I can't understand what I haven't experienced. I can't know people I haven't met. And even then, knowing is a long, long way from meeting!
In the past couple of months God has been introducing me to women in prostitution. Meaning, I go for a walk, and BANG...there she is. One afternoon, I was walking to Market Street and M. comes up to me with tears in her eyes. "Mama," she says, "I'm too old for this. I've gotta stop. It's quick money, but it's killing me."
I pray for her. Hold her while she cries. "I can't go anyplace. They be askin' me to do them. Right there on the street."
I pray some more. She finally decides to go to a women-only shelter in Berkeley - a BART train ride away from the men who know here by name. "If you ask them, they can help you," I say. I hope it's true....
Or, Monday I'm walking to Chinatown and two beautiful, 20-something women are trekking up the hill just behind me. We're out of the Tenderloin. The clean streets and beautiful old buildings of Nob Hill surround us. Suddenly, it's as if an amplifier has been attached to them. City noises are all around, yet, there, hiking up Mason Street to the "summit" of California, I heard every single word.
"I make more money on that side of the street," said one of the women, "but I'm working every minute. All night. I'm &*#)!( ed up and sleep the whole day then."
Her friend replied, "Yeah, but the money. It's worth it."
Somehow, I didn't think these two were driving cab all night.
In Chinatown, I joined about 20 other people for a walking tour led by a San Francisco history buff who volunteers with CityWalk, city-wide walking tours of nearly every neighborhood in this great place. I love them!
About an hour into the tour, the leader stops in front of one of the oldest Buddhist temples in North america. "This is a spiritual place. They don't mind tours, but ask that we bow at the altar and make an offering for the temple."
Yeah...no. Not doing that one. So I stay outside. Nearby, sprawled on the sidewalk, is a woman who clearly has had a rough go of it. She looks somewhere between 30 and 50. Barefoot. Sores on her legs. Scarf from injection sites on her arms. Around her neck and shoulders she's wrapped something that might once have been fur. But, it looks like the "furs" spent time in a dumpster or alley. They are filthy. She's wearing a bra and panties. Pieces of cloth tied around her waist. Her hair appears to have exploded into a nest of frizz - all held together by a black scarf.
She says her name is Butterfly. "Money?" No, dear heart, I don't give money to anyone.....It's the answer I give to every single person who asks here in San Francisco. I know crack can be purchased for a dollar. Five dollars will get you a cheap, short-lived high on heroin. fifty cents will get you the dregs from another junkie's crack pipe.
Could I buy her something to drink? Normally, I would do this. But today, my fellow tour walkers are beginning to file out of the temple. I won't have time.
"I'm sorry, Butterfly. My group will be leaving in a second. Can I at least pray for you?"
"Yeah. Say whatever words you want. I don't care."
I pray for her safety. I ask Jesus to show himself to her in dreams tonight. To send a huge, strong, warrior angel to watch over her while she works. To keep her safe. I tell her that God loves her. That she is beautiful in his eyes and in his heart. That He cares about how hard things have been.
"He sees you. He really does. You're not invisible to him," I whisper.
I don't ask to hug her. She's been using and isn't clear about what she wants and doesn't want. I pat her hand. She squeezes my arm.
"Thanks, baby," she says.
I recently learned that a smart, creative, fascinating woman who loves Jesus and is serious about her recovery sometimes "goes back to work" at the end of the month when money is gone. Without embarrassment she disclosed a past that included work in a brothel where she "made bank" until drug use began to shut down her body and she nearly died.
Another special soul, "Little" spends her days and most nights near the YWAM base. I'm not sure when or if she really sleeps. I knew she was making money somehow - sometimes saw cash passed to her. I felt as if a giant hand were choking my gut. To be baldly honest, when I learned that she is selling crack, I felt shaky and relieved, "Oh thank you, Jesus." She wasn't selling her body. At least she was "only" being damaged and crushed by dealing - and sometimes using. At least she isn't being violated every day by men - yet.
So, what does prostitution look like here? Attractive young women who could be college students on Nob Hill. Another woman - tired a still attractive after years of living "fast" and "easy money".. She lost her children to Child Protective Services and desperately wants to stop. Yet, how? What will she do? Work as a barista at Starbucks? Tend bar at some dive in Oakland? "Easy money" is killing her.
Butterfly sprawled on the sidewalk. The fact that she is still alive seems miraculous. "Little" walking a pirate's plank with dealing on one side, the threat of her own drug use on the other. Sharks circle in the water. One false step and she'll end up selling her body for crack.
On Saturday night the BJM team went into the Tenderloin for street outreach late one night. We don't do this often - not often enough for my heart. But, it's challenging. In a few hours I met Star - she might be 20....maybe. A beautiful, round face. Skin the color of a Latte. Dimples. Oh, Jesus....Chelsea - who took my little card with contact information for La casa - the area Domestic Violence women's shelter - yet would not go there that night. Taylor stood on the curb, waving and peering into passing vehicles. She wanted prayer. "But I can't take long. I'm working. I don't wanna be late...it gets real dangerous late."
Women standing every 3 or 4 feet along Leavenworth new the New Century strip club. Young men filed in the doors. It was so obvious that many of the women were high. They waited for those young men to exit the club...maybe they'd be ready to buy then.
Many let us pray. Many smiled when we offered little gift bags with nail polish, make=up and sweet-smelling hand lotion inside. Tucked in, also, was a tiny flyer about Nail Day and a card with emergency information ....La Casa. Homeless Outreach Team. Crisis line phone numbers.
It will be a year this week that i arrived in San Francisco expecting to spend a summer volunteering with BJM. Now, I know I'm here until God sends me else where.
Some have asked "what's next?" I don't know. Right now I'm hip deep in healing groups, prayer ministry, one-on-one mentoring, mothering and a passel of trans-gender "ducklings" I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing with - except loving and more loving. But, my heart is starting to stir. Not sure what it will look like or when, but DAD seems to be giving me opportunities to know "working" girls in the neighborhood. he seems to be pointing the water cannon of my heart toward these women. He's educating my heart and showing me how much he loves these beautiful, hurting be-loveds.
