with alcoholism and drug addiction for ??? years. But, recently, she's been sober. it took weeks and weeks for her to emerge from the fog.  Each week, more of her real self emerged.  The angry, defensive, fearful street person began to soften. An artist was hiding in there. A storyteller - sometimes the stories were hair-raisers, but she told them with such passion.... A few weeks ago she was wearing the coolest ensemble.  A little hippie, a little ethnic coolness.  I loved it.   Today, she was across the street. High. Drunk. Her possessions strewn across the sidewalk. She's somehow lost any suitcase or bag or container.  She fumbled about, making piles of clothes....a bag of chips. A sweatshirt. Some Clorox wipes.  The detritus of life on the streets.  Were these her earthly possessions?

At the door of the base, LB, my favorite, much beloved crack dealer, said, "She's an alcoholic. She's at it again."  I nodded. She was right you know.  But, I headed across the street. Asked Karin if I could bring her some tote bags to put her stuff in.  She held on to me with a surprisingly strong grip. "Pray, mama."  We prayed.  I've been meditating on the Truth that God is bigger. Bigger than the Tenderloin. Bigger than addiction. Bigger than strip clubs or prostitution or poverty. Bigger than mental illness or violence.  HE is bigger and I trust HIM to save us.   I started to declare these things, over and over.  Prayed in tongues for awhile, when the hurt in my heart got really burning hot.  Then, went back to declaring that OUR GOD IS BIGGER.  

Later, I asked where she was sleeping tonight. She pointed to the sidewalk.  I mentioned a women's shelter. She began a convoluted story....because of disease and inability to clean sinks after each use, she said they ask women to spit their toothpaste into the toilet. She could not accept this indignity. She refused to "be treated like that....like I should put my face near a disgusting toilet."   

Now, I knew the shelter's motivation was sanitary - or Karin had misunderstood....but i kept my peace.  She explained "That's why I don't want to be near anybody. I want everybody to leave me alone."

Then, like I had no more sense than a muggle, I asked if she wanted me to call the Homeless Outreach Team.  I was thinking blankets maybe...or a shelter bed if she could endure it.    She exploded. "Aren't you listening? Doesn't anyone listen? I SAID I don't want to be near anybody."  She began to pull her hair.  Distraught.  I apologized.  "Just stop Don't talk, mama."  Then, her eyes cleared for a moment. "I love you, but just don't talk."  I nodded.  Sorry that I had upset her.   She nodded.  I walked away.

Perhaps she'll come to nail day tomorrow.  I'm going to keep an eye out for her...maybe take her hot coffee in the morning if she's there.  Look out for her in the afternoon as Nail Day approaches.

Pray for Karin. For this lovely, fashionista, artist and storyteller.  for her desire to be sober and the literal, not symbolic demons that block her at every turn.  I bless her for being gracious when I spoke out of turn.  When i didn't LISTEN.  for loving me and being honest enough to tell me to stop talking.

When I see her next, she will love and welcome me with open arms.  She will forgive me for talking too much and not listening when she said she couldn't stand to be near anyone in a shelter.  And, she will apologize - probably many times - for being high and yelling.  And we will hold each other.....I will say - maybe silently, maybe not - that our God is bigger than addiction, Bigger than relapse. Bigger than panic attacks and fear and rage.  Bigger than me talking when i should have just listened. 

Our God is bigger. What we see with our eyes in temporal.  What God speaks is ETERNAL. 

Hoping today. Love will win.

IT'S NOT FAIR!!

This week been thinking about FAIR because two women much beloved by BJM had incredible, unexpected good news.  They both got HOUSING!

S. was eligible as part of an Obama administration effort to house homeless vets and former foster children under age 24.  A case worker helped her apply. She’s a former runaway with a severe, congenital disability. She’s been on the streets for the past 2+ years while (drum roll here) attending City College of San Francisco!

On Wednesday, S. moved into a small apartment right across the street from her SCHOOL! (I’m about to go all-out and just type a whole line of exclamation points). Amazing. Impossible!  Plus, she won’t be in the Tenderloin anymore!!!!!

Whew…that was exhausting.

Then, my beloved kid “K” told me she was going to get “a place.”  Frankly, I thought it was wishful thinking or confusion or even a scam.  K has been offered housing before with a not-uncommon “catch” of sex as payment.  So, I wanted to see the place. Meet the director. Check the whole thing out.

Whoa! It was legit. And, she had suddenly – for no reason – moved to the top of the waiting list.

The studio apartment, in the Tenderloin, is located in an old but well-kept hotel. Beautiful murals in the entry were probably WPA artist-grant projects in the 1930s. The apartment is small but clean. Wood floors, a private bath and tiny kitchen area. 

The most amazing part of this is that K received this apartment without the usual 2+ year wait or the sometimes=even-longer Lottery system!  She applied and was told “YES”….We spent last Friday discovering just how much stuff I can tie to the roof rack of my car.  Picking up furniture, kitchenware, a bookshelf listed “free” on Craigslist.  I went to Goodwill and bought a comfy chair, small shelving unit and a stool so she can sit at the counter and eat.  2 plates, 2 bowls, 2 sets of silverware and mugs….  A lovely San Franciscan moving to Sweden for a new job gifted K with bedding and pillows. 

