Alice and the Hundred-Dollar Bill

Before I tell you about how Alice came to be in possession of a hundred dollar bill and how she lost it and how it was recovered and what she did with it then, I need first to tell you a little about her. Alice is in her early-seventies and has been homeless most of her adult life. As near as I can tell, Alice has no problem being homeless and I think actually prefers the homeless “lifestyle.” Even though she does not come to our soup kitchen and does not receive any food or clothes from our Ladle ministry, Alice nonetheless has developed a strangely enduring and unusual connection with our church. This connection goes three pastors back—back nearly four decades to the friendship which developed between her, Rev. Paul Pulliam and his wife, Ruth.

One day, back in the late 70’s, Alice simply showed up one Sunday and from that day on began attending First Presbyterian Church regularly. She kept mostly to herself and would leave right after the benediction. Before long, Alice began frequenting the reception area outside the church office on weekdays and chatting with the secretary, delivery people and anyone else who happened by. Over time, Alice’s weekday visits became more frequent and were lasting longer. Eventually, she was spending most of every day on the couch in the reception area and, like some modern-day Bartleby, no one seemed willing or capable of dislodging her. At some point the church administrator let her know she would no longer be allowed to spend her days in the church. It seems Alice took great offence at this new policy and so, like a jilted parishioner, found a new church to go to—a Lutheran church.

Alice wrote to Reverend Pulliam—and his wife—to let them both know she would no longer be attending services at First Presbyterian Church--and why. Pastor Pulliam and Ruth each replied with letters sent to her P.O. box encouraging her to understand why it was just not possible for her to spend her days at the church and expressing their—and God’s--love and concern for her. She wrote back, dropping the letters off at the church office. This began a correspondence which has continued—off and on—until this very day. The Pulliams would give her stationery and other writing supplies.

Often Alice’s letters are accompanied by gift packages which she has carefully assembled from small items she buys at the thrift store. Invariably these gift packs come elaborately nested in scrap paper, greeting card portions, napkins and plastic bags. On many of the paper surfaces, Alice writes out scripture verses, quotations or lines from poems. The verses and quotations she chooses often relate to some nearby holiday or other event. Somewhere on her wrapped gifts, Alice always puts her full name followed by, “homeless senior.” In the ten years I have been director of Ladle Fellowship, I have received perhaps eight or more of her special gifts. At first I had no idea who she was. Eventually I came to learn of her continuing relationship with Pastor Pulliam and Ruth.

You are now ready to hear about the hundred-dollar bill. In recent months a man from our church, Scotty, began to meet with Alice at the Starbucks downtown for morning coffee once a week. Over coffee and snacks Alice has been slowly opening up to Scotty. She is very intelligent and insightful—even philosophical about life. Last week, a very well-dressed businessman took note of Alice—had he perhaps spoken to her in the past or seen her on the street?—walked right up to her and handed her a hundred-dollar bill. Alice, surprised, said, “What is this for?” and the businessman replied, “It is for whatever you might happen to need right now.” Alice thanked him as he said, “God bless you” and walked away. Alice tucked the bill in her sleeve and continued her conversation with Scotty. As Alice returned Scotty’s hug, the bill fell from her sleeve to the sidewalk. Just then a street person in his 30’s bends down quickly, pockets it and walks swiftly up the street. Once Alice discovered what had happened and told Scotty, he took off after the man. Scotty—a 250-plus pound ex-Marine who is the spitting image of the Santa-- caught up to him a few blocks later and, between huffs and puffs, “exhorted” him about stealing from poor elderly women. The guy mumbled some kind of lame justification and then reluctantly fished the bill out of his pocket and laid it in Scotty’s upturned palm. Scotty returned it to Alice, reminded her to be careful, said a second goodbye and set off to work.

The next time they met, Alice handed Scotty an envelope containing the hundred-dollar bill saying, “here, give this to the church, I don’t really need it.” Scotty was dumbfounded. “What do you mean, you don’t need it? Look, get yourself a motel room for a night or two or buy something you need—Alice, this money is for you to use.” “No, Scotty, I don’t really need anything. And, besides, there are probably people who need it more than I do. No, I want you to give it to the church for the Ladle program—I’ll be fine” Reluctantly, Scotty agreed to do as she said. He knew she was a strong--and strong-willed--person and had made up her mind. She hadn’t even used any of it since he had given it back to her. Knowing Scotty as I do, I am certain he teared up at this point.

That was last Thursday. On Sunday morning I saw Alice sitting just outside at the corner of the church building. She had just delivered little gift packages for Scotty and me. Mine contained a colorful little cardboard box in which I found: a card holder in the form of an apple, a new little poured candle in a class holder shaped in the outline of a cat’s head, a pocket pack of Nice ‘n Soft tissues, a 3’ x 5” spiral-bound memo book on which Alice had written my name. Inside the wire spiral was inserted a new pencil with a stars-and-stripes pattern to it—probably in anticipation of Flag Day. The memo book was wrapped in red chiffon ribbon bow. Also in my gift pack, wrapped in a clear plastic pouch, was one of those cardboard coffee cup sleeves. This one was from It’s A Grind Coffee House (Alice seems to like these cardboard sleeves because she’s included one in each of the last several presents she’s given me). Also in the plastic pouch: a foil-wrapped tea bag (Numi brand, Velvet Garden White Rose—certified organic, “With every sip, a new dream awakens”); a scrap of Easter-colored wrapping paper which it looks like Alice has cut in the shape of an egg and on it written, “To (Personal) Allen Randall, FPC Ladle Fellowship, From Alice Margaret Simmons, Homeless Senior.” Also included, on a sheet taken from the memo book, was a long hand-written note of condolence upon the recent death of my mother. On a small piece of thin folded cardboard, like a miniature greeting card, I find little stickers: “Faith, “Promise,” “rejoice,” and another, with the dove symbol. On the outside of it Alice has written out—and referenced—Hebrews 3:4, “…Every house is builded by some man; but he that built all things is God.” Inside I find, written out in her neat hand, the text of Revelation 22:12-14 which begins, “Behold I come quickly…”

I aspire to someday be as generous and caring a person as is my dear friend, Alice Margaret Simmons.

Three Different Deaths

What is the average lifespan of a typical homeless person? I wonder. I will have to search for the answer to this question. From my experience, admittedly quite limited to our little downtown neighborhood, I'd guess it would be in the neighborhood of 58 to 62 years. But I'm not writing today about mortality rates but to mark the deaths, within a week's span, of three homeless people who were Ladle regulars: Ron, Susan and Kyle. Here, first, is a little something about Ron.

Ron was a large Hispanic man in his early 50s. About 6 months prior to his death, Ron began spending his days at the side of our church, usually in the company of a drinking buddy or two. Upon my first encounter with him he told me he'd just gotten out of the hospital and was homeless. He said he had cancer, but was vague about where it was, what treatment he was getting and any prognosis he might have been given. When I told him our building was used as an elementary school during the week, and that we'd had a problem with men hanging out at this spot and drinking, he assured me that he had been "clean and sober" for a couple of years. He said he was homeless due to his poor health and some unexplained problem with one of his legs. He said he just needed to rest here for a couple of minutes and then would be going. A few days later I found him, again at the side of the church, but this time he was so drunk--or high, or both-- that he could not stand when I asked him to leave. A buddy--also drunk, but a bit more functional--helped him up and they staggered down the sidewalk as if contestants in an extremely slow three-legged race.

This was just the first in a series of similar weekly interactions with Ron. Sometimes however he'd surprise me by being completely sober. At those times he looked so different it was difficult to imagine this was the same man who, just the week before, was passed out on the church steps and unresponsive. A couple of times he was so far gone we had to call the paramedics. Other homeless people who know Ron told me he used to be a heroin user and seller. Ron, it turns out, was on a steeply and rapidly declining pathway. He seemed to know this but did not seem to care. The ultimate and sad confirmation of this came in the form of a telephone call I received from my counterpart at First Lutheran Church, just a few blocks from here. "Allen, I have some sad news," Jim began. "Ron died three days ago." "What happened," I asked. "They're not sure. Either he fell down and hit his head and then had a stroke, or he had the stroke first, then fell down and hit his head. In any case he died from the combination of the two. And he's not the only one to die recently," Jim continued. "I got word that Susan--you knew her from Ladle didn't you?--was found dead in the doorway of the 'C' Street Inn the day after Ron died."

Yet again my soul groaned in grief for our so tragically fallen world and the ugly and terrible toll it visits upon the lives of the homeless--especially those enslaved to drugs, alcohol and mental confusion. Even as I laid the receiver back in its cradle, I was already questioning whether I could have/should have done something more or different to have helped either Ron or Susan avoid their sadly premature deaths. The bland and monotone thought, "no, there was nothing" relieved neither that dark little shadow of tentative guilt that now niggled my mind, nor did it counterbalance the lead-like weight of my sadness over the seeming inevitability and pitiful ending of these two lives.

Susan had been coming to our Sunday afternoon meal for about as long as I can remember. I never knew her very well. She was usually quiet and kept to herself and her little circle of street/drinking/drug-using friends. Susan was somewhere in her forties I suppose, but as you might imagine the hard conditions of street life can put apparent age on a person--sometimes an additional ten to twenty years worth. In the last year of her life the one thing that stood out if you were to see Susan would be that her feet were terribly swollen and marred with open sores. I think this may have been one of the symptoms of liver failure. It pained me to see her struggling just to walk up or down the ramp to our dining room. When I would express sympathy and ask what if there was anything we could do she'd give me a sweet partial smile and say, "No, I'll make it. It's the cancer. I'll be O.K. thanks." I've come to find that alcoholics with failing livers often cite "cancer" as the explanation for their physical symptoms. Susan however did not live long enough to die from alcoholic cirrhosis of the liver. She died of a drug overdose--probable heroin. Jim at First Lutheran told me her body had been found on a recent morning in the doorway of the C-Street Inn. Several street people who knew her came to me to confirm this and to tell me that the people she had been shooting up with had, when she'd overdosed, just taken her down and dumped her on the sidewalk. This was told to me in a tone as if they thought perhaps I should pursue this angle and tell the authorities about it. I didn't think there was any point to doing that, nor did I believe the authorities would be interested, or could even do anything if they were.

A week after Jim had told me about Ron and Susan, I got another call from him. This time it was Kyle. Though his death was not unexpected, the news of it brought me a heaviness as if someone had casually handed me a shoebox full of bricks. Kyle first came to my attention one Sunday morning when, after the church service a helpful church lady whispered to me, "The young man over there--the one in the dirty green T-shirt just walking away from the doughnut table--I think he must be drunk or something." I thanked her for bringing this to my attention and began to weave my way through the tightly packed fellowship hall toward the young man. He certainly did appear to be drunk. In one hand he was awkwardly holding onto a glazed doughnut so tightly as to be partially squishing it. In his other hand was a cup of coffee which was sloshing over the rim and onto his hand as well as onto the carpet.

I greeted him as I tend to greet street people inside the church who appear to be drunk. "Are you feeling all right?" I said, "You look kind of unsteady--is anything the matter?" "Nope" Kyle said, cocking his head and meeting my eyes, "I just need a place to sit." "Follow me" I said "there's a chair right over there"m I said, stalling for enough time to assess his slurred speech and very unsteady walk. His movements were, on the surface, somewhat similar to the stumbling of one under the influence except that Kyle's motions were more jerky and stiff. Even as I was making this observation and we had about reached the chair in the little foyer, one of Kyle's buddies came over to me quickly and said, "hey, it's O.K--he's not loaded, he's got Huntington's. "Yup" kyle affirmed. I spoke to him for a few minutes, but his speech was so slow and choppy it took him a long time to compose a whole sentence. And though I strained to listen, I could not make out half his words.

One of the friends watching out for him was a homeless man who was later to join the church. I doubt any member in our churches history had more tattoos--or more colorful. We are a Navy town, so I'm sure some of the men in the church have tattoos under their sleeves from their days in the service during WWII--ut not like Robert's. His were clearly biker tattoos and climbed clear up his neck.

To be continued...

Donna Decides to Go Home

Donna, a woman in her early thirties, came to California from West Virginia after the death of her young daughter. I do not know the circumstances, but there was some indication that the death of her daughter had been sudden and tragic. It seems Donna's way to cope with the grief was by going to a new place--one as far away from home as she could go. She wound up in San Diego in early 2008. Donna had hoped to find work and get settled, but this didn't work out and before long she was out on the street. After enduring homelessness, and like the prodigal son, Donna "came to herself" and decided to go home and reestablish a relationship with her father.

Donna had come to our church from time to time after she had become homeless. We had helped her with little things like making copies of her resume, bus tokes to look for work and similar things. On her most recent visit to our church she came with Traveler's Aid Society paperwork and was seeking a contribution toward bus fare in order to get back home to West Virginia. We talked a while about her home, her upbringing and her relationship with her father. He had recently has a great deal of trouble with his shoulder and could do little to care for himself. Both her parents were committed Christians. Her father a devout Methodist and her mother, no longer living, had belonged to the local Salvation Army church. Donna expressed a deep and strong faith in God.

As she was in the middle of trying her very best to convince me of how important it was for her to go home and care for her father, I wrote a pledge for the money needed on her form and handed it back to her. Donna stopped mid-sentence, looked at it and tears began to roll down her cheeks. She closed her eyes and whispered,"Thank you God." It was as if a very big burden had been lifted and she was now certain of going home soon. With many tearful thank-yous, Donna left for the Traveler's Aid Society office where she would turn in her paper and be issued a bus ticket to West Virginia.

This was a simple ten-minute exchange of need and supply--the sort of thing we do at our church on an almost daily basis. Yet it felt as if this were a real and significant turning point in Donna's life. It seemed almost a holy moment as this young woman turned her heart back to her father, her home and her God.

Jenny Finds a Purse Full of Cash and…

Last week, as I finished inspecting the street in front of our church building, Jenny, a homeless woman I know, came running up to me very agitated, flailing her arms shouting, Allen Allen you’ve got to do something a woman lost her purse and Douglas has it and won’t let it go and you need to call the lady who lost it I’ve heard of her she is a big attorney and she has to get her purse back its got all her ID in it and a phone and money and Allen you’ve got to do something you know Douglas, he'll take everything!…

Jenny is a homeless woman who forty-something. I don’t know much about her past except that she had a more-or-less normal life until a terrible auto accident about ten years ago. Jenny suffered permanent brain damage and, as a result of other injuries, walks with a severe limp. She also has a pronounced scar from a tracheotomy. Jenny is rather child-like in many ways, perhaps as a result of the brain damage she suffered. She does not use drugs or alcohol, but she is the constant companion of a guy, Douglas, who is an alcoholic and a petty thief. Douglas is kind of a “street rat,” most often intoxicated to some degree, very loud-mouthed and usually can be found begging (Called “flying a sign” by street people) at the Fourth Avenue off-ramp.

I looked across the street and there sat Douglas with a cardboard sign and a large purple purse at his side. I walked over to him, picked up the purse and said, Thank you Douglas for guarding this purse--that was very good of you. I’m going to go over to the church and see if I can’t contact the owner. Thanks again for being such a good and honest citizen Douglas. I think Douglas was shocked into silence by my little speech and how quickly his fortunes had changed. However, as I walked back across the street Douglas found his voice and shouted, “I want a reward!”
Back over at the church I thanked Jenny and told her that, if there were any reward, it would all go to her.

While looking through the purse for the owner’s contact information, we noticed that every pocked and section of it contained little wads of cash—here fifty, there eighty and so on--several hundred in total, at least. After a number of phone calls we confirmed the owner’s address—not far from the church—and made arrangements to deliver it to here there. Later, on the phone, she expressed great relief at getting her purse back in perfect condition with nothing missing. I let her know that her thanks really belong to Jenny, the homeless woman who rescued her purse and was so intent on getting it back to its rightful owner. The woman asked me if I thought one-hundred dollars would be an appropriate reward. I said I thought it was just right. A couple of days later the woman made good on her pledge, stopping off at the church office to drop off the cash for Jenny. She also wrote out a chuck to ladle Fellowship for twenty-five dollars.
This Sunday I expect to see Jenny and give her the reward money. With it, Jenny might be able to get out of our current rainy conditions and into a hotel room for a few days.

All’s well that ends well!

Kelly, From Some Time Back: Her Success Story

Although a very new Christian, Kelly was having quite a difficult time when she first came to Ladle Fellowship. She was homeless, depressed, confused, estranged from her daughter and feeling under satanic attack. Yet she kept coming back to Ladle discipleship class for direction, fellowship, prayer and encouragement. She attended Sunday services as well. She had her heart set on going to City College and turning her life around. After a couple of months she announced that she had found an apartment in El Cajon and so might not be coming to class. A few months later Kelly returned on a Sunday morning for a visit. She was beaming and anxious to share all the good things God has been doing in her life these past few months. Not only had the art classes at City College been going well, but the Lord had opened up several avenues for selling her art work. She has gotten several commissions and is actually making money with her art. I said I’d like to see her art sometime and she said, “I’ve got a small portfolio right here on my camera.” She then proceeded to show me photos of a mural she’d done in an Italian restaurant as well as a number of paintings—some landscapes and some portraits—all very very good! Not only was her art career taking off, her atheist daughter had come to the Lord and they’d been reconciled. They had shared Thanksgiving together for the first time in years. Kelly’s life has really turned around and she is joyfully praising God for His help and blessings.

Note:
I ran across this story in an archived email. When I come across--or remember--stories from the past, like this one, I'll post them for some to read for the first time and others to remember the people in the story. --Allen

Lilith, Sunday, December 20th 2009

Lilith made her appearance during the fourth week of Advent, between our contemporary and traditional worship services. During Advent our custom is to gather in small groups each week to discuss that week's sermon topic. On this day, the sermon explored the similarities between Mary, the mother of Jesus, and Eve--the mother of us all. Our new pastor, Jerry Andrews, preached a deeply profound and challenging sermon centering on the statements of God to the Serpent and to Eve. In it he unpacked the meanings of the prophecy given regarding how the Serpent would crush the heel of messiah and the messiah would crush the head of the Serpent. Between our two church services, Lilith, a young and newly homeless woman, wandered into the church building. Our church administrator, looking to greet newcomers, welcomed her and showed her to one of the big round tables where six church members were about to begin their discussion.

As groups were gathered around a dozen or so tables discussing the sermon, our church administrator, Riley, came to me and said that a young woman had walked in and was asking for assistance of some kind. This is not an unusual occurrence for our church, located as it is in the downtown heart of a major city--San Diego. In fact, on any given Sunday we will have a handful of street people come into the church--either because they know we have coffee and doughnuts in the fellowship hall or perhaps because they they saw our open doors. In addition to these occasional visitors, we also have our homeless regulars, many of whom are Christians and attend worship services and Bible studies each week.

Riley introduced me to Lilith and I took her over to a bench at the back of the hall to talk with her. "What is it you need Lilith, and how can we help you?" I asked. Without hesitation she replied, "I want a place to stay--maybe with someone in your church." In the brief moment before I responded to her request, some initial observations occurred to me: for one, she looked very young--perhaps even under age. Partly this was due to her extremely petite build and small features. She had green eyes and her blond hair was pulled back in a short pony tail. Another thing I noticed was that she was very clean and neatly dressed. Except for the backpack and several bags she was carrying, one would not think she was homeless. She must have only been on the streets for a very brief time. She was attractive--blond, and perfectly exemplified the word, "cute." This told me that, though her sojourn on the streets may have been brief, it was no doubt dangerous, dicey and did not lend itself to her getting a good night's sleep. "Why was this young woman homeless and what was her story?" I wondered.

"Well Lilith," I began, "Perhaps we can help you in some way, but first, tell me--how long have you been in San Diego?" "A few days." "And where did you come here from?" "Oceanside" with a hint of impatience in her answer. "I see, well, were you on the street in Oceanside or in an apartment or what?" I inquired. "What difference does it make?" she said with an edge of irritation in her voice. "God sent me here to get help--so are you going to help me or not?" she asked as one might address a customer service rep over the phone. "I'm just trying to understand your situation," I said to her. With that she stood up and said, "If you're not going to help me, then forget it. God will take care of me. I thought Christians were supposed to help people. You are a Christian aren't you?" she said to me in a tone of a genuine inquiry. I had heard a number of variations upon this theme in the past when I'd turned down a request or even hesitated in giving the looked-for answer. "Look Lilith, we usually do not get hotel rooms for people, unless young children are involved and we don't ask church members to open their homes to people we know nothing about so... "You don't need to pry into my life and I don't need to tell you my whole life story just to get a little help from the church. I can see you are not interested in helping me" she bristled as she adjusted the purple scrunchy on her little pony tail. "I didn't say I wasn't going to help you. I just may not be able to give you a place to stay--at least not right away. Why don't you stick around, go to the church service in a little bit and stay for the afternoon meal too. Then I can at least introduce you to some folks, Christians, who are on the street and can show you a safe place to stay tonight, if nothing else comes up. Lilith stood up, declaring "If you're not going to help me, I've got to go." She proudly slung her backpack over shoulder, picked up her other bags and walked off. "Another one with an attitude" I thought, feeling a little frustrated at this ending to a conversation just begun a minute or two before. I also knew that I'd come on a bit strong with her about her past. December seems to be the month when many such requests are made of the church and, since I had recently fielded a number of these kinds of requests--not always nicely made--I think I was somewhat abrupt in my manner with her. Perhaps I should have done a bit more listening and a little less pointed questioning.

As I went back about my Sunday duties--alternately setting up things for our afternoon soup-kitchen and monitoring the behavior of street people in and around the church building--I wondered if our relationship with Lilith had ended or if she would be back--if only for a sleeping bag or food or clothing or for some other need. I hoped she'd return for the afternoon meal so I could introduce her to some "safe" street people. If she were to wind up near downtown for a longer period of time perhaps she would attend our Thursday evening discipleship class, which is geared toward street people.

The next time I passed through the fellowship hall, I heard a hymn being played on the piano. It was Lilith. Her petite frame looked very small at the piano, even at that little blond-wood spinet. Nonetheless, the sound of her playing was very confident, bold even--and obviously exceptionally skilled. Some people had gathered around to listen and to sing. I joined them for part of one hymn. She also played parts of some classical pieces. It was as if she were doing a medley to display her virtuosity and to say to us, "See, I am really talented--and I am a Christian playing Christian hymns--now will you help me?

Lilith did not come for the afternoon meal or to get a sleeping bag. I wondered if we'd seen the last of her. The following Tuesday a friend of mine, Jamie, came by the church and wanted me to listen to a Beethoven piece he was working on. He played it for me on the big Steinway Grand in the sanctuary. Afterwards I walked with him to the exit door. There was Lilith. I greeted her and offered, "Lilith, I know we got off to a rough start on Sunday. I may have come on a little strong in questioning you, but then you had an attitude as well. I apologize. I could have been more tactful." She looked at me, and offered, "That's O-K, I'm sorry for getting mad. I hadn't gotten much sleep and my nerves were on edge." "Good" I said, "we can start over." "Look" she said, "I don't have to stay in any one's house like I said before. I can just stay at a hotel or at this hostel I saw downtown. It's only about thirty bucks" I purposely almost never give an immediate answer to a request. I want time--if only a minute or two--to mull it over. Just then it occurred that Jamie was still at my side and I had an idea. "Jamie, would you like to practice that Beethoven piece again, but with a new audience? Perhaps Lilith here would like to listen, and after maybe she would like to play the Steinway herself." Turning back to Lilith I said, "would you like to do that Lilith? If so, while you two are at the piano, I'll think about your request. When you're through it will be lunchtime. We can go have lunch and talk it over." With that Jamie and Lilith headed for the sanctuary and I to my office. I didn't know her well enough to put her with a church family, but we had enough money remaining in our "Aid to the Needy" pot that we could afford to pay for a night or two at a low rent hotel. What I needed to discern though was if she was just "playing" us to get a room and would be going--or had been going--from church to church scamming them for rooms and money. Being young, female, petite and cute, she would have no trouble at running this kind of a game if she wanted to. This is one great advantage homeless women have over homeless men. People in general are much more willing to help a woman off the street than a man. That's probably not really a bad thing. As we left the church building, Jamie slipped me two twenty dollar bills. I knew he meant for me to use it to get her a room.

Jamie took us to Mimo's in Little Italy. India Street was crowded, cold and Christmasy and we had a wonderful pizza meal. Lilith seemed hungry and ate heartily. Lunch conversation began with talking about music. Lilith told us she not only played piano, but almost any instrument you could name. The majority of our conversation however centered on God and how one makes spiritual progress. Jamie is always ready and very willing to initiate conversation around God and the question of how one can come to know and love God more. Lilith was right at home talking about God and seemed to want to impress us that she too knew her Bible and could hold her own in such a conversation. She even questioned us about our relationship with God as if to check us out to see if we were authentic, or were perhaps just churchy religious talkers. Lilith was very open in discussing God and her spirituality, but very guarded when the conversation ever broached her current life circumstances or background. We did however learn that she came from a large family and had been converted at the age of three.

After lunch I told Lilith that the we'd pay for a room for her for the night. We went to the Center City Inn, near the church, but they would not rent a room to her without I.D. Next we tried a hotel equally close, but a little more expensive--the West Park Inn. The manager had to OK it, but she got in. A non-smoking room for $55.00. We said goodbye to Lilith, wished her well and left. Would we see Lilith again, or would she seek to get some other church to foot the bill for another night?

The next day I was summoned from my office by the church secretary who informed me that there was a young woman at our door seeking assistance. It was Lilith. When I met her at the door I noticed she looked more rested, relaxed. I also notices, as I greeted her, that she seemed less wary and guarded. "I need to go to Kansas City" she said without hesitation. I remembered that on Sunday, when I had tried to find out something--anything--about her family and her past I'd asked her is she had any Christmas traditions she she grew up with or that she practiced each year. "Yes," she said, "I go to Kansas City for the 'One Thing' gathering." I hadn't heard of it and it seemed an odd tradition to have for Christmas. "Do you mean for that conference you spoke about?" "Yes, the International House of Prayer puts it on and I really want to go there. I need to go there. It starts right after Christmas. I have friends that go. They'd let me stay with them." Again, I didn't want to give an answer right off the bat so I told her, "We'll, I don't know. I'm not sure we can do it. It's at the last minute and the fare will be more because of that. Um, tell you what--I am just about to take George, an elder and my assistant, to lunch and you can join us. We'll talk it over and if you can convince me it's your best move right now, then we may try to find a way to help.

At lunch George and I talked to her and she seemed to open up a bit more than she had previously. She told us she was from Ohio, that her parents had divorced when she was eleven and that she wanted to someday have a family of her own. Within a few minutes of talking about her family, she revealed that she was separated from her husband and had a three-and-a-half year old son who lived with her mother. Lilith was finally letting us get to know her. She told us that She had given her life to Jesus as a very young child, but "then I saw some really bad things some Christian leaders did and I fell away and lived a life of sin for years. But then I was filled with the Holy Spirit at the One Thing Conference in 2004. I went again in 2007. That's why I have to go back there--to be made whole." "In what way do you need to be made whole," I asked, knowing I was pushing the envelope of her comfort zone. "It's... Well... It's private--just between me and God." "No problem" I said. "We all have areas where we need to be made whole--and no one has to share anything more about themselves than they are comfortable with." I was beginning to think that Lilith had probably left her husband when things had gotten rough and was perhaps on a mini quest to 'find herself' before attempting a reconciliation.

Back at the church, as Lilith played hymns on the piano, I talked talked the situation over with George. We agreed that, all things considered, it was probably best for Lilith to go to the conference in order to seek God and spiritual help and to find her friends again. They might comfort her, counsel her and help her. After getting Lilith some cold weather clothing and some food for the trip we piled into George's car and headed for the Greyhound station downtown. There we got her bus ticket. A man was going around the terminal warning people to take water and things because the blizzard in the mid-west was severe and people were being stranded on the highways. The agent at the window told us the bus would get into Kansas City Missouri at 8:30 a.m. on Christmas Eve. I could picture the scene. I walked Lilith to the security gate and extending my hand I wished her a merry Christmas, a safe trip and said I'd be praying for her. She surprised me by giving me a hug and thanking me for all we'd done for her. I felt like a big brother sending a little sister on a long journey. Before leaving I said, "You'll email or text me when you get there won't you--and let me know you made it and if you found your friends?" "Yes," she said, "I will. And I'll send you some money when I get some." "However God leads you. God bless you Lilith."