As I sit and reflect on the time I’ve spent at Sanctuary here in Toronto, my mind conjures up a host of images and experiences. But the underlying theme that unites them all is the community found here!

Now don’t get me wrong, the Sanctuary community doesn’t mean a bunch of people are standing around a campfire singing Kumbaya. The nature of the community means that things can get messy at times. The problems that plague some “friends from the street” mean that nerves are often on edge, tensions can run high and arguments can get heated. You never know what the day may bring, and new challenges always arise.

Toronto, like any other city, contains a variety of people living on the margins. It's up to us, who claim Christ, to shed light in those lives.

But I also see the ways staffers approach their friends from the street. They foster community through a host of intentional means.

They purposefully don’t put many signs up in the place, as you might find in most public places. They want people talking to staff and each other, seeking information from people, not signs.

They serve food “family style” so that people must talk to their neighbor, asking for items and passing the plates of food. They want their friends working in the kitchen and serving the food. There is dignity in the activity. They even sing Happy Birthday once a month to all who have an upcoming birthday. This is dignity.

They go on weekly “outreach walks,” where seasonal supplies are handed out to folks they find on the streets and in the alleys. The items aren’t why they do it however, the people and the ongoing relationships are.

Whether I was at the Christmas concert or otherwise, I got a taste of the new model of the Church community...or better yet, a renewed model.

Even during their weekly staff meeting, they always partake in communion and underscore the collective effort shared by all. And that effort is recognized by those they serve.

“This place is so different from the others,” I overheard a woman tell another. “They don’t treat you like you’re below them. They treat you like a real person.”

“This place isn’t all stuffy,” said another man at another time. “You don’t have to have your ass-puckered up to go inside the place. It’s really different. I mean, no offense to them, but when I first came, I didn’t even know it was a church!”

Another man made a similar statement, even if he didn’t use words. During two different Sunday-night services, he was passed out just inside the doorway of the main sanctuary. Periodically, throughout each service, you could hear him snorting and grunting amid his deep slumber. But nobody seemed to care, and it was a wonderful thing.

“He’s adding to the service, whether he knows it or not,” said one of the staffers. “He’s contributing to the community.”

Wow. This is Sanctuary. And what a blessing it’s been to have the opportunity to spend time with these folks!

While many in the Church prefer to think of the body of Christ as being composed of a bunch of well-manicured fingers and pearly-white smiles, the fact is, it has many different parts. And Sanctuary treasures them all.

A Motley Crew

There were clean faces and dirty, combed hair and disheveled. There were designer clothes and tattered. This…this is the body of Christ.

Click here to read this article…

That’s God, That’s God, That’s God – Part I

By all accounts, Patrick should be dead. But the fact that he’s sitting here tells a different story.

Click here to read this article…

That’s God, That’s God, That’s God – Part II

There’s something special about being embraced and loved by a whole bunch of messy people.

Click here to read this article…

Camping in the Concrete Jungle

There’s no place like home… and this ain’t it.

Click here to read this article…

Photo Gallery: Community is at the Core

Day in and day out, week in and week out, Sanctuary is providing a variety of programs and activities focused on the heart of their mission…community. But it’s not just any community. Its essence is found in those overlooked by most. Many of its community members, those “friends from the street,” are living in the [...]

Click here to see this photo gallery…

Once a Stranger, Now a Brother

I was humbled and inspired by the prayer of this earnest stranger.

Click here to read this article…

Kingdom of the Broken

I’m not worthy, as I’m haunted by my own brokenness. But therein lies the blessing.

Click here to read this article…

The stories I keep hearing here in Toronto leave me struggling for breath. Despite the overlapping aspects, the tales still hit me like a punch to the gut. And I’m left searching for an answer to the “hows” and “whys” of their story.

Every single person that walks in and out of the doors at Sanctuary certainly has a tale to tell, and I’ve been honored to hear a few of them. But each one has been fraught with struggle, and the wounds often go back to childhood. The pain persists however, and hardship often follows them into adulthood.

It’s a domino effect, and before you know it, the street has become home. Nobody wakes up one day and decides to embrace a life of suffering, where every day is a fight for survival.

I was standing outside of Sanctuary when the man lumbered out the front doors with the familiar swerve of inebriation.

“Hey buddy, you know what day it is?” he asked me.

“Thursday,” I replied.

“Thanks man,” he said over his shoulder as he moseyed away.

Days become blurred in this existence, and purpose revolves around the primal necessities…food, clothing and shelter. The pursuit of a fix also makes the priority list for many, sometimes at the expense of the previous three.