Not sure what it means. But, they are all so beautiful. so so beautiful.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Saturday, May 10, 2014
One Year in San Francisco. What's different? Mostly Me!
Mid-May. In a few weeks, it will be one year since I flew into SFO, planning to spend the summer as a volunteer intern with Because Justice Matters. I expected to have a great time with wonderful people. I expected to enjoy BJM and to find meaning in the work they do.
I didn't expect to fall in love.
But I did. I fell in love with the tenderloin. With the women who live on its streets. With unexpectedly beautiful, kind people. My pastor, Paul, said I would see shining goodness approaching me on the street. I fell in love with that goodness. I fell in love with the shining - which catches me by surprise over and over.
The Tenderloin has changed me. My first friend was - and still is - a kind old former hippie who joyfully said, "Who would have thought I'd end up an old queen in the Tenderloin?" We hang out at un Cafecito, our favorite coffee shop, to talk and laugh and spout opinions on all sorts of world problems. Ahhh....someone else with as many opinions as I have!
P is bright - speaks French fluently and, I just learned, used to be an ESL teacher. She's told me bits and pieces of her story. A few months ago, I was feeling kinda crazy and not sure how to handle strange-but-potentially-touchy family event. I headed over to un Cafecito and found P. She held my hand and gave me kleenex and some good advice.
Recently, we had an hilariouslly good time. She asked me "how do you know if a dress is too short?" My comment that "if you raise you hands above your head and everyone can see London" produced howls of laughter. for us both. We talked about whether knees should go into hiding after a woman reaches "a certain age" and she explained to me that, when one guy recently said, "Nice legs, girl" to me he meant it as a compliment - not an inappropriate weirdness. She helped me arrive at a funny-ha-ha (not funny peculiar) understanding of the gap between what men seem to do or say and what they actually intend. Evidently "working it baby" is a compliment in the Tenderloin - who knew? Not me!
We laughed. She said, "I know how guys think. Trust me, I really do understand these things." And reminded me, "You're in San Francisco, now...the air is different here!"
Just the other day, P stepped in to help one of my precious stones, K, think through her opinions and emotions about applying for General Assistance. P understood both the system and K's fear of it with sensitivity and wisdom. P. said, "Please don't sleep out in the rain. Here's my number. You could crash for a night at my place."
Knowing P has changed me. Our friendship has challenged thoughts I never would have admitted, but nonetheless, exist in my mind about friendship and "ministry." The idea that "I minister to" some people and become friends with others.
I would have said, NO I don't believe that. Yet, when "the other" lives in the Tenderloin. Or has had a really, rough past. Or where our differences slide into the no-man's land of class and social status. Maybe I find someone with a similar heart for justice and a huge love for Jesus like mine, yet our lives seem to be light years apart. P and I are similar in many ways. But what about someone else who was a drug addict when I was a college student or spent time in prison while I was busy raising kids in a lovely home in a beautiful neighborhood? Will I reach across the seeming gaps to really, honestly be FRIENDS with others? Not "loving on" (a term I dislike so much I may have to blog about she sheer mass of this dislike!) but simply loving. Be-friending. And being friended back.
So, I wonder, what would my beloved blog-readers think of my also be-loved friend P? I think you'd love her humor and deep thoughts about the world and people. You'd be challenged by her determination to always, always choose love - even when criticism masked as truth-speaking or "being honest" seems more real and maybe even more effective. You'd laugh with (or maybe at?) us when things get crazy at Nail Day and she whispers to me, "the children are acting up again...we may have to send them to the corner."
One of the many reasons my friendship with P has changed me is that, when P says "I really know how guys think" she's not kidding around. Because she used to be one. A guy, I mean.
P is transgender. Her struggle with identity and haunting sense that "he" was really a woman began about 30 years ago. When few people acknowledged such thoughts or struggles. When painful confusion about gender identity was met with "you must be gay....or.... something."
It's painful to think of my friend trying to figure this out alone. Mostly without help or compassionate, supportive community. The absence of support (and the presence of judgement) in Christian circles drove her away from Jesus for a time. But, she returned, because she wanted Jesus more than she wanted to avoid Christians.
So I want to share about my friend. And to tell how her determination to be honest and real - to be her real self, as much as she understands herself - has changed me.
I'm not Holy Spirit. It's my job to love and be loved, not to decide what people should do and not do. Or be and not be. I have light years to go in my understanding of the diverse, often confusing ways we see attraction and love and identity "working" in human beings.
Some people have said, "Why do you say 'she' - if someone is born a male, they're male. that's it." Others have asked if I've been drinking the San Francisco kool-aid and slipped into the abyss of liberal-dom. Still others have commented, "but you're called to ministry with women. Women."
And yet, I find myself surrounded by and loving transgender people who consider themselves - and wished to be considered as - women.
I asked God about this. He said, "Transgender people are....what?" I thought....what? is this a trick question? I don't know...hurting? Confused? Rejected? Then Holy spirit said, "People. They are people. And, what did I ask you to do with people?" I felt a huge wave of relief. LOVE. I'm supposed to love people. Just love them. Whew...I can do that. I don't have to have answers, I do have to have love.
So, I may write more about this journey. About the power of love, pronouns, and respect for people where they are. And about friendship in unexpected - and joyful - places.
I didn't expect to fall in love.
But I did. I fell in love with the tenderloin. With the women who live on its streets. With unexpectedly beautiful, kind people. My pastor, Paul, said I would see shining goodness approaching me on the street. I fell in love with that goodness. I fell in love with the shining - which catches me by surprise over and over.
The Tenderloin has changed me. My first friend was - and still is - a kind old former hippie who joyfully said, "Who would have thought I'd end up an old queen in the Tenderloin?" We hang out at un Cafecito, our favorite coffee shop, to talk and laugh and spout opinions on all sorts of world problems. Ahhh....someone else with as many opinions as I have!