I felt such joy. And such inner conflict.

Because another friend, C, has been waiting for more than 2 years for housing.  C has done it all “by the book”….Filling out forms, Re-filling out forms when they were lost or expired or who-knows-what bureaucratic stupidity.  Walking from office to office.  Walking with a walker because C. was injured in a serious fall years ago…the injury was so severe that she couldn’t work….lost her job….and with it, her health insurance…..because ObamaCare didn’t exist then, her medical bills thrust her into bankruptcy…Lost her home and ended up on the streets (this is an all-too-common story here in the Tenderloin)

Today, C. needs hip replacement surgery related to that injury that led to homelessness…and now, CAN’T have the surgery until she has a place to live.  (WHAT?  Yep…she can’t have surgery and be released to the streets….and is still on the streets unable to work because she needs the surgery)

So, C does everything the system asks. Dots her I’s and everything else in sight….and K gets an apartment in a few weeks. 

I am so grateful that K is no longer on the streets. SO hopeful that having stable housing will be the key that opens the door to healing of trauma, recovery of identity, and a new vision for life that includes good things like work and stable relationships.  This is so GOOD.

AND, another part of my mind is screaming; “IT’S NOT FAIR!” C should have a place to live!  C should have gotten housing first.

I talked to Father about it. Here are some thoughts from that conversation:

            *the world lives with a mindset of scarcity and Law

            * The world acts based on the belief that there isn’t enough, and we need to work hard because we get what we deserve

            * God doesn’t give us what we deserve. It’s called Grace…

·      Grace isn’t fair

o   God isn’t fair…and it’s not just about getting into heaven “free of charge” without having to earn any status as His Children

o   God loves K and loves C.  And, what happened isn’t fair.

o   But God IS good.

God is good. I don’t believe for one moment that we should nod sagely and mumble, “It’s God’s will that Carmen is homeless…He will be glorified through it…just wait…”

I reject the lie that God “wills” pain and evil to happen so that He can accomplish some bigger plan.  Or, that He arbitrarily dispenses good things to some and leaves others in the lurch…

I feel so happy and so sad. I can’t fix the system that left C homeless, broke, and sick after a lifetime of hard work and responsibility.  I can’t fix the system that ignored K – a 10 year-old runaway from a sexually abusive home…and failed to protect her at almost every level.

It isn’t helpful for me to ask “why” K got housing and C  - whose immediate need is more critical – is still homeless.  I suppose any answer to “why” is too massive…touching on greed, sin, economic power, corruption and human failure to care.

I’m left with the freeing, hopeful good news that God isn’t fair. We don’t need to fear because He isn’t keeping score.  But God is good. Absolutely good.  And that Truth  is hope.

In the hallways of San Francisco General Hospital: (or) I don't do blood very well....

Love to you all from the Tenderloin!  It’s the 7^th anniversary of Because Justice Matters.  I’m in Redding hanging out with my BF MaryBeth and my BJM sisters are having brunch (of course) back in San Francisco. Sisters, forever!

A friend posted a pic of a medical provider with the caption, “I’m a nurse. Obliged to provide top-notch care and comfort – even to people with freaking swastikas tattooed on their flesh.  If I can take care of Nazi sympathizers, they can serve pizza to gay people.”

Yesterday with a friend at San Francisco General Hospital. Whoa! This is what healthcare looks like for the urban poor....In the hallways. HALLWAYS, mind you… I saw medical procedures being done. Discussions of confidential information with patients.

Nurses and Docs treating angry, confused drunk people (overheard said to thrashing, confused guy by kind resident with a smile: "It's okay, we're just getting some fluid into you beside beer"), mentally ill people (one screamed over and over and OVER "I'm going to a better place" until another patient muttered, 'You could go there now...'  have to admit, she was saying what I was too “nice” to say….)

Disturbing, sexually inappropriate, bad-smelling men from the streets. "Failed" suicide attempts with blood everywhere (evidently, I don’t do blood well…felt kinda queasy). Sirens outside followed by yelling. Nurse said it was a really bad car accident. Some guy with a truly amazing vocabulary of profanity who threatened people and had to have a police officer standing by.

I had one of my “Jesus, here we are” moments. Part of me wanted to leave and take a walk in the park.  Any park. Part of me wanted to start down the crowded, noisy hallway, going bed to bed. Smiling. Touching gently. Praying. Saying, “Jesus is here. You aren’t invisible.”  Sometimes I laugh at the weird places where I suddenly feel at home (except for the blood…ick)

Had a momentary flash of that unsmiling security guard escorting me from the building and me having to leave my friend mid-x-ray…so I didn’t cross the chicken line.  Wondering if I should go back.  My beautiful Jesus could clear that ER and send everyone home healed. Am I brave enough to do what I see my Father in heaven doing?

But, this brings me to the actual purpose of telling this story. The nurse and the ‘freaking swastikas’….

In the 4+ hours I spent there, never, not once, did I hear anyone ask a patient, "Are you gay?... Are you divorced?... Put on this hajib or I won’t help you.”

I didn't even hear anybody say, "Are you Christian? Because I'm gay and I don't like the way your people treat me."