Surface Causes

On the surface, it’s easy to point to any number of general causes that may lead someone to find themselves on (or near) the street…addiction, mental illness, abuse, job loss or even a lack of affordable housing. And clearly, these factors often contribute to the physical manifestation of being without a home, but surely it goes deeper.

Many in the Native American community are still struggling for a foothold, on reservations and on the streets of Toronto.

Most recently, the news up here has been saturated with the plight of some members of the First Nation population, particularly in a small community up north called Attawapiskat. They’re living in terrible, “Third-World” conditions, with all the maladies that follow such an existence.

One side blames the government for failing to provide proper subsidized housing. They cite the historical atrocities of the past to support its claims of the services now owed. Another side blames the indigenous people for not picking themselves up by their boot straps. It cites the entitlement mentality for breeding laziness, addiction and abuse. The answer, as is so often the case, probably lies somewhere in the middle.

Deeper Reasons

But in the stories I’ve heard, whether in the news on First Nations or on the streets of Toronto, one word keeps popping into my head, over and over again…brokenness. So many of these folks are broken. So many are the product of brokenness, and it’s a brokenness of the worst kind.

Patrick’s own story illustrates the point. It’s a tale riddled with abuse and addiction, and those elements of his childhood definitely pushed him into a life on the streets of Toronto for a time. He was wounded by the brokenness he experienced. But he’s not alone.

In reality, all of us are broken in some fashion.

Patrick’s story illustrates the early wounds that often begin the downward spiral. He also illustrates the hope that awaits us all.

Folks here in Toronto, however, wear their brokenness on their sleeve – or the scars on their body, or in their bottle, or in the wisps of smoke wafting up from their crack pipe. Their brokenness is easier to spot, and for so many of us, that fact makes it easier to point fingers outward instead of inward.

I know, I know…we have it all together. We have a roof. We have clean undies. We have the internet to read this article. We have food in our bellies, nice clothes on our back. We have a good job, with good pay, and we’re okay.

But we…are…broken. We’ve just been ‘blessed’ with more sophisticated strategies to maintain our façade.

Most of the people I’ve met in the Sanctuary community, however, no longer bother wasting much energy on the façade. They are struggling, and their wounds continue to fester.

Brother from Another Mother

After a recent Sunday-night service, I went with a group from Sanctuary to grab a bite of pizza. As I was standing at the register to pay, my “Canadian cousin” (he deemed me his American cousin) walked through the door. Someone at the church had told him to come up to the pizza shop for some food, and I’m so glad he did.

We sat down and enjoyed some slices, as he apologized periodically for his drunkenness, though I assured him I couldn’t care less. As people started leaving, he began telling me bits and pieces of his story, and it was riddled with violence, struggle, heartbreak, jail, addiction and turmoil. Then he tells me, with tears streaming down his face, that his new probation officer has done more for him in the past few months than his own father ever did. Well, with that, his brokenness finds an anchor point. And my heart yearns…

My Canadian Cousin, “Snake,” has his struggles, but I know I will see him again. And I can’t wait!

Oh, God…thank you for your grace! What are we, mere mortals, to do amid these tales? Amid this broken world of ours? How do we shine the light of that grace into the darkness that reality so often entails? I’m not worthy, as I’m haunted by my own brokenness. But therein lies the blessing. God wants to use us, despite ourselves.

My heart breaks for my friend. But I know I will see him again, whether in this short life, or in the extended version of the Next. And I can’t wait for that reunion.

We, who claim Christ, are broken creatures living in a broken world, and when we finally embrace that fact, the real fun begins. We get to be Christ’s hands and feet here on this earth! And despite the difficulties, what a humble privilege that is! We get to walk arm-in-arm with people who are broken just like we are. We get to drop the façade and discover the common bonds of our humanity.

The world’s system, the world’s priority list gets flipped on its head, and the Kingdom can be experienced here on Earth.

It’s happening here in Toronto, and it’s the first time I’ve experienced it on such a scale. But this Kingdom community is not thriving despite the broken world that surrounds it. It’s thriving amid the brokenness, and these broken pieces are bound together by the blood of Christ.

So I’ve been sleeping in the back of my truck for about two weeks now…car camping, as some might call it. I’ve always enjoyed sleeping outdoors, but car camping in the urban jungle of Toronto is a journey all its own.

The weather here has been getting colder, and I’ve awoken to a layer of ice on my truck more than once…an invigorating way to start the day after crawling out of my cozy mummy bag. Not to mention brushing my teeth with near-frozen toothpaste.

I was recently offered both a roof and a couch, which I was happy to hear, and I’ll be couch surfing soon enough. But for the time being, I’m inclined to battle the elements, for a couple of reasons.

Gloves, hat and long johns – my nightly bedfellows

On one hand, I’m a country boy who just likes roughin’ it once in awhile. I enjoy a bit of deprivation on occasion (though often in hindsight), and I find that ‘living without’ is also a good reminder of the many blessings I have in life.