P is bright - speaks French fluently and, I just learned, used to be an ESL teacher. She's told me bits and pieces of her story. A few months ago, I was feeling kinda crazy and not sure how to handle strange-but-potentially-touchy family event. I headed over to un Cafecito and found P. She held my hand and gave me kleenex and some good advice.
Recently, we had an hilariouslly good time. She asked me "how do you know if a dress is too short?" My comment that "if you raise you hands above your head and everyone can see London" produced howls of laughter. for us both. We talked about whether knees should go into hiding after a woman reaches "a certain age" and she explained to me that, when one guy recently said, "Nice legs, girl" to me he meant it as a compliment - not an inappropriate weirdness. She helped me arrive at a funny-ha-ha (not funny peculiar) understanding of the gap between what men seem to do or say and what they actually intend. Evidently "working it baby" is a compliment in the Tenderloin - who knew? Not me!
We laughed. She said, "I know how guys think. Trust me, I really do understand these things." And reminded me, "You're in San Francisco, now...the air is different here!"
Just the other day, P stepped in to help one of my precious stones, K, think through her opinions and emotions about applying for General Assistance. P understood both the system and K's fear of it with sensitivity and wisdom. P. said, "Please don't sleep out in the rain. Here's my number. You could crash for a night at my place."
Knowing P has changed me. Our friendship has challenged thoughts I never would have admitted, but nonetheless, exist in my mind about friendship and "ministry." The idea that "I minister to" some people and become friends with others.
I would have said, NO I don't believe that. Yet, when "the other" lives in the Tenderloin. Or has had a really, rough past. Or where our differences slide into the no-man's land of class and social status. Maybe I find someone with a similar heart for justice and a huge love for Jesus like mine, yet our lives seem to be light years apart. P and I are similar in many ways. But what about someone else who was a drug addict when I was a college student or spent time in prison while I was busy raising kids in a lovely home in a beautiful neighborhood? Will I reach across the seeming gaps to really, honestly be FRIENDS with others? Not "loving on" (a term I dislike so much I may have to blog about she sheer mass of this dislike!) but simply loving. Be-friending. And being friended back.
So, I wonder, what would my beloved blog-readers think of my also be-loved friend P? I think you'd love her humor and deep thoughts about the world and people. You'd be challenged by her determination to always, always choose love - even when criticism masked as truth-speaking or "being honest" seems more real and maybe even more effective. You'd laugh with (or maybe at?) us when things get crazy at Nail Day and she whispers to me, "the children are acting up again...we may have to send them to the corner."
One of the many reasons my friendship with P has changed me is that, when P says "I really know how guys think" she's not kidding around. Because she used to be one. A guy, I mean.
P is transgender. Her struggle with identity and haunting sense that "he" was really a woman began about 30 years ago. When few people acknowledged such thoughts or struggles. When painful confusion about gender identity was met with "you must be gay....or.... something."
It's painful to think of my friend trying to figure this out alone. Mostly without help or compassionate, supportive community. The absence of support (and the presence of judgement) in Christian circles drove her away from Jesus for a time. But, she returned, because she wanted Jesus more than she wanted to avoid Christians.
So I want to share about my friend. And to tell how her determination to be honest and real - to be her real self, as much as she understands herself - has changed me.
I'm not Holy Spirit. It's my job to love and be loved, not to decide what people should do and not do. Or be and not be. I have light years to go in my understanding of the diverse, often confusing ways we see attraction and love and identity "working" in human beings.
Some people have said, "Why do you say 'she' - if someone is born a male, they're male. that's it." Others have asked if I've been drinking the San Francisco kool-aid and slipped into the abyss of liberal-dom. Still others have commented, "but you're called to ministry with women. Women."
And yet, I find myself surrounded by and loving transgender people who consider themselves - and wished to be considered as - women.
I asked God about this. He said, "Transgender people are....what?" I thought....what? is this a trick question? I don't know...hurting? Confused? Rejected? Then Holy spirit said, "People. They are people. And, what did I ask you to do with people?" I felt a huge wave of relief. LOVE. I'm supposed to love people. Just love them. Whew...I can do that. I don't have to have answers, I do have to have love.
So, I may write more about this journey. About the power of love, pronouns, and respect for people where they are. And about friendship in unexpected - and joyful - places.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Small Things - Great Love
80 degrees in the Tenderloin! yee Hah! We're acting like true San Franciscans. People are initially thrilled. WARM! Sunny. Sky the color of, well, blue sky. Then, the whining starts. I've figured out that any temperature above 70 and below 60 triggers a blizzard of complaints.
the BJM women decided to avoid whining and head for the ocean. Beach. Gorgeous waves complete with surfers, dogs running on the sand, and little kids hopping, digging, laughing, and shrieking when the cold water hit their toes. A good chunk of the worthy citizens of SF, it seems, had declared holiday and were happily skipping out on work. I say, "Bring it on!"
A few hours at the beach with BJM's beautiful Lisa Kalenberg (a fellow midwesterner from Minnesota) and L and M - two women who have been the most faithful Community Group members.
We had so much fun. it was another small, shining goodness in a week of goodness.
Nail Day was smallish - and surprisingly beautiful. A few times, conflict or agitation began - and just as suddenly faded. M was anxious and yelling at people none of the rest of us could see. In the past, that might have meant triggering for the whole room, anger, fear, and folks looking anxiously around, asking "Are you going to kick her out?"
This time, a staff member quietly took a seat near M. "Could I look at some magazines with you?" M nodded. As the minutes passed, she became less agitated. Others saw her being loved and treated with gentleness.
later in the week, my precious stone K and I were having breakfast burritos at my fav coffee shop when A. came up. "Can I join this conversation?" A was able to speak with such kindness - and first hand, rubber-meets-the-road experience about the struggle to break out of homelessness and find stable housing. She gave advice that I couldn't - because I have never walked that road. A little interaction. Big encouragement for me (and for K, I hope)
At BJM, we just finished 12 weeks of "Brave Communication" (during which every single one of us had at least one week of "well....I wasn't brave...and i didn't communicate very well but...." Then, the whole group would encourage, listen, commiserate, and say things like, "Well, if you had a do-over, what would you say this time?"