Now, maybe I know some “Indiana-type sympathizers” who don’t want to be forced to do things they believe support lifestyles with which they disagree (translate: don’t want to bake wedding cakes for gay weddings or be a real estate agent for gay couples looking for houses).  I don’t know…

And, I must acknowledge that a Michigan pediatrician refused to act as primary care doctor for a newborn patient when she realized the baby’s parents were two women.  And, I am in the “affirming” camp just so you don’t think I’m somebody I’m not.   But…

These two stories feel important to me. 

Recently I asked some 20 and 30 something young women…smart, very well educated, compassionate, aware….why they rejected Christianity.  Here are (in my words) their reasons: the cruel, intentionally rejecting way they saw Christians treat gay people, Christians who reject science because they “don’t believe in global warming” and don’t have a clue why.  Misogyny in the church (all men all the time). And, Christians blaming women for “dressing immodestly” instead of teaching men to keep their eyes and hands to themselves.  (A couple mentions of the Duggers being “bat shit crazy”….but that was sort of comic relief….)

The witness of Jesus is harmed by Christians who appear to be more concerned about the gay couple down the block who want to be married than they are about the homeless mom and kids sleeping on the street or the working poor who must choose between paying bills and buying medication.

I’m gonna scrounge around and see if I still have my What Would Jesus Do bracelet…

Brave hearts, taking a break, and visit #2 to the bouncer at New Century Strip Club

So, all of a sudden it's May. Great gobs of it - how did this happen?
Of course, May in San Francisco isn't quite the "hallelujah, finally the snow is gone" moment that Midwesterners celebrate.  In fact, it gets colder as summer approaches.  The SF joke is a quote attributed to Mark Twain that "The coldest winter I ever spent was summer in San Francisco."

The BJM team is taking a modified break for the rest of this month.  Our director, Ruthie, had planned a well-deserved sabbatical to rest and hear from God. Recent staff changes left Lisa, Natt, and myself holding down the fort with the women's ministry. Interns leaving. Summer interns coming. We all needed a break.

Cancelling Nail Day for 4 weeks was very difficult. We recognize that, for some women in the community, Nail Day is a cornerstone of the week. A dependable, safe-zone they count on to start each week.  To connect with BJM staff and feel loved and cared about.  So deciding not to have Nail day means those women feel upended. Abandoned even.  Our beloved M. won't speak to me!

Yet, I can see that our BJM staff is tired.  In need of time and space for R&R. Time just to think and meet God for coffee as it were.  One of our staff headed out of state for retreat and regrouping. Another attended some weddings and had a party at her house!  A third is taking some overseas vacation time with her wonderful husband.  I'm heading to Redding for a long weekend with my bff MaryBeth Haunty....and plans for an eat-and-talk fest with Chris and Sarah Pollasch, too.

So, last Friday I was assigned to hot chocolate outreach again.  Invited "anyone interested" to accompany me to O'Farrell, Larkin, and Polk Streets to make the rounds of some of the TL strip clubs. Three high school kids from Napa took the bait, and we headed out.

First, we met a woman named Julie, leaning against a building with her friend, smoking and waiting. Within minutes of our "hi, I'm Julia...it's cold...would you like some cocoa...." her friend's "friend" arrived. A tightly wound guy with no smile for me and annoyance written all over his face.  Of course, he was their pimp.  And, who's going to make him an offer for his "girls" with three white kids from Napa and somebody's mom hanging around.  Nobody. 

But Julie wanted to talk.  She wanted cocoa and wanted me - very much - to hear that she knows Jesus and wants somebody to pray for her.  "Pray I make good decisions," she asked. And, in a low voice, "Pray that I get out of this. I gotta make some changes.....something's gotta change."

She let us pray for her.  Held me a long time in a hug. I used to joke that some people have such orphaned hearts that they would crawl into my womb and be born if they could.  That's how it felt. Clinging and saying, "I gotta make some changes."  She had tears in her eyes. So did I.

Mr. no-smile wasn't happy, but Julie kept chattering away. "He can wait," she said.  At one point, I whispered. "Are you safe? Will he hurt you because you're talking to me?"  She shook her head. "Nah...he's nothin'."  I wasn't so sure, so we hugged one last time. I said,  "Thanks. See you."

And, we headed to the New Century club.  There, at his post, was Jason....the bouncer!  He was shocked that I remembered him and asked about his son.  He's cut back his work schedule to 4 nights a week and isn't playing gigs "for awhile," he said. He let me pray again.  Hugged until he squeezed the air out of me.  And introduced me to "Chelsea" - one of "the girls" who was waiting at the club entrance for her boyfriend to "stop by."  Chelsea declined our offer of cocoa. "I'm used to being cold," she said. "they keep the club so cold...we're always cold but we get used to it."  She gifted me with a huge, sweet smile.  Looked like maybe she was out of high school. Maybe. 

"I'll see you again," I shook Chelsea's tiny hand. "Good to meet you."

So. Step 2.  One more  step toward befriending the girls at the New Century and seeing what difference love will make in that dark place. 

Right now, I'm asking God for 3 full time BJM staff women (4 including myself) to focus on re-starting the ministry of relationships and love with girls and women working in Tenderloin strip and sex clubs.  Next time you're having a conversation with Father, you ask too! Okay?
Let's do this thing!