But the primary reason I’ve been car camping is that I wanted to experience a small taste of the impermanence that homelessness often entails, not to mention the same general weather conditions. That said, let me be the first to say my sleeping-under-the-camper-shell-of-my-truck conditions are nowhere near those of folks on the street. But Canada in December is nothing to scoff at either.

Despite the leaks, the cold and general discomfort, I’m grateful for the camper shell on my truck.

New Insights

Tucked between tall buildings in a northern corner of downtown Toronto, Sanctuary is composed of a community that runs the gamut of socioeconomic levels. During a typical Sunday night service, congregation members may be affluent business people who return to their condos at the end of the evening, or they may be homeless folks who return to the streets in search of a quiet corner to catch some fitful sleep.

During the week, however, the programs and activities offered by Sanctuary are frequented most by the “friends from the streets” (as Sanctuary prefers to call them). These folks make up the heart of the community, and they embody the very intentional mission of the church.

When it’s rainy, I have to grab a stack of newspapers to line my bed and soak up the pooling water.

So my car-camping excursion is the closest thing I could manage (thus far) to parallel the nomadic, transitory lifestyle that comes with homelessness, and it’s been giving me a couple of insights into the issues that plague those friends on the street.

The Old Normal

In ‘normal’ life, I don’t often need to take the basic necessities of life into account. I don’t need to strategize my bathroom visits (or showers for that matter), feeling obligated to purchase some random food item at some nameless fast-food joint just to use their facilities. And I don’t need to map out the free places around town to do the same, whether it’s the library, mall or city park.

I don’t need to think about the weather’s very direct effect on my daily and nightly routines. I don’t need to worry whether my coat will repel the falling rain for hours on end, or if my shoes will do the same. I don’t need to worry about grabbing a stack of free newspapers to put in my truck before I go to bed, since they work best to soak up the water that pools in the back when rain falls.

I don’t need to wrack my brain for pursuits to fill my time. When all else fails, the TV remote is always an arm’s reach away.

For the past few weeks, however, I have not enjoyed the normal luxuries of life. And truth be told, it’s become burdensome.

Day or night, parking enforcement is on the lookout.

The New Normal

While the activities of Sanctuary are many on a weekly basis, I often find that I have hours to kill during the in-between times. Without a place to call my home, with no ‘home base’ to return to,  I sometimes find myself wandering the streets feeling like an aimless drifter, with no one to see, nowhere to be and nothing to do (yes, I do have articles to write, but it can’t be nonstop). I have no location where I can walk through the front door, put my feet up and take a deep sigh of rest and relaxation. There’s a persistent, underlying feeling of restlessness.

And each night, the quest for my own quiet corner begins anew. Yet even then, when I’m bundled up in my sleeping bag in the back of my truck, ready for another night’s sleep, there’s an ever-present sense of guardedness. I must be vigilant. I must be on the lookout for police, shady characters or any number of other possible scenarios. Situational awareness is a constant, and it’s taxing.

My primary mode of transportation throughout the day, and night.

The result is an inherent lethargy much of the time. My mind grows tired from the perpetual vigilance, my steps are often drained of purpose and my stomach is groaning to get filled. I feel weary – mind, body and spirit.

And at night, when the freezing rain is falling and I’m dodging the drips that are dropping and the puddles that are pooling in my leaky truck bed, well, it’s all become quite exasperating.

And then I’m reminded why I’m doing this. And I’m reminded how blessed I am that I’m warm, that I’ve had food that day, that my body is able to carry me around this city, that I have a vehicle to go to and most of all, that this is not home. This experience is temporary, but for so many, it’s a daily existence. Then those days turn into weeks, and the weeks into months and the months into years.

How blessed I truly am!

This is Part II of an article about Patrick.

To read Part I, click here.

 ———

As Patrick’s story continued to unfold, my heart ached with pain, though it was not my own.

How can someone go through so much agony and suffering, yet still be able to smile, regardless of the time that’s passed?! Hell is not otherworldly. It’s endured by countless lives every day. Patrick has lived it, and he’s come through the fire far stronger as a result.

“I think it was St. Augustine who said, ‘God will allow evil in so much as it can be turned into good,’” Patrick told me recently.

I struggle with that quote. I struggle with the abhorrent realities people are forced to bear. But one thing I do know, the grace that God extends to them is beyond measure, even if they’re unaware.

When Jesus is hanging on the cross, some of his last words provided forgiveness and grace to the oblivious. Marinate on that one.

But Patrick…Patrick has experienced it. He’s far from oblivious.

Words do no justice to the grace found here!