We practiced saying things like "I feel ___________ when _____________ happens. I want ___________ ."
Or, "I apologize for saying ________. My words were unkind. I hope you can forgive me."
Or even, "I accept your apology. I recognize you are trying to make things right. I want to forgive you, but I need some time."
It was a great group. At the end, we took a couple of weeks for fun. Watched Calendar Girls (the requirement was a movie about brave women that would make us laugh). Then our beach day bonanza.
What I'm thinking about lately is "small things with great love" Mother Teresa is said to have taught that we don't have to do great things, but, instead, should seek to do small things with great love.
This week has been filled with "small things with great love." A small act of caring that helped M crawl out of the pit of anxiety and trauma. A kind word spoken without expectation....by one friend to another. An afternoon hanging at the beach doing mostly nothin'.....and enjoying every minute of it.
Small things. Great love.
the BJM women decided to avoid whining and head for the ocean. Beach. Gorgeous waves complete with surfers, dogs running on the sand, and little kids hopping, digging, laughing, and shrieking when the cold water hit their toes. A good chunk of the worthy citizens of SF, it seems, had declared holiday and were happily skipping out on work. I say, "Bring it on!"
A few hours at the beach with BJM's beautiful Lisa Kalenberg (a fellow midwesterner from Minnesota) and L and M - two women who have been the most faithful Community Group members.
We had so much fun. it was another small, shining goodness in a week of goodness.
Nail Day was smallish - and surprisingly beautiful. A few times, conflict or agitation began - and just as suddenly faded. M was anxious and yelling at people none of the rest of us could see. In the past, that might have meant triggering for the whole room, anger, fear, and folks looking anxiously around, asking "Are you going to kick her out?"
This time, a staff member quietly took a seat near M. "Could I look at some magazines with you?" M nodded. As the minutes passed, she became less agitated. Others saw her being loved and treated with gentleness.
later in the week, my precious stone K and I were having breakfast burritos at my fav coffee shop when A. came up. "Can I join this conversation?" A was able to speak with such kindness - and first hand, rubber-meets-the-road experience about the struggle to break out of homelessness and find stable housing. She gave advice that I couldn't - because I have never walked that road. A little interaction. Big encouragement for me (and for K, I hope)
At BJM, we just finished 12 weeks of "Brave Communication" (during which every single one of us had at least one week of "well....I wasn't brave...and i didn't communicate very well but...." Then, the whole group would encourage, listen, commiserate, and say things like, "Well, if you had a do-over, what would you say this time?"
We practiced saying things like "I feel ___________ when _____________ happens. I want ___________ ."
Or, "I apologize for saying ________. My words were unkind. I hope you can forgive me."
Or even, "I accept your apology. I recognize you are trying to make things right. I want to forgive you, but I need some time."
It was a great group. At the end, we took a couple of weeks for fun. Watched Calendar Girls (the requirement was a movie about brave women that would make us laugh). Then our beach day bonanza.
What I'm thinking about lately is "small things with great love" Mother Teresa is said to have taught that we don't have to do great things, but, instead, should seek to do small things with great love.
This week has been filled with "small things with great love." A small act of caring that helped M crawl out of the pit of anxiety and trauma. A kind word spoken without expectation....by one friend to another. An afternoon hanging at the beach doing mostly nothin'.....and enjoying every minute of it.
Small things. Great love.
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
Sex Trafficking in the Tenderloin. And....God didn't say K is a leader for nothin' !
This week, we had a front row seat to one face of sex trafficking in the Tenderloin.
The vast majority of women in the TL are "older" - somewhere between 30 and 80. Some 30 year-olds look 50. Hard lives have etched the years onto their bodies and souls.
Young women in the TL seem to represent a few distinct populations: immigrant women from families working hard to get out of the neighborhood as soon as they can; young addicts deep in their addiction - in real danger of death by overdose or violence; lonely transgender runaways and transplants looking for "someone like me"; and former foster kids who aged out of the system and find themselves without home, family or marketable skills.
after all...kids enter the foster care system because their parents are guilty of neglect so great that even this broken, underfunded system finds them incapable of safely caring for them.
Then, at age 18, the state basically says, "Well, you're 18 now. So long. Good luck." One expert called foster care a "feeder system for sex trafficking in America."
So - back to this week at BJM.
G, a beautiful young woman, has been coming to Nail Day with friends for the past couple of months. She has deep brown eyes and a sharp sense of humor
This Monday she and a new friend seemed to fly into the room. They were laughing and smiling. They announced, "We're leaving on Monday. We're getting out of here."
The story unfolded - told to the volunteer painting G's nails. To Lindsay, the director of The Well. And, to me.
G pointed to her friend. "Her boyfriend is taking us to [another state about 1,500 miles away]. We're going to live on a ranch. It's really big....we'll have our own rooms."
G laughed. "There are going to be horses. HORSES! And cows and animals." She giggled and said she wanted to baby calf of her own, "I'll keep it in my room."
all of us - the volunteer, Lindsay and myself - asked similar probing questions.
"So, how long have you known this boyfriend?" (Couple of weeks)
"Have you met his family?" (Nope..."but he said he inherited the ranch from his grandparents...Isn't that cool! A ranch!!")
"Where is this ranch?" (Out in the country. We're going to fly to A [city] and he'll pick us up.")
What will you do if you don't like it there? (No problem...He says he'll just buy us a plane ticket and we can come back.")
"What will you do for work?" (He said we can get jobs if we want to, or we can just help out at the ranch." G's friend announced, "I'm not going to work at first. I need time to get to know him."....She told the volunteer she was going to marry him.)
In short, a young man they had known about 2 weeks was promising these homeless, family-less young women a place to live. Food. Employment. Maybe even marriage.
All they needed to do to cash in on this paradise of promises is to move to a place where they know no one. Have no support. No transportation. No money. And live in an isolated ranch miles from the nearest city.
Many of you who read this blog have heard the term "sex trafficking." Sometimes people think of children sold as sex slaves in Thailand or orphans in Moldova or other former soviet block nations sold or kidnapped. Latin American or Asian immigrant women enticed to the U.S. with promises of work.
But here, less than half a mile from the wealth of the financial district in America's most expensive city, sex trafficking is happening to some of our most vulnerable children - girls and young women who have aged out of the foster care system and now struggle to feed, clothe and provide for themselves.
So...as the young women enthusiastically described their promised dream on that far-away ranch, the volunteer, Lindsay and myself said things like, "This is sketchy."
"I'm worried about this. You don't know this guy. You could be in danger."
"I'm afraid you might get there and things won't work out like you expect. I'm afraid you won't be able to get help or get away."
The volunteer bluntly said, "This is bad. This is how sex trafficking happens."
I said, "This isn't good. Let's talk about this...."
We were all met with shrugs and eye rolls. Their expressions reminded me of teenagers giving their moms looks that say "you are old and don't know anything....get out of my life."
G and her buddy slipped out the door before I had a chance to connect with them again. Worried, I left messages at the shelter where G stays. I texted another friend who might see her. And, sent an email to K - one of my especially "precious stones" who has been homeless since she fled an abusive home as a pre-teen.
"HELP" I wrote. This isn't good. I described what was happening. "Can you find G?" I asked. "Will you try to convince her this is too risky?"
I asked K to meet me at The Well today "anytime between 1 and 4."
She showed up at 2. "Just got the email and I ran from the library to here." She said. "This isn't good...."
We talked about G and the situation. K was agitated. Worried. She seemed to understand when I said, "G doesn't trust me. She thinks of me as somebody's mom....Maybe she will listen to you."
K left a bit later, promising to find G and "convince her this is really dangerous."
I went home. Fixed dinner. Worried and prayed.
Then, an email came from K. One word,
DONE.
Although I'll probably worry and pray some more before the night is through, I trust that K did as she promised....found G and talked honestly with her. Maybe told her some of her own experiences.
You see, a year ago, K met someone who promised her work in sunny southern California. A house to live in. Food. A beautiful city far from the dirt and craziness of the Tenderloin. K jumped at the chance.
And, K found herself trapped in a strange city without money or friends. Forced to go sell her body on the streets every day. Threatened with beatings and even death if she failed to earn enough money.
So, when K said, "This is bad. This is really bad." she knew what she was talking about. K escaped and made her way back to San Francico about a year ago. Thin, sick, and terrified, she came first to the YWAM base. "Where else would I go?" she said.
She still looks over her shoulder to this day, seeking the faces of the people who trafficked her and held her against her will.
today, as I pray for G and wonder what's happening with her, I'm counting on K's calling from God as a leader. And as someone gifted to love unconditionally. I'm counting on K's compassion and willingness to help others.
Hoping G will listen to Ks' story. Trust K's honesty. And decide to stay here - in the not-so-safe, not-so-pleasant Tenderloin. where, at least, some people love and care about her. Myself. Lisa. Lindsay. the Nail Day volunteer. And K, of course.
The vast majority of women in the TL are "older" - somewhere between 30 and 80. Some 30 year-olds look 50. Hard lives have etched the years onto their bodies and souls.
Young women in the TL seem to represent a few distinct populations: immigrant women from families working hard to get out of the neighborhood as soon as they can; young addicts deep in their addiction - in real danger of death by overdose or violence; lonely transgender runaways and transplants looking for "someone like me"; and former foster kids who aged out of the system and find themselves without home, family or marketable skills.
after all...kids enter the foster care system because their parents are guilty of neglect so great that even this broken, underfunded system finds them incapable of safely caring for them.
Then, at age 18, the state basically says, "Well, you're 18 now. So long. Good luck." One expert called foster care a "feeder system for sex trafficking in America."
So - back to this week at BJM.
G, a beautiful young woman, has been coming to Nail Day with friends for the past couple of months. She has deep brown eyes and a sharp sense of humor
This Monday she and a new friend seemed to fly into the room. They were laughing and smiling. They announced, "We're leaving on Monday. We're getting out of here."
The story unfolded - told to the volunteer painting G's nails. To Lindsay, the director of The Well. And, to me.
G pointed to her friend. "Her boyfriend is taking us to [another state about 1,500 miles away]. We're going to live on a ranch. It's really big....we'll have our own rooms."
G laughed. "There are going to be horses. HORSES! And cows and animals." She giggled and said she wanted to baby calf of her own, "I'll keep it in my room."
all of us - the volunteer, Lindsay and myself - asked similar probing questions.
"So, how long have you known this boyfriend?" (Couple of weeks)
"Have you met his family?" (Nope..."but he said he inherited the ranch from his grandparents...Isn't that cool! A ranch!!")
"Where is this ranch?" (Out in the country. We're going to fly to A [city] and he'll pick us up.")
What will you do if you don't like it there? (No problem...He says he'll just buy us a plane ticket and we can come back.")
"What will you do for work?" (He said we can get jobs if we want to, or we can just help out at the ranch." G's friend announced, "I'm not going to work at first. I need time to get to know him."....She told the volunteer she was going to marry him.)
In short, a young man they had known about 2 weeks was promising these homeless, family-less young women a place to live. Food. Employment. Maybe even marriage.
All they needed to do to cash in on this paradise of promises is to move to a place where they know no one. Have no support. No transportation. No money. And live in an isolated ranch miles from the nearest city.
Many of you who read this blog have heard the term "sex trafficking." Sometimes people think of children sold as sex slaves in Thailand or orphans in Moldova or other former soviet block nations sold or kidnapped. Latin American or Asian immigrant women enticed to the U.S. with promises of work.