Meeting the Bouncer at the New Century Strip Club

Five years ago I visited Because Justice Matters because I’d read they were making relationships with girls and women in area strip clubs. I learned that ministry had just closed due to staff transitions.  The next summer I volunteered for 2 weeks.  Jen, the woman who had pioneered the strip club ministry spoke with me at length. “We started by getting to know the bouncers,” she said. “Earning trust. Building relationships.” By the time they had to close the ministry, Jen was the only staff involved. And, she had invested countless hours getting to know women in more than one North Beach club. It was hard for everyone.

I returned to Wisconsin and started building a private counseling practice. BJM stayed in my mind. I found myself thinking about women I’d met. I felt the need in the Tenderloin like an itch. It wouldn’t go away.

So, that summer I applied to be an intern. Maybe 3 months in San Francisco would stop the itch.  Of course, many of you know what happened.  I decided to do what my heart wanted. Moved to SF and joined BJM staff. One of the best decisions I’ve ever made. Ever.

Now, nearly 2 years later, that same heart is still drawn to the strip clubs and the women and girls working there. I told God….”Let me restart the work in the strip clubs and with women in street prostitution.  I want healing and souls.”

SO…last fall, God and I had a back-and-forth. It went like this:
            * me: Strip clubs, prostitution, street outreach
            * Him: pastoral care
            * me: Strip clubs, prostitution, street outreach
            * Him: pastoral care

Repeat….a couple more times. Same response. Okay…..

Now, belonging to Jesus for 45 years (whoa, now THAT makes me feel old!) has taught me a number of things. One is that God is better at anything than I am. He knows what he’s doing. He’s God. I’m not. The smart money is on Him.

So I paused to remember the women God has beamed into my life. One newish Jesus-follower I meet with every week. Another beautiful one who comes to church.  BJM friends.  A dealer on Ellis with whom I’m slowly building trust. My beloved K who has grown so much – and has so far to go still.

Pastoral care.  Caring for and about the women God has already sent my way.

Long ago I determined to refuse to say No when God asks. I decided that, regardless of the question, my answer would always be Yes – or as close to Yes as I can figure out.

Embracing “pastoral care” felt deflating. I pouted and whined a little inside before my “yes”  After all, there was that “smart money” thing.

Since fall, pastoral care has been my focus. Many good times of healing prayer. One-on-one meetings where people can share and explore and find insight. God shows up. Hurting places are touched and healed. Hurting hearts stop hurting.

The past 7 months have been time well spent. I’m not pouting anymore – though I whine on occasion. The “strip clubs, prostitution, street outreach” dream has been safely stuffed under the bed.

SO, two weeks ago I was scheduled to help with YWAM’s Friday hot chocolate outreach. Visiting “urban ministry experience” teams from anywhere and everywhere come to YWAM for a day, a weekend or a full week at a time. On Fridays, these teams fill thermoses with hot cocoa and head to the streets.

On a chilly night – and nearly every night in SF qualifies….don’t let the 70-degrees-and-sunny reports fool you into coming without a hoodie and long pants even in July.  Sweatshirt vendors make a killing every summer selling cheap sweats to freezing tourists who think all of California is San Diego…and dress accordingly.

Sorry for the distraction….

So I joined others from a visiting team to give away hot cocoa and prayer.  Two lanky, just-out-of-college type boys from suburban Marin and I headed toward the New Century strip club – a neighborhood establishment about 5 blocks away.

We arrived at the club about 8 – far too early for the “let’s go to a strip club” groups of young men or the “conference in SF” professionals having a night on the town to do something stupid.

Outside, a husky Latino man stood. His navy suit and name badge identified him as “Jason,” club security. We offered him cocoa.

“What are you doing?”

We explained about YWAM and hot cocoa night.

“Interesting,” he said. “I bet homeless people appreciate the cocoa.”

We asked a bit about his job. Long nights, he said. The pay was okay, but the work was hard. Lots of drunk guys and wild bachelor parties.

“Could we pray for you for anything?” we asked.

The man was silent for a long moment. Then, words began to tumble from him…about his son diagnosed with autism. His long hoped-for career as a musician. His wife needing help.

“My son needs me more,” he said. “he needs more time…..I need to let go of my music. Because of my son.”

He seemed to choke up.  “I love my music, but I love my son more.”

We began to pray for him.

I blessed his father’s heart. Told him that “Father God feels the same about you as you feel about your son.”  I said God gave up something precious to him, too, because we needed him.

“God sent Jesus to us because we needed to know Him,” I said. “Now, because you have a heart like God’s heart, you are giving up your music because your son needs you.”

We prayed for his music. For his marriage. For his son.  Asked God to return his music when the time was right. To let his music be part of his son’s healing. It was a blast.

At the end, we hugged. The two boys from Marin stood on the sidewalk, grinning like Halloween pumpkins. It was GOOD.

As we walked away, it hit me.  Jason’s name badge read “security.”

The first step in strip club ministry, Jen had told me 2 years ago, was to meet the bouncer. I began to laugh.

I had just met the bouncer at the New Century strip club! Without a plan or even an awareness. God set me up to meet the bouncer. Not just for Jason, but for ME too. Because it would show me that, after 7 months, God remembered.  Of course!

And, it was so GOOD.

Choice, Consent, and Abuse

Thinking about “ choice”

So, recently we all saw, heard or participated in a bit of hullaballoo about the Fifty Shades of Gray film.