“I’m the opposite of Job. I went through hell to gain my faith, and there’s nothing that can take it away.”

From the Streets to the Hallways

Following his harrowing encounter in the warehouse, Patrick spent nearly six more years on the streets, hustling and surviving. But by the age of 18, he’d had enough and decided to go live with his mom, who was now separated from his father and living sober.

Soon after, he enrolled in high school as a freshman and graduated at 25.

About this time, he felt compelled to start educating others about life for the marginalized, but he also knew if he wanted to have a greater impact, he’d have to play the game of life.

“I went in to apply at the university, and they asked me, ‘Why do you want to study here?’ So I was honest with them. I said, ‘Cuz I need this stupid piece of paper to get a real job doing what I’m already doing.’”

He was accepted, and after a few years, he earned his degree in the community worker program. He went back to his advocacy work with diploma in hand.

God was with him and using him, but that Truth wasn’t yet real to Patrick.

The AIDS Memorial, located in a downtown park, is a stop on Patrick’s “street walks” where he underscores the plight of those affected and those who’ve died from the illness.

Revelations

“I was raised in a Catholic family, but my grandma used to take me to a Baptist church,” he recalled.

“When I used to work on the streets, I’d sing Amazing Grace to myself as I waited on customers,” he remembers, tearing up with the bittersweet memory. “And when I got stabbed, I remember standing outside the hospital, holding my guts in and praying, ‘God, what do you want with me?! Why don’t you just take me now?’

“It took me years to get my answer,” and Sanctuary played a pivotal role.

“I always thought leaders in ministry are holy and didn’t do anything wrong. But Greg [Paul, Sanctuary’s pastor] was the first person ever to tell me that it’s okay to be broken and still know God.”

Patrick’s heart was beginning to soften. And in 1999, at a Christmas Arts Extravaganza at Sanctuary, his ears were finally opened to the divine Whisper that had been calling him for years.

“I left Sanctuary, went to my sacred spot in Boys Town, and I cried for eight hours. And after the last tear fell, I heard God say, ‘Now you’re mine!’

“And that was it!”

My spine is tingling after writing those words. And I’m trying to see the computer screen through misty eyes. Oh, the power of grace and love!

Always Present

For nearly 25 years now, Patrick’s been working with the marginalized of society, and nowadays, he’s running his own organization, Bridges for Youth 2, a “social justice education” program. He guides ‘street walks’ not only to teenagers but also to church groups, teachers and even police trainees.

Sanctuary played a crucial role in Patrick’s spiritual journey.

Since his conversion in ‘99, he’s been incorporating God into those walks, but he can also look back and see God in his own life story as well.

“I was born two-and-a-half months premature and should have died. When I got older [and started taking pills], I’d have doctors and nurses tell me, ‘Stop, you’re going to die.’ When I was on the streets, I’d have police and judges tell me, ‘Stop, you’re going to die.’

“But even after all I’ve been through, you know what? I didn’t die. I look back and see all the things God has brought me through and I see all these steps and little signs, and I can point to them and say,

“That’s God, that’s God, that’s God…”

I love those moments of life, however infrequent they may be. Those hindsight confirmations of God’s presence are sustenance to my soul. And I move forward with a strengthened faith.

Patrick Sullivan – shining God’s grace and love into lives dismissed by most.

Messy Love

Patrick is my favorite kind of person. He’s honest, witty, open and wise. But he’s broken too, and his journey isn’t over. He’s the first to admit the struggle continues. But what a refreshing change that is!

There’s no need to pretend with him. There’s no need to sugarcoat and cover up, doing all I can to put my best foot forward. I can be me…good, bad and ugly. Anything I tell him will be met with grace (and occasional admonishment). But I know he’ll love me anyway, regardless of my own failings.

Read back through that previous paragraph. After typing it, I just read it again and was struck by the description, for it mirrors my relationship with Christ…

I’ve been out walking around Toronto with Patrick a few times now, and it seems like everywhere we go, we’re getting stopped by “friends from the street.” They gravitate to him, and seek his attention. They clearly love him, and he’s not opposed.

“There’s something special about being embraced and loved by a whole bunch of messy people.”

And he loves them too, giving them a taste of Christ’s grace, whether they know it or not.

DISCLAIMER: This article includes some disturbing and graphic elements. It is intended for mature audiences only.

Faggot… Whore… Junkie… Deadbeat bum…

“It pisses me off to hear you say those things,” Patrick replied. “You’re talking about friends of mine. These are people that I love. And these are people that God loves.”

The high school kids I was sitting with stared back at him blankly, not sure how to respond to his candid reply.

He had, in fact, asked them to list off the derogatory expressions as part of an exercise he was conducting, but he’s still troubled every time he hears the words said aloud. Not only have his friends been branded with those offensive terms, but he has as well.