But here, less than half a mile from the wealth of the financial district in America's most expensive city, sex trafficking is happening to some of our most vulnerable children - girls and young women who have aged out of the foster care system and now struggle to feed, clothe and provide for themselves.
So...as the young women enthusiastically described their promised dream on that far-away ranch, the volunteer, Lindsay and myself said things like, "This is sketchy."
"I'm worried about this. You don't know this guy. You could be in danger."
"I'm afraid you might get there and things won't work out like you expect. I'm afraid you won't be able to get help or get away."
The volunteer bluntly said, "This is bad. This is how sex trafficking happens."
I said, "This isn't good. Let's talk about this...."
We were all met with shrugs and eye rolls. Their expressions reminded me of teenagers giving their moms looks that say "you are old and don't know anything....get out of my life."
G and her buddy slipped out the door before I had a chance to connect with them again. Worried, I left messages at the shelter where G stays. I texted another friend who might see her. And, sent an email to K - one of my especially "precious stones" who has been homeless since she fled an abusive home as a pre-teen.
"HELP" I wrote. This isn't good. I described what was happening. "Can you find G?" I asked. "Will you try to convince her this is too risky?"
I asked K to meet me at The Well today "anytime between 1 and 4."
She showed up at 2. "Just got the email and I ran from the library to here." She said. "This isn't good...."
We talked about G and the situation. K was agitated. Worried. She seemed to understand when I said, "G doesn't trust me. She thinks of me as somebody's mom....Maybe she will listen to you."
K left a bit later, promising to find G and "convince her this is really dangerous."
I went home. Fixed dinner. Worried and prayed.
Then, an email came from K. One word,
DONE.
Although I'll probably worry and pray some more before the night is through, I trust that K did as she promised....found G and talked honestly with her. Maybe told her some of her own experiences.
You see, a year ago, K met someone who promised her work in sunny southern California. A house to live in. Food. A beautiful city far from the dirt and craziness of the Tenderloin. K jumped at the chance.
And, K found herself trapped in a strange city without money or friends. Forced to go sell her body on the streets every day. Threatened with beatings and even death if she failed to earn enough money.
So, when K said, "This is bad. This is really bad." she knew what she was talking about. K escaped and made her way back to San Francico about a year ago. Thin, sick, and terrified, she came first to the YWAM base. "Where else would I go?" she said.
She still looks over her shoulder to this day, seeking the faces of the people who trafficked her and held her against her will.
today, as I pray for G and wonder what's happening with her, I'm counting on K's calling from God as a leader. And as someone gifted to love unconditionally. I'm counting on K's compassion and willingness to help others.
Hoping G will listen to Ks' story. Trust K's honesty. And decide to stay here - in the not-so-safe, not-so-pleasant Tenderloin. where, at least, some people love and care about her. Myself. Lisa. Lindsay. the Nail Day volunteer. And K, of course.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
The Givers Receive and Receivers Give.
End of the month. Raining. Nail Day - all on the 31st.
About an hour before Nail Day started I heard a HUGE thunder clap and BOOM. Within minutes, the rain started. Not a gentle shower, but a pounding down rain.
I hear from long-time San Franciscans that most winters include a rainy season - where storms slip in and out of the week, often with sunshine and warm sun in between.
As we were getting ready for Nail Day (what a CA-RAZZZZEEEE time it was....50+ students from Bethel School of Ministry were getting ready to leave after a week-long visit serving YWAM, having fun in SF and loving LOTS of people). Bags, pillows, more bags, random hoodies and backpacks were scattered everywhere. Our team of 12 or 13 volunteers and staff is trying to move tables, chairs, art supplies, coffee and snacks. Setting up 10 nail stations with everything needed. Scooting back and forth between the kitchen and office and the huge, high-ceilinged Ellis Room where Nail Day happens.
Outside, it is pouring rain and the women are starting to gather. Covered with umbrellas, jacket hoods, plastic bags and random pieces of cardboard, women waited patiently. Suddenly, the Bethel students left - running through the rain to their waiting bus. Various YWAM staff scattered upstairs, outside or back into the office and dining room. We gathered in a circle to pray and assign jobs for the afternoon.
Then, the door opened. Women filed in, dripping and peeling off wet jackets. shaking umbrellas. Making sodden piles of stuff where, a few minutes before, the Bethel students' stuff had been.
Let the good times begin. With the rain and cold, some women came and stayed the entire afternoon. The art table was buzzing - everyone was making beautiful cards with affirming words on the inside. A few pool players tried their hand at the tables. Every nail station was full as women talked and chose their favorite colors. A few soaked and exhausted souls just curled up in chairs or put their heads down on a table and fell asleep.
The coffee was hot and the cookies were BIG and chewy. The entire afternoon was gentle. Peaceful. Soft music gave a spa-like feel to the room. The buzz of conversations broken then and again by laughter.
I had found some cute little stamps at a craft store and went around stamping people's hands and speaking prophetic words about the beauty of their hearts or shining suns or smiles.
At the end, after all the women had left and cleanup was done, the volunteers gathered to share and encourage. One beautiful woman, J. has been volunteering regularly since fall. She is a gentle soul with particular gifts in listening closely to others and caring.
This was her last Nail Day. When asked "What have you come away with from volunteering." She replied, "I was afraid of the transgender people when I first came. I didn't know what to expect. But, I tell you the truth, I have never met such accepting people anywhere. Not at work or even in my church. I've never felt so accepted just as I am as I have been here by these women."
About an hour before Nail Day started I heard a HUGE thunder clap and BOOM. Within minutes, the rain started. Not a gentle shower, but a pounding down rain.
I hear from long-time San Franciscans that most winters include a rainy season - where storms slip in and out of the week, often with sunshine and warm sun in between.