I won’t dissect the books and movie here except to say it is a story of abuse, control, gaslighting (look that one up if you don’t know it), mind games, manipulation and false views of love, intimacy, choice and consent.  As one reviewer said, “If [the male protagonist/abuser] lived in a shack instead of a penthouse, this wouldn’t be a feature film, it’d be a plot for Criminal Minds!”

Some brilliant somebody suggested that, instead of paying $ to see porn masquerading as story, we all boycott the flick and donate to our local domestic violence shelter instead.

I cheered.  Good idea!

Then, something happened that really threw me off the bridge.  A Christian leader I respect - who recently risked a lot to write a book confronting traditional evangelical views barring women from positions of leadership in the Church - posted on his Facebook page the

 suggestion that people not donate to domestic violence shelters but INSTEAD to ministries fighting sex trafficking. Why? Because, he wrote, trafficked women “don’t have any choice.”

I read the words. Twice. I realized I wasn’t breathing. I felt shocked. As if I had been slapped.

I took a mental step backward. Perhaps this Christian leader didn’t fully understand what he was saying. Did he really believe that women who experienced domestic violence CHOOSE to be abused?

Yet, as I read and re-read his words I couldn’t understand them any other way…he clearly communicated that donations would be better given to anti-trafficking work than to domestic violence shelters. He suggested donors could be certain no woman helped by a sex trafficking ministry had “chosen” to be a victim.  The unspoken communication was, of course, that women in domestic violence shelters may have chosen to be abused.

So, I need to write – and this writing and reading community needs to dialogue – about choice. And consent. And women. And Domestic Violence.

CHOICE is a decision freely made. Without coercion, force, or fraud. Without fear and confusion, manipulation or control.

Choice must include:

            * viable, real options to choose between
            * sufficient power that one’s decision has impact on the situation
            * ABILITY to understand, evaluate, and choose between available options
            * CAPACITY – emotional, spiritual, mental or intellectual – strength
            * safety, access to survival resources (food, $$, shelter, protection)
            * physical and emotional freedom to choose

I believe that, in the absence of any of these components, a woman is not freely making a real choice. When abuse, coercion, threats or emotional/mental manipulation create fear, loss of confidence, and loss of identity, self-worth and value, real choice simply doesn’t happen. 

“But she stayed” we often hear.  I wonder if that idea influenced the Christian leader who seems to believe trafficked women don’t “choose” but women in domestic violence do?

A woman may stay in an abusive relationship. In reality, research shows women who leave actually plan to leave an average of 7 times before they either succeed, give up, or are murdered. Why? Because leaving requires resources, confidence, money, safe opportunity, and support – before, during and after. Many women CHOOSE to leave, TRY to leave, and end up staying because they can’t get “everything” together.

Women stay because they are afraid. They have reason to be afraid because they have been battered, threatened, injured and controlled. They fear their partner will harm, kidnap or kill them, their pets, family and friends, or their children. Fear is not choice.

They stay because they have been taught in church that marriage is forever and they should go back, pray, and try again. Religious control is not choice.  

They stay because they have no money, no job history, or little education. They fear they can’t support themselves. Lack of survival resources is not choice.

They stay because they hope that maybe – this time – his promises to change are true. Believing a lie is not the same thing as choosing to be abused.

A dear, wise and beloved friend who escaped a physically and emotionally abusive relationship says it was and is important to not see herself as a helpless victim. She wrote, “I did make choices – not always good ones, but I made them.”  What we both understood in the resulting conversation was that she did choose to try again….or to accept unacceptable behavior….or to believe his claims that “it would never happen again.”  She did choose to stay until she finally chose to leave.  However, what she never chose was to be abused.

So, Fifty Shades of Gray has had its day. This week I heard the first news story of a death resulting from some foolish person trying to duplicate what he saw on the movie screen.

I hope Domestic Violence shelters saw an increase in donations. I hope the leader I respect – and anyone else in need of “new thinking” – comes to see choices and the women who make them with new eyes.

Gentle Words in the Tenderloin....

Hello blog reading Beautiful Ones,

Been a while. San Francisco is blue-sky gorgeous and warm today. The Tenderloin is touchy and changing as poor, marginalized and homeless people are being, once again, squeezed into smaller and smaller numbers of square block areas of the city – most in our neighborhood.

I am praising God for new government efforts to house homeless Vets in San Francisco. And, for money to provide transitional housing for homeless youth who come to the city when they age out of our dysfunctional foster care system. Without housing, these kids often end up in prostitution or drug use or both.  I’m so grateful to the President for making housing for homeless people a priority. One of my dear ones (who is 22) just became eligible for the “kids” housing. This might save her life…and I’m not exaggerating!

Meanwhile, the neighborhood is changing. Google, Facebook, Square and other tech firms bought buildings on Market Street in a city effort at neighborhood improvement. (Hmmm...crack houses or Google...)

Gentrification improves the look, feel, and often the safety of a neighborhood. But, people living on the streets are shuffled from one concrete “home” to another as wealthy renters or condo-buyers move in where SROs, abandoned buildings or decrepit apartments once “minimally” house dpoor people.