I first encountered Patrick as a factual character in a book written by Sanctuary’s pastor, Greg Paul. In God in the Alley, Greg describes Patrick’s story in vivid detail, but he was still in abstract form. The stories told were certainly gut-wrenching, but a book still keeps it at arms’ length. You can always close it up when the story gets to be too much.

Patrick has been giving “social justice education” to youth and adults for years.

But now I’m here. I’m at Sanctuary, and I’m looking at Patrick. I’m hearing his voice. I’m watching his mannerisms. He is no longer words on a page. He’s very real, and I can’t “close the book” as his story unfolds.

Patrick invited me to join him on a chilly, autumn morning as he took a group of high school seniors on a “street walk” around downtown Toronto. Every year, the Catholic high school, located about an hour outside of city, sends seniors to Patrick as part of their social justice curriculum. He is their guide, educating them on the issues that plague the marginalized and taking them on a journey of hearts and souls.

“What you see today may make you feel very uncomfortable,” he explains to us. “And I don’t apologize for that.”

Our perspectives are clearly going to be expanded and our knees buckled. Patrick’s own story plays a pivotal role in the street walk, and hearing him tell it nearly cripples me.

He’s now in his late 40’s, but his story starts way back when he was three.

“One of my first memories was of my dad putting me to bed at night,” he recalled. “And he’d put me in bed with my mother, resting my head on her chest.

Patrick, at the top of the circle, explains his story to the group of high school seniors.

“‘Let me know if you hear Mommy stop breathing or if you hear her heart stop beating,’ my dad would tell me as he went back to the living room. ‘If you do, come and wake Daddy up.’”

Patrick’s mom was addicted to prescription painkillers, taking them each night before she went to bed, and his dad was an alcoholic. But this was only the beginning.

By the age of four, he started getting sexually abused by a sibling and his friends. Soon, Patrick began to seek relief from the same drugs as his mother.

“I saw what it did to her, so I thought, ‘Hey, if I’m asleep, they can’t hurt me anymore.’”

Patrick asked the students to “find a place to sleep for the night in this park.” This is the result.

Around this time, he also joined the local men and boys choir at his church, where he struck up a friendship with one of the other choir members, an older gentleman who took Patrick under his wing. The man took him to movies, to ball games and meals. As time went on, he truly became a father-figure to Patrick.

One day while they were riding in the car, the man told Patrick he had to stop by his mother’s house to get her mail and water her plants, since she was out of town. Patrick gladly obliged and went into the house with the man. Soon after they walked through the door, the man forced himself on Patrick and raped him.

Patrick was devastated, and his world came crashing down. He was defiled by one of the few people in his life he had counted on for genuine friendship…someone who had provided safe haven, stability and a sense of normalcy amid the turmoil he was experiencing at home. Patrick felt violated to his core.

He went home, found every pill he could, and he took them all.

A couple of students inspect one of the plaques at the AIDS Memorial in Toronto

Two months later, Patrick awoke in the hospital. The overdose had induced a coma and caused irreparable brain damage, forcing him to learn how to walk again and talk again.

It also forced Child Protective Services to intervene on his behalf. And before he knew it, he was being shuffled between foster homes and children’s housing facilities. It didn’t take long for Patrick to grow tired of the shuffle, so he scrounged together some money and bought a bus ticket to Toronto.

He was 11 at the time and soon became one of the thousands of street kids living in the city. And like many of them, he quickly turned to prostitution for survival.

“This may sound strange, but I actually felt empowered,” he said. “For the first time, I had control over the things that were done. I actually had a choice.”

On one occasion, however, things got terrifying.

Not long after he started prostituting, an enraged, disgruntled customer sliced an eight-inch gash straight up Patrick’s abdomen. He was dropped off in front of a hospital and left for dead. But by the grace of God, no vital organs were affected.

A short time later, he had another harrowing episode.

“I was 12 years old at the time, and I was picked up by a customer that wanted to see me cry.”

Patrick stops near “Boys Town,” to tell more of his story. He also showed the eight-inch scar in his stomach.

The man drove him to an old warehouse and forced a shotgun into Patrick’s mouth, hoping to incite tears. When that didn’t work, he pulled it out and blasted a shot into the concrete next to Patrick’s head, leaving cement shards in his scalp and hearing loss in his left ear.

“But I’m proud of myself, ‘cuz I still didn’t cry.”

As Patrick continued to tell his story, a few of the students dabbed their eyes. But most of us listened with deadpan expressions, trying to mask our struggle to comprehend this incomprehensible tale.

