When you read about or hear people talk about how we need to feed the hungry, clothe the naked or reach out to the needy you think, oh absolutely! People should do that! The world would be a better place if we all did that!
But you don’t have the time, or the money, or any idea of the first place to start.
So you go back to what you were doing.
See, a couple of weeks ago, I did something that will affect me for the rest of my life.
My friend, Scott Hall, runs a program called LAUP: the Los Angeles Urban Project. Over a period of six weeks he leads college students to distressed neighborhoods where people are in dire need. There, they all pitch in, doing whatever they can to bring a little light into a dark place.
Now, he’s expanding the program to include shorter such programs. He invited me to join what he calls a “dip” – a weekend trip to a part of town that almost all Los Angelenos know of, but have probably rarely visited. We were going to Skid Row.
If there’s any place that will break your heart, it’s Skid Row. It’s a part of LA where nearly 20,000 people live… on the streets. Steve Lopez, of the LA Times, spent a week down there in 2005 and described it better than I can:
“People stumble and rant, they lie in filth, they trap you with eyes that threaten and plead. Roughly 10,000 people flop on skid row streets each night, up to half of them mentally ill. The landscape is relentlessly bleak, the stench of rotting trash and misery everywhere.”
(I highly recommend reading the articles he wrote that week; the story of his friendship with a musician he met down there was made into the film, “The Soloist”).
It’s Friday evening. While their classmates party into the weekend, this bright and shiny group of college students is at Scott’s house in South Los Angeles. They are a cheery bunch; God’s light shines so clearly through their open faces. Scott takes away their cell phones, and clears away the furniture in his living room. That night, they sleep on the floor, or outside, to understand a little of what it’s like to sleep in a shelter or out on the street.
The next morning, Scott gives each of them $3. They must walk around the neighborhood and get themselves enough food for breakfast AND for lunch. With $3. Yeah. Seems impossible, right? They quickly learn that they should pool their money to buy a loaf of bread, some cheese, some sliced turkey. It’s a great lesson about what happens when we take what little we have to offer, and join forces.
Bren and I meet up with them at this point, and after gathering at a neighborhood rose garden to pray and consecrate the day to God, we board the bus and head downtown.
We get off in the financial district, eyes immediately drawn skyward by the forest of skyscrapers emblazoned with the names of banks and financial service companies. Scott asks us to take it all in.
“In ancient civilizations,” one student says, “the tallest buildings were always the houses of worship.”
It’s pretty clear what this civilization worships.
Ironically, one of the wealthiest parts of town is only a stone’s throw from one the poorest. Walk five blocks, and you’re bang in the middle of Skid Row. I don’t take pictures here; I don’t want to make the residents feel uncomfortable, like they’re in some kind of zoo. The narrow sidewalks are made even narrower by the rows of people camped out on the ground, their belongings secured next to them. Some are sleeping. Most are in a fugue state… I can’t tell if they’re on something or if they’re so beaten down by their lives that all they can do is just stare into the wilderness around them. Others talk excitedly, checking in on each other, nodding at us and saying, “Good morning!” It’s a curious mix of weighty sadness, and carefree life.
Scott leads us to Central City Community Outreach, one of the few (if not the only) nonprofits that cater specifically to the children of Skid Row. Sophia, the executive director, shows us around, telling us about the perils these children face. A good day might be, Mum didn’t go to jail today. Can you imagine?
In a life where there is very little stability, the 6, count them, SIX staff members of CCCO strive to provide a safe, secure place for these children to thrive. There are no parks on Skid Row, so the first thing CCCO does, after giving the children an after-school healthy snack, is pull out the balls, bats and goal posts, and lets them run around in their common room. Then it’s off to tutoring, which in addition to giving the kids a hand-up educationally, also gives the staff (and volunteers) a chance to check in on their emotional wellbeing. Finally, everyone sits down to a nutritious dinner. They do it all over again the next day. It’s a really wonderful place.
After we help Sophia finish up a couple of chores around the building, she sends us off on an assignment, one that gives me cold sweats, to be honest with you. We were to walk to one of the “parks” down the street (there are NO kids in these parks), and ask someone if they’d like to have lunch with us and chat. Sophia wants us to get to know the residents of Skid Row as people. She asks us to be respectful but alert. I am so scared.
Just as we walk up the park, a man leaning heavily on his walker says, “Hey, can I get that sandwich?”
“Yes! As long as you’re willing to sit down and talk to us while we eat,” Bren and I say, as Sophia had instructed.
He hesitates. “Well. Alright.”
His name is Robert, and the first thing he says as we break into our lunches is, “I need y’all to pray for me.”
Bren lights up. “We’d LOVE to. Whaddya need?”
“I need faith, brother. I wanna be like Peter. But I’m strugglin’ man. I’m strugglin’.”
We place our arms around his shoulders, bless the food and pray for Robert. We start chomping and chatting, the sunlight on our shoulders. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a drug deal or two go down, but I try to focus on our new friend, who happens to have a wicked sense of humour and finds us equally hilarious. He tells us about his Thanksgiving, about how his family just flew him out to Arkansas for a family reunion. He says until then, he’d had a rift with his brother and sister that had lasted years. I ask him about the walker.
“My hip. I hurt it in the war.”
There’s a lull in the conversation, the very thing I dread. At that moment, another man circles around, and asks Bren if he’s handing out lunch. Bren explains the deal, and the man acquiesces, squatting down next to us. He says very little, except that he won’t eat the sandwich because “it’s cannibalism”. Later, Bren tells me that God seems to have a soft hand with me, giving me a friendly, chatty man to talk to. As quickly as he appeared, the quiet man disappears.
“I was about to go get some beer,” Robert says. “But then I saw you guys, and I kinda lost my taste for it for a minute.” Bren and I smile.
An hour later, it’s time to go. I hug Robert goodbye, and wish him the best with his family, who are going to fly him out for Christmas too. I feel badly that we might never see each other again, but I’m trusting that God will use this little interaction for some good. I notice, with some surprise, the rivulet of joy running through my heart. I’m on a bit of a high.
Here’s the thing that is so cool about LAUP… it made me feel like I could actually go out and do something. Yes, those things that I mentioned at the beginning of this blog: feeding the hungry, giving water to the thirsty, clothing the naked… but also touching someone and making them feel like they aren’t invisible, that they matter. I had never felt like I could actually so that, and now I can. And it’s making me consider what I can do not only on Skid Row, but also in my neighbourhood. I don’t want this to be the type of thing I do once a year, to soothe a privileged conscience, you know?
Scott told me that the kids that took part in the 6-week program have seen amazing things, including miracles. Yeah, miracles. The I-once-was-lame-but-now-I-walk variety. And not only did that (obviously) change the life of the miracle-ee, it also changed the life of the miracle-“worker”. I talked to one student who said that, after doing LAUP, she changed her degree to social justice from what I believe was pre-med. Her heart was broken for the poor, and, God-willing, it will never be the same again. She’s not the only one. These kids can’t help but make pivotal life decisions based on this experience; in addition to choosing careers in social justice, they also choose law, charity and nonprofit work. And just think about whom they might marry, what they might teach their kids based on what happened on Skid Row… how many more lives they may touch?!
So, if you’re like me, and you wonder how you too can help to be Christ’s hands and feet, to feed the poor and clothe the naked… and you can’t get out there yourself, perhaps you would consider helping this next generation get out there and do it for you…
There’s less than 24 hours left in 2011. Whilst the students I accompanied were able to afford the program this weekend, others cannot. Would you help them by donating to the scholarship fund? I have never asked this kind of thing before, and I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think this could really impact a generation. Remember what I said about the $3 lunch money… alone, we may not be able to do much. But when we pool our resources, however meager they may seem, then we touch people’s lives. Please, donate now. The link is here. (Also, you can donate to Central City Community Outreach here).
Thank you.
-x-
aarti
Finish with fresh meyer lemon zest, and a squeeze of juice. Serve, and enjoy the silence.