As we were getting ready for Nail Day (what a CA-RAZZZZEEEE time it was....50+ students from Bethel School of Ministry were getting ready to leave after a week-long visit serving YWAM, having fun in SF and loving LOTS of people). Bags, pillows, more bags, random hoodies and backpacks were scattered everywhere. Our team of 12 or 13 volunteers and staff is trying to move tables, chairs, art supplies, coffee and snacks. Setting up 10 nail stations with everything needed. Scooting back and forth between the kitchen and office and the huge, high-ceilinged Ellis Room where Nail Day happens.
Outside, it is pouring rain and the women are starting to gather. Covered with umbrellas, jacket hoods, plastic bags and random pieces of cardboard, women waited patiently. Suddenly, the Bethel students left - running through the rain to their waiting bus. Various YWAM staff scattered upstairs, outside or back into the office and dining room. We gathered in a circle to pray and assign jobs for the afternoon.
Then, the door opened. Women filed in, dripping and peeling off wet jackets. shaking umbrellas. Making sodden piles of stuff where, a few minutes before, the Bethel students' stuff had been.
Let the good times begin. With the rain and cold, some women came and stayed the entire afternoon. The art table was buzzing - everyone was making beautiful cards with affirming words on the inside. A few pool players tried their hand at the tables. Every nail station was full as women talked and chose their favorite colors. A few soaked and exhausted souls just curled up in chairs or put their heads down on a table and fell asleep.
The coffee was hot and the cookies were BIG and chewy. The entire afternoon was gentle. Peaceful. Soft music gave a spa-like feel to the room. The buzz of conversations broken then and again by laughter.
I had found some cute little stamps at a craft store and went around stamping people's hands and speaking prophetic words about the beauty of their hearts or shining suns or smiles.
At the end, after all the women had left and cleanup was done, the volunteers gathered to share and encourage. One beautiful woman, J. has been volunteering regularly since fall. She is a gentle soul with particular gifts in listening closely to others and caring.
This was her last Nail Day. When asked "What have you come away with from volunteering." She replied, "I was afraid of the transgender people when I first came. I didn't know what to expect. But, I tell you the truth, I have never met such accepting people anywhere. Not at work or even in my church. I've never felt so accepted just as I am as I have been here by these women."
Saturday, March 22, 2014
Song from Revive on sunday:
"You make me brave
You make me brave
You call me from the shore into the waves...
No fear can hinder now that love has made a way.
You make me brave...."
Wow....sobriety is damn hard! So many of the women who come to BJM are active in addiction - drugs and alcohol. Others are in recovery - for years or months or a few days. Still others are engaged in a life-and-death battle today...right now.
Drugs and alcohol provide many women with the ability to cope with daily life in the Tenderloin. When clinicians diagnose clients, one of the areas they explore is that of "life stressors." Stressors are categorized - problems with lack of money, emotional and personal support, family problems, problems with housing and food, employment or health.
Daily life in the Tenderloin is like a case study in life stressors. The one constant in just about everyone's life is "not enough."
The folks up at Bethel's Transformation Center in Redding, California have been working on a support group model for people living with drug and alcohol addiction. last time I saw Yvonne, I said, "Write faster!!!"
Been thinking about addiction. People here say they use drugs and alcohol to be numb. To survive the cold nights or dangerous streets without feeling.
How inviting "numb" must be to anyone living in the Tenderloin. Yet, I have spent my own time living "numb." Thinking about the many ways Jesus has carried me during my life through "numb" into "feeling a little" and gradually into "being present and able to be myself."
Being present is scary and often painful. Who wants to feel sadness and loss? Not me! Numbness doesn't seem so bad....a small price to pay for reprieve from pain. Yet, that numbness steals joy. And leaves us feeling empty and alone. Lures us with lies of control...."you can control this situation....you can feel again anytime you want....Being numb and checked-out is better than the alternative."
In healing prayer we often ask God, "Father, what lies am I believing?" In the past, a lie I believed was "being numb is better than feeling." And, "you're safer when you're numb."
some people believe God doesn't care. Or that He cares but, somehow, can't help. Still others believe they deserve their pain because of the things they've done. One woman said, "My liver's shot and I don't know if the doctors can help me. But, I drank for a lot of years. I guess I deserve it."
At BJM we often find ourselves having conversations about the nature of God. Over and over we confront the lie that God wills bad things to happen. Many women have been told about a fickle, punishing God who "gives people" liver failure or depression or mental illness to punish or "teach me a lesson." Over and over, we find ourselves saying. "God is Good. GOOD. Everything he does is good. Sickness and depression and mental illness or addition aren't good. So, they aren't from God. Period. End of story!"
One gift that happens at BJM is to create a place where women can feel again. A safe place where "numb" isn't the only way to avoid pain. We open a spiritual space of acceptance and love - where someone trapped in addiction can find peace and safety. Where someone who has retreated into themselves to escape from pain can rest. And slowly begin to peek out at life once again.
When God is waiting outside that door of numbness ....or when He will slip inside the closed door if a woman is willing... then it isn't so terrifying to think of trading numbness for life. Of taking the risk of slowly, slowly S-l-o-w-ly learning who we are and stepping out to be our real selves.
Jesus carries us through. He finds us lost in numbness and dissociation. Lost in self-protection and fear. He gently touches our hearts. He offers to wait with us - for as long as it takes - until we want to move again. Breathe again. Until we're ready to consider what feeling alive might be like again.
Sobriety IS hard. Yet, God knows that. And I believe Love can make a way.
"You make me brave
You make me brave
You call me from the shore into the waves...
No fear can hinder now that love has made a way.
You make me brave...."
Wow....sobriety is damn hard! So many of the women who come to BJM are active in addiction - drugs and alcohol. Others are in recovery - for years or months or a few days. Still others are engaged in a life-and-death battle today...right now.
Drugs and alcohol provide many women with the ability to cope with daily life in the Tenderloin. When clinicians diagnose clients, one of the areas they explore is that of "life stressors." Stressors are categorized - problems with lack of money, emotional and personal support, family problems, problems with housing and food, employment or health.
Daily life in the Tenderloin is like a case study in life stressors. The one constant in just about everyone's life is "not enough."
The folks up at Bethel's Transformation Center in Redding, California have been working on a support group model for people living with drug and alcohol addiction. last time I saw Yvonne, I said, "Write faster!!!"
Been thinking about addiction. People here say they use drugs and alcohol to be numb. To survive the cold nights or dangerous streets without feeling.
How inviting "numb" must be to anyone living in the Tenderloin. Yet, I have spent my own time living "numb." Thinking about the many ways Jesus has carried me during my life through "numb" into "feeling a little" and gradually into "being present and able to be myself."
Being present is scary and often painful. Who wants to feel sadness and loss? Not me! Numbness doesn't seem so bad....a small price to pay for reprieve from pain. Yet, that numbness steals joy. And leaves us feeling empty and alone. Lures us with lies of control...."you can control this situation....you can feel again anytime you want....Being numb and checked-out is better than the alternative."
In healing prayer we often ask God, "Father, what lies am I believing?" In the past, a lie I believed was "being numb is better than feeling." And, "you're safer when you're numb."
some people believe God doesn't care. Or that He cares but, somehow, can't help. Still others believe they deserve their pain because of the things they've done. One woman said, "My liver's shot and I don't know if the doctors can help me. But, I drank for a lot of years. I guess I deserve it."
At BJM we often find ourselves having conversations about the nature of God. Over and over we confront the lie that God wills bad things to happen. Many women have been told about a fickle, punishing God who "gives people" liver failure or depression or mental illness to punish or "teach me a lesson." Over and over, we find ourselves saying. "God is Good. GOOD. Everything he does is good. Sickness and depression and mental illness or addition aren't good. So, they aren't from God. Period. End of story!"
One gift that happens at BJM is to create a place where women can feel again. A safe place where "numb" isn't the only way to avoid pain. We open a spiritual space of acceptance and love - where someone trapped in addiction can find peace and safety. Where someone who has retreated into themselves to escape from pain can rest. And slowly begin to peek out at life once again.
When God is waiting outside that door of numbness ....or when He will slip inside the closed door if a woman is willing... then it isn't so terrifying to think of trading numbness for life. Of taking the risk of slowly, slowly S-l-o-w-ly learning who we are and stepping out to be our real selves.
Jesus carries us through. He finds us lost in numbness and dissociation. Lost in self-protection and fear. He gently touches our hearts. He offers to wait with us - for as long as it takes - until we want to move again. Breathe again. Until we're ready to consider what feeling alive might be like again.
Sobriety IS hard. Yet, God knows that. And I believe Love can make a way.
this week Lisa, Lindsay and I declared Wednesday "Field Trip Day" and headed to the De Jung museum of art to see Georgia O'Keeffe's stunning exhibit from her days in upstate New York at lake George.
Three of the most lovely women from The Well came with us. One is known in the Tenderloin as an artist - her work has been displayed in the community. Another is a bundle of gentleness who loves to dress in jewel-tone colors and often wears the same color, head-to-toe. The third, a sensitive woman who is more determined than most people I've ever known.
We wandered through the exhibit. Chuckling over a few paintings that vaguely resembled something between bread dough and babies' bottoms. Standing silent before giant versions of wild flowers or sunsets. A sad pair of paintings of O'Keeffe's husband's photography studio painted after his death. One in bright sunlight - almost mirror-like. Another at evening. Windows like empty eyes.
Brilliant, jewel-like paintings of fall leaves. Poppies, woodland jack-in-the-pulpits. A deep velvet purple morning glory. So, so beautiful.
Z commented that the photos of Georgia O'Keeffe appear sad. A bit removed from eye-to-eye contact. Yet, her art is so personal. Detailed. M loved the colors. L, the artist, laughed and smiled her way through the entire exhibit.
Everyone voted the trip a success. Banana bread picnic on the lawn in the warm sun. Decided we should all get beach hats and make our next trip to see the ocean.
Three women from the TL - two have been homeless. One still is. Their lives a series of small, hard-won victories over mental illness, addiction, and family dysfunction. Mingling with the crowds - well-dressed San Franciscans who love art and can easily afford the $25 tickets - I saw the same joy on their faces and ours. The same heart-touched reverence for beauty.
We returned with laughter all around - and twinkling eyes. It was good to remind each other of the beauty and life around us.
Next trip to the ocean!
Three of the most lovely women from The Well came with us. One is known in the Tenderloin as an artist - her work has been displayed in the community. Another is a bundle of gentleness who loves to dress in jewel-tone colors and often wears the same color, head-to-toe. The third, a sensitive woman who is more determined than most people I've ever known.
We wandered through the exhibit. Chuckling over a few paintings that vaguely resembled something between bread dough and babies' bottoms. Standing silent before giant versions of wild flowers or sunsets. A sad pair of paintings of O'Keeffe's husband's photography studio painted after his death. One in bright sunlight - almost mirror-like. Another at evening. Windows like empty eyes.
Brilliant, jewel-like paintings of fall leaves. Poppies, woodland jack-in-the-pulpits. A deep velvet purple morning glory. So, so beautiful.
Z commented that the photos of Georgia O'Keeffe appear sad. A bit removed from eye-to-eye contact. Yet, her art is so personal. Detailed. M loved the colors. L, the artist, laughed and smiled her way through the entire exhibit.
Everyone voted the trip a success. Banana bread picnic on the lawn in the warm sun. Decided we should all get beach hats and make our next trip to see the ocean.
Three women from the TL - two have been homeless. One still is. Their lives a series of small, hard-won victories over mental illness, addiction, and family dysfunction. Mingling with the crowds - well-dressed San Franciscans who love art and can easily afford the $25 tickets - I saw the same joy on their faces and ours. The same heart-touched reverence for beauty.
We returned with laughter all around - and twinkling eyes. It was good to remind each other of the beauty and life around us.
Next trip to the ocean!
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