By all accounts, Patrick should be dead, or at the very least, plagued with bitterness and resentment at God and the world. But the fact he’s sitting here, back in Sanctuary, telling his story means that there’s a happy ending, but it still took some time.

Click here to read Part II of Patrick’s incredible story of redemption.

Tears welled up in my eyes as the song continued to play. My throat tightened up, and I had to stop singing.

The Spirit is clearly here. It’s palpable, and I’ve been long overdue for nourishment of this kind. All around me, people belted out the old hymn, How Great Thou Art…the familiar melody echoing off the walls and raised ceiling of this simple, rectangular sanctuary.

People mingle about before the start of a Sunday night church service. All the chairs face inward, toward the simple communion table found in the middle. The band is nestled in the back of the room.

I know they aren’t always popular in “contemporary” churches these days, but I’m a huge fan of the old hymns so rarely heard nowadays. They contain spiritual meat often lacking in many of the modern tunes I hear. And the emotions they evoke cut through the layers, straight to my soul.

The configuration of seats at Sanctuary is such that all the chairs face inward, toward the small, understated communion table set up in the center of the room for each Sunday night service.

Wayne is new to Sanctuary also, but this didn’t stop him from inviting me to hand out food with him the following night, or to play a little 8-ball later that week.

As the song kept playing, I looked around at the faces of this motley congregation, and my heart nearly burst. This…this is the body of Christ. There were clean faces and dirty, combed hair and disheveled. There were designer clothes and tattered. And nearly every color of the ethnic rainbow comprised the congregation of 90 or so. But we all worshiped as one body, including the two canines in attendance…a medium-sized hound dog mix and a tiny, yap-happy terrier.

Next to me sat Wayne, an older guy with blonde hair, broad shoulders and a thick build, though he “used to be a lot bigger.” In another time and place, he’d no doubt be manning the helm of a Viking ship.

As soon as I sat down next to him, he started chatting me up, asking me about my story, telling me about his. And by night’s end, he invited me to meet him the following evening to hand out food with Bread of Life ministry in “probably the worst intersection in Toronto…filled with drug addicts and gangs.” I wholeheartedly agreed.

Rediscovering True Community

I’m here in Canada for a month, hanging out at Sanctuary, a church established by Greg Paul about 18 years ago. His heart is for the disenfranchised, whether they’re the homeless, the addicts, the prostitutes, the GLBT (gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender) community or any other combination. Sanctuary is a come-as-you-are type of place, and everyone, and I do mean everyone, is welcome.

That said, you never know who’s going to walk through the old wooden doors of the place.

I didn’t catch his name, but French was clearly his native language. His clothes were dirty, as was his face, and he was bundled up in multiple layers to combat the dropping temperatures outside.

We had started into the singing long before he came walking into the sanctuary. Initially, he stood just inside the door for awhile, but he could hold his tongue no longer, despite the service that was well underway.

Sanctuary is nestled between tall apartment buildings on nearly every side. The church building may be diminutive, but the ministry is powerful. If you look closely, you can see their official sign scrawled in red letters.

“This guy!” he muttered loudly in his thick accent, further compounded by the slur produced by whatever substance was coursing through his bloodstream. “This guy, Greg Paul! I love this guy!”

The man knew he was interrupting, but he didn’t care. He wanted to express himself, and his love for this man who has become Jesus’ hands and feet in the midst of an impoverished subculture here in Toronto.

He wrapped his arms around Greg, who was still sitting at the keyboard as part of the church band. Then he leaned over and gently kissed Greg on the top of the head in a sign of genuine affection.

He went around, kissed a couple more familiar faces and finally knew his time was up.

“Sorry about my accent!” he hollered on his way out the door, which was met with a few chuckles from the congregation.

Open Doors and Open Arms

I liked the guy already. And I liked Sanctuary too…a Christian community unfazed by such impulsive encounters. If this is the way they roll, then surprises lie around every corner, which is just how I like it.

But more importantly, this initial encounter seems to capture the essence of the place, where all are received as members of the Sanctuary community. Arms are opened wide in welcome, and heads are readily available to accept moist lip-prints, even if an odor of alcohol accompanies those lips.

Love is here, and it’s clearly two-sided.

Every year, Grace Community Church in Noblesville, Indiana shuts its doors, cancels its services and sends its congregation out to do service projects all over the city.  This year, World Next Door sent a team of volunteer journalists from Grace’s congregation to tell some of the stories from the weekend.

This is one of those stories.

To read all of the Weekend of Service articles from 2011, click here.

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By Anita Austin

In route to the Center for Women and Children, a Wheeler Mission ministry, I found myself feeling uneasy driving in an unfamiliar area, alone, but I did have tools. I had a safe car, electronic navigation, and the gift of a good sense of direction.