So, the feel of the community is changing. Plus, it’s winter – freezing and snow elsewhere – but San Francisco offers temps in the 60s and blue skies (that's right...we are officially whiners...complaining when it's below 60 - "freezing" - or above 80 - "too hot!"). Even the rain doesn’t last long. With winter, come new homeless residents relocating from colder places….a considerably less upscale version of snowbirds flocking to Florida or Arizona from the frozen chosen up in Wisconsin or New York or (have mercy!) Boston.

Meanwhile, what’s happening at BJM?  Boundaries. Boundaries. Boundaries. I’m learning how to confront and love at the same time. "Gentle words turn away anger."

Late last week, a disturbed man threatened a tiny, mentally-ill woman as she waited in line in front of the YWAM base for showers on Friday morning.  He moved closer and closer to her, raising his voice and cursing.  She kept whispering, “I’m first. First in line.”

I slipped through the door and gifted the man with a beaming smile.

“Good morning,” I said. “Sounds like maybe you need help.”

He continued his tirade, adding me to the focus of his not-so-creative but pretty raunchy string of profane words.  I followed the pattern God advised in the Book of Proverbs, chapter 15, “Gentle words turn away anger.”

The louder he got, the quieter and more slowly and more clearly I spoke.  I gestured gently to people inside the base for someone to come to the door.  A wonderful, kind and truly calm-and-gentle man named Trevor joined me at the door.  Let’s just say that together, Trevor and I are more than 120 years old….So neither of us was impressive or scary.

 Trevor just stood quietly while I tried to gently express clear boundaries.

The guy at the door yelled (I heard some words I haven’t heard directed at me since I taught middle and high school to juvenile delinquent boys in the department of corrections in Illinois). I spoke more gently and slowly with each passing moment.

“You’re a…..” he yelled.

“I’m first,” whispered the little lady.

“Of course no one can threaten women here,” I said. “Do you need help to stop?”

Same stuff…

“So, do you need me to call the police or can you stop on your own?”

More of same…

“Trevor and I don’t want to call the police, but it’s your choice.”

Trevor didn’t give an inch and didn’t say a word. His calmness helped the situation as much as his presence.  WE were establishing the spiritual atmosphere, not this poor, agitated man.

Finally I spoke very slowly. “So…..you choose…you can leave….your choice….I don’t want to call the police, but I will.”

I paused. “So. Which do you choose?”

The gentleman strode off, continuing to berate us, the poor little woman, and the world in general.

Gentle words turn away anger.  Who would have thought that a line from the Book of Proverbs penned millennia ago would be the key for responding to an angry person in the Tenderloin?

Gentle words…

Yesterday a LARGE, full-bearded and otherwise very hairy guy came to the door at Nail Day and announced, “I’m a woman.”  Now, not a single person in the room thought that was true, but before we could react, he slipped in the door and headed to the hospitality table.

The last time we had a man come into Nail Day claiming to be female, he was aggressive, threatening and scary.  In the end, it took a couple of YWAM guys and eventually a helpful police officer who just “happened” to be driving by to help us get rid of him.

So, when the hairy guy crowded in the door, everybody wondered what would happen.

Six months ago, the presence of a man at Nail Day would have resulted in angry outbursts and women leaving. Now, God has given us the gift of trust. The women trust BJM and Nail Day. They feel safe in the space. Some women moved away from the man, but no one appeared upset or afraid.

“He just wants brownies and coffee,” observed one of the women. “He’s a bushwacker,” said another. (Not exactly sure what a bushwacker is, but…it fit with the beard and general hairiness…)

I sat down next to “Kenny” at the art table and asked a bit about him. He actually acted like a sweet, even genial person. He stuck with his story about being a woman, showing me his pink scarf as evidence.  He said he was taking “the trip of my life” after spending a couple of years caring for his sick brother. “I’m traveling around the whole country. But, ‘cause it’s winter, I started with California.”

He enjoyed a few brownies and a cup of hot coffee.  I asked if he had connected with San Francisco’s transgender community. “Nope, he said. “They don’t seem so friendly.”

I smiled. “Could I say something honest to you?”

Kenny nodded.

“If you want people to believe you’re transgender, something has to go….” I gestured toward my chin. “The beard….Otherwise women won’t feel safe around you.”

He raised his hand protectively toward the salt-and-pepper forest on his face. “Shave it off?”

I nodded.

Kenny looked uncomfortable.  “Oh yeah. I should.  I”ll do that…Yeah….I’ll go to the barber and shave it off.  Sure.”

“Women want to feel safe here,” I continued. “Sometimes men come in and say they’re transgender when they aren’t.  Recently one man was actually aggressive and made suggestive comments to women. The women felt really unsafe.”

Kenny nodded again. “If that happens, let me know. I used to be a bouncer ya know.”

I smiled and didn’t break eye contact.

Kenny smiled.

Then, he said, “Thanks so much for the coffee.”

“Yes. Nice to meet you.”

He got up and headed for the door.

I don’t think we’ll see Kenny again. Yet, I’m glad we found a way to treat him with respect and honesty. Gentle words….even though Kenny wasn’t in the least angry.

What Would we do if we had All the Money we Need?

Sunday night I trekked out to San Mateo where a Congregational Church was hosting an awareness conference about sex trafficking in the region.

I expected “big lawn” suburbia, but the Congregational Church of San Mateo commands a whole corner in a Latino neighborhood. Stopped at a taqueria for a quick dinner and was the only non-hispanic-latino person in the place.  Talk about great food!!!

The evening was spent viewing a video presenting interviews with woman after woman who had – one way or another – found herself in the sex trade.  One tiny woman who looked much older than her age told of being sold by her mother to a “man passing through” their small town in rural Appalachia.  She appeared in desperate need of dental care. As I watched I thought Father, please send someone to watch this who will help her get her teeth fixed!

An older African American woman spoke in a halting voice, sometimes sobbing. She told of growing up in an inner city community where street prostitution was “just what women did.”  By her early teens she followed in the footsteps of the role models she saw on the streets of her neighborhood. She spoke honestly of depression, violence, and a lifelong feeling of helpless, hopeless terror.

There was the story of a 14 year-old runaway picked up by a truck driver on a country road and a troubled teenager whose new “boyfriend” promised they could get an apartment together if she would “help” pay the rent by providing sex for his friends.

Each story was shocking in its simplicity. Lack of parental protection. Family histories of abuse, addiction, domestic violence and poverty. Every woman reported sexual abuse before the age of 12.

Each woman’s story illustrated the “signs” of trafficking: force, fraud, ad coercion.

I represented Because Justice Matters at a ‘meet and greet’ information time after the conference.  People filled the crowded room, rushing by, snatching up brochures or hurriedly signing up for our online newsletter. Others stopped to ask questions: “So does trafficking happen in your neighborhood or is it just ‘regular’ prostitution?” Or, “Your dance program only reaches a handful of girls. What can be done to help all the others?”

People were surprised to hear about “massage parlors” in our neighborhood that are actually brothels. In their heartfelt urgency to see the horror of sex trafficking stopped in our world, it seemed hard for the conference attendees to understand just how long it takes to build relationships of trust with women. They longed for epiphany-like moments when women would “see the light” and leave for new lives.

So do we.

One gentle woman, a former marriage and family therapist asked, “What would you do if you had all the money you needed?”

My thoughts whirled around like balls in an arcade game. All the money we needed? What would we do?

“A second women’s center in the Mission or the Haight,” I said immediately. “Runaways, kids aging out of foster care – they are at risk of trafficking in those neighborhoods especially.

“Some money to help new staff and staff who are struggling to raise enough financial support,” I continued.

“I want to see our staff size double….A budget for a team called to reach out to women in the strip clubs and street prostitution.”

I thought a bit. The woman smiled. 

“And, enough money to take our BJM staff women on a real vacation.  Beach. Waves. Good food. Mojitos and deck chairs and ‘vacation’ novels. Absolutely nothing to do but relax.”

It wasn’t until I had loaded the car and was headed back to the City on Highway 101 that I thought. Wait. Who was that woman? Why did she ask that question?

And I wondered, What would we really do if we had all the money we need? Wow….

I am part of a team at Because Justice Matters.
BJM women are the Best. Team. Ever. Quote from our director and visionary, apostolic, leader Ruthie Kim.
We celebrated Christmas together by learning to cook Thai food at this very cool place in SF. An old church turned into a residence and workspace. I haven't laughed so much in AGES. Yes, we played "telephone" during dinner.
The heart of this team is love and unity. Supporting each other and truly "seeing" each other. Valuing what each person brings. Affirming.
This team lives out the core value of "stopping for the one." We do it for women in our community and on the streets. (so it maybe takes a half hour to walk from the YWAM base one block to The Well because of all the "ones" we pass and love...Is this a problem?).
We stop for the one with each other. A meeting may detour into listening, caring, and prayer if someone needs encouragement. We regularly schedule times to hang out and laugh. Lisa, our Well director instigates glorious silliness (who knew a shopping trip with Lisa would reveal gentle, introverted, prophetic Meg posing like a super model in the "cool clothes" section of a department store?)
This year, one of my so-thankfuls is the privilege of working with women who share vision, commitment, unity, and love. Best. Team. Ever.

Who Will Come? Back in the Tenderloin....

Taking a break and coming home again.

At the end of December, BJM staff scattered across the country to celebrate Christmas with family and friends. It felt odd to walk by The Well, all silent and dark. Manicure Monday closed until the New Year. 

We all took a much-needed break to rest and recharge our spiritual and emotional batteries for 2015.

After a few days on retreat at Bethel Church in Redding (think: sleep, eat, hang out with Chris and Sarah Pollasch, lie on the floor in the prayer chapel or the Healing Room.... worship music washing over you like waves…repeat) and a long Christmas weekend with my son-in-law’s wonderful family in nearby Vacaville, I returned to the Tenderloin.

It felt like home. Familiar. Happy to see Donna on the street.  She hugged me and said, “I AM going to come back to Nail Day. I miss you guys….just because I don’t like all the women doesn’t mean I can’t come, right?”   

Seeing some of the sketchy drug-dealer-and-user types have moved from their "home" from the sidewalk in front of the park entrance during construction. Some are gone. Good!  A few have reloacted to the concrete in front of the YWAM base.  Hmmm...Not so nice. Pondered how much energy I wanted to spend getting to know Rena, a woman who sells drugs from her wheelchair. Her "sketchy guy" clientele are, well, sketchy.  Gave her a poncho during the rain just before Christmas. Now, she greets me like an old friend.

Back in the thick of it!

 I went to the post office to run errands. About a block from home, a woman came up to ask for money for “Subway.”  I said – as always – I don’t give money to anybody. But I would gladly buy her a sandwich. She mulled that one over. I could see she wanted money, not food. But, she was torn…after, all, a sandwich was better than nothing. Hmmm….

While she was mulling, a young-ish man in a wheelchair zipped by. As he passed, he grabbed the scarf around my neck and pulled. Perhaps he thought he could steal and sell it for a buck or two. Perhaps he was just being obnoxious. But, the scarf was one of those “circle” types, so it stayed around my neck.  He rolled away.  I turned, suddenly feeling furious.

 I shouted. “Hey…. you….HEY. Stop!” The man turned. “I am old enough to be your mother. What are you thinking, grabbing my scarf?”  He looked sheepish.  “Well?” I asked, waiting for a response.

“Um….happy holidays, ma’am,” he mumbled.

I’m back in the Tenderloin, I thought.  The woman looked surprised. Maybe my reaction wasn't what she'd expected from somebody's mom wearing Doc Marten boots and a pink scarf!   She switched gears, and  tried to hit me up for “just $10 to get a room.  It’s cold…” When she continued to press, I put my hand out like a traffic cop. “Stop. I really meant it when I said no money to anyone. You don’t want a sandwich, you want money. Now, I’m leaving.”

I continued my errands. Mail. Pharmacy. Pooh…the little donut shop on Ellis and Taylor was closed (like I needed a donut after Christmas in Vacaville where Karen, my “partner in grandma-ing” fed us like royalty).  

Back at the YWAM base – and home, I saw LB had returned to her usual perch on a milk crate where she sells drugs for a dealer in Oakland. She’s there every day, huddled in her puffy jacket and black watch cap. Until, one day a couple of weeks ago, she rushed into Nail Day, shaking and disoriented. Her mother had died. She was frantic and despairing. “This has got to stop…I’m getting out of here,” she kept saying. She let us pray for her and sat with her much-beloved BJM staffer Cassandra, for nearly an hour, rambling and crying. 

Then, she disappeared for a week or so – mourning her mother. Having a funeral.  Seeing relatives. Grieving and alone. But, now she was back. We sat together on the sidewalk, talking about mothers. About missing hers – and mine. About remembering what made our mothers special and beloved.  She let me bless her….releasing God’s heart for “new things….that this year will bring the changes you have been hoping for. For new life this year.” We hugged. I pray that this might be the year when she makes a life for herself without drugs or street corners.  I LOVE LB!

The new neighborhood park opened. The glorious sound of children’s voices echos across the corners of Jones and Eddy streets. Not business-as-usual in the Tenderloin. But kids playing. Shouting. Laughing. It is the sound of life. Of hope for something different for these children.

This is a park surrounded by special “entrance proof” fencing. The gates are locked except during specified play hours. And even then, a police officer is always, always present every moment. On the federal sex offender registry, our neighborhood map is filled with red and blue “dots” marking offenders and predators. Creating a safe space for children is a serious challenge.

Some of the girls playing in the park will make their way to The Well and our dance program. A handful will be loved and mentored by Gabby and Cassandra. Others will be drawn into life on the streets.  There simply aren’t enough Gabbys and Cassandras to reach them all.

Seeing them reminds me of the scripture “the fields are white ….ready to harvest, but the workers are too few!.....Pray to God, the Lord of the harvest, asking Him to send more workers.”   BJM needs more staff! Who will reach out to those young girls – still innocently playing at our beautiful new neighborhood park.? Who will come to help us create a street outreach team to build relationship with LB and the hundreds of other women who need love and hope here?

The harvest fields are ripe….filled with people who need hope and love. Who need to know that Jesus sees them. That they aren’t invisible.  The workers are few.

For 2015 I am praying for more hearts (and bodies) here at BJM.  I want to see a BJM team reaching out and building relationships with women working in the neighborhood strip clubs and in prostitution on the streets.  Cassandra and Gabby would like to expand our dance and mentoring ministry with at-risk girls in the neighborhood.  Karol and Carolina would love to reach more mothers in the neighborhood…hard-working, overwhelmed Latino women….quiet, lonely refugees – often Muslim – feeling stranded in this city. And recently, a few women from “the streets” who want something better for their daughters than they experienced.

On the dining room wall at the YWAM base, two large frames hold photos of every YWAM San Francisco staff member. One space is empty, with a note, “Could this be you?”

Will you join me in prayer for that “empty space” to be filled? Volunteers are beyond wonderful. We love and depend on them. And, full-time committed staff are necessary to lead. To listen to God, envision, and create the foundation into which volunteers can come and give.

Will you pray for a woman called to use dance and movement to help traumatized women heal? For a team of women willing to love and invest in girls in this neighborhood where no child should have to live? For a few brave hearts whose eyes light up when they think about befriending, honoring, and loving women who sell their bodies in strip clubs and on the streets? 

Each new staff person must raise her own support. Will you pray and consider committing some of your long-term giving to new BJM staff?

The fields are ready for harvest. But, there just aren’t enough workers to find all the treasure God has in the Tenderloin. 

Someone’s picture belongs in the empty space in that frame in the dining room. Could it be yours?