Mild anxiety increased as the real estate values declined. Questions formulated in the back of my mind as I drove. Is the GPS reliable? Do I have the correct address?  Unfortunately, today I made a wrong turn and I was headed in the wrong direction.

I wanted to reverse this error as quickly as possible, I did not want to be late and I did not want to be lost in this neighborhood. I turned around in the parking lot of a store which appeared to be closed this morning. It was an adult video store and the sign read “25 Cents for a Booth Preview”. I looked at the other stores nearby they were all adult video stores as well. I hoped to reach my destination soon.

Kirsten Johnson, Grace volunteer leader for the Wheeler project.

Arrival

Upon arriving, I parked my car on East Michigan Street in downtown Indianapolis. The neighborhood consisted of dilapidated homes and abandoned buildings with broken windows. The bright sunshine softened the grayscale tones of the surrounding neighborhood.  I noticed three women grouped near a large 10 story building. It was the Wheeler shelter. One of these women was pregnant with a young toddler. I felt sad that this young family did not have a home.

Of the volunteers I arrived first. The door was unlocked so I could enter. In search of the Grace volunteer leader I was directed towards the kitchen where a 20 year old resident helped me find Kirsten Johnson.

Shortly, more than 30 men, women and youth from Grace Community Church arrived to serve. The members of Grace were greeted by Kirsten. She briefed the group; they would help prepare for lunch and serve dessert.  After lunch the group would help the women and children bead bracelets, decorate cookies and design a cross depicting things they were thankful for. This team served the women and children with compassion and caring.

A Story of Addiction

Later, I made my way back to the kitchen, and introduced myself to the young woman who helped me find Kirsten. She shared that she was living at the shelter and is enrolled in the in the Higher Ground Program. She explained that High Ground is for women with addictions.  I explained that I was there to observe and write about my experience, and she was willing to share her story.

A cross of hope.

I learned about her family, she was an honor student studying biology and zoology in her private high school. She participated in church youth programs. When she was 18 years old a friend shared a drug with her and she quickly became addicted to heroin. A few weeks ago she was given the option to participate in this program or face prosecution for check forgery. Before arriving at the center she was sleeping in a car or, if she was lucky, on someone’s sofa for the night.

This is her third rehabilitation experience.

Welcomed

Before the Weekend of Service I did not know Wheeler Mission Ministries offered a shelter to women and children in Indianapolis. A group of concerned women started a center called the Caring Center in the early 1990’s, which then merged with Wheeler Ministries in 2001 and was later renamed the Center for Women & Children (CWC).

Women with or without children are welcomed at the center. Three meals a day are made available to both the guests at the shelter and women living on the street. The CWC offers many programs which address the spiritual, physical, emotional and mental aspects of a woman’s life.

Assistance is also offered for substance abuse, job placement, childcare and educational advancement. The facility was impressive. The kitchen and cafeteria were clean and organized. The library was recently renovated in rich tones and beautiful furnishings.

Colleen Gore, the director of the Center, is filled with passion and love for her work on behalf of the women and children at the shelter. The staff exuded a presence of hope and love. The residents were clearly grateful for the opportunity to participate with the team making bracelets and decorating cookies.

Pizza pick-up for Wheeler.

Am I Willing?

Kirsten shared about her volunteer experience at the center with her young son. She has volunteered at the shelter for three years, and has befriended a former guest of the shelter who is a mother of three children. She has a minimum wage job and manages to retain an apartment on her salary. Within the first month of independence, however, this young mother received a three hundred dollar water bill. The water was scheduled to be turned off but Kirsten intervened, in a display of selfless support for this family.

Many of these women have limited tools or resources to maintain an independent life. Kirsten’s example of commitment to her friend and the women in the shelter challenges my own level of involvement. I give money and canned food. I often talk about injustice and acknowledge wrongs in the world.  Am I doing enough to reach out to others?

Am I really willing to sacrifice?

Of all the trips we took in 2010, there was one that stood out the most.  It received by far the most pageviews and garnered a ton of impassioned responses.  People were deeply moved and I still have people tell me how it changed them.

The trip?  New York City.

Dawn in central park. Quite a different experience after living on the streets!

During my time in NYC, I lived homeless for four days and three nights in Manhattan.  I wanted to see what life was like on the streets, and boy, was I in for an eye-opening experience.

I wrote four articles during my stay (mostly from a free public computer at the library).  One of them focused on my experience panhandling (click here), one was about the night I spent sleeping in Penn Station (click here), one covered my two nights living in a homeless shelter (click here), and the final one touched on the emotional baggage that came from just four days on the streets (click here).

According to my algorithm, three of the “On the Streets” articles landed in the top 10, so for the sake of variety, I counted them all together as #1.

If you are interested in getting a small glimpse into what it’s like living on the streets, I encourage you to read all four.  If you have time for only one, be sure to check out “Day One.”

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Thanks, all, for reading!  In the next couple of days I’ll be posting the winners to our contest.  If you want a World Next Door photo book or 2011 calendar, it’s not too late to enter!  Simply comment on articles or post links on Facebook or Twitter (hashtag #bestofWND).

Posting these articles on Facebook or Twitter for our contest? Use http://bit.ly/gFvg4E

This past week I have been working on a small side project for Elanco, an Indianapolis-based animal health company with a strong focus on ending global hunger.  For the project, I spent time interviewing several families and individuals connected with Shepherd Community Center, one of World Next Door’s partner ministries.

Each story I heard gave such a unique perspective on hunger, poverty and the incredible work of Shepherd that I had no choice but to share them here.

You’ll find the other stories here.  I encourage you to read them all.  Who knows?  Maybe they’ll change your perspective as much as they did mine…

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Homelessness is a difficult issue to deal with.  It’s messy.  It’s complicated.  It’s hard.

I got a taste of just how complicated it is when I lived homeless for four days in Manhattan six months ago.  The frustration, the uncertainty, the shame… After only a few days on the streets I had a newfound understanding of what can come from living without a home.

That’s why I am always amazed to find homeless and formerly homeless people who exude strength, love and joy.  Frankly, they don’t make sense. 

Fredrick (“Freddy”) Crawford is no exception.  I sat down with him a few days ago at Shepherd Community Center to hear his story and I am still baffled at his uplifting and joyful attitude…

Welcoming a Stranger

I met with Freddy in Shepherd’s food pantry.  We sat in a couple of metal folding chairs while he told me where life has taken him up to this point.

Freddy, an amazingly joyful man.

One of the first things that struck me about Freddy was how intentional he was in simply being there.  I knew he had other things to do, but Freddy was with me 100% and never turned his attention away.  He answered my questions and told me his story in a way that simply made me feel respected.

As I spoke with Freddy, I was surprised at how quickly I felt at home.  His kind eyes and warm smile made me feel welcome, even though he had no idea who I was.

It would have been easy to write all of this off as the byproduct of speaking to a genuinely nice person.  But the more I heard Freddy’s story, the more amazed I grew that he is warm and kind at all.

Freddy has every right to be bitter.  Nobody would blame him for being cold.  After the things he’s gone through, it would come as no surprise if Freddy was a distant and angry man.

But he’s not. 

Freddy is loving.  He’s kind.  And, as you’ll see in a moment, unbelievably selfless.

His is a story of transformation that can only be found through the power of the kingdom of God…

The Spiral

Freddy, 46 years old, is originally from New York City.  At the age of 25, he found himself living on the streets.  I’ve written about homelessness in NYC before, so I won’t go into too many details about what it is like.

The streets of The Bronx, where Freddy lived for many years.

I’ll simply say that homelessness often becomes a downward spiral for people caught in the middle of it – a long series of events, decisions and circumstances that lead farther and farther into desperation.

Freddy’s life on the streets followed that pattern exactly.

Although he was able to move around from New York to Chicago to Indianapolis, his situation got steadily worse each year.  Freddy moved in and out of countless homeless shelters, but more often than not chose to sleep on the streets.  Discomfort, he decided, was far better than the theft, violence and rape that often took place in the shelters.

Depression and anxiety came to dominate his emotions.  Eventually, Freddy became hopelessly addicted to cocaine.

“It took me to places I wasn’t expecting to go,” he said. 

Altogether, Freddy was homeless for 20 years. 

A New Life

But then, in May of this year, Freddy finally decided to put his past behind him.  After spending a very cold winter sleeping under a highway overpass, he decided to give up his “freedom” for the sake of a better life. 

Homelessness often takes a deep emotional toll.

He got plugged in with Horizon House, a homeless empowerment organization on the near east side of Indianapolis.  They got him cleaned up, linked in with a case manager and connected to Shepherd Community Center.

Today, Freddy spends his days volunteering in Shepherd’s food pantry.  Horizon covers the rent for his small, one-bedroom apartment, and Shepherd provides him with food.

Although he doesn’t get paid for his work, Freddy often puts in more than 40 hours a week at Shepherd.  Sorting donations, doing intake work, interacting with volunteers…  Freddy is an integral part of the food pantry, and one of the reasons Shepherd is able to help so many people.

Freddy hopes to be hired one day by Shepherd, but not just because he wants to be financially self-sufficient.  Freddy loves Shepherd Community Center.  In his words, “This is my sanctuary.” 

Jumped

Listening to Freddy as he spoke, I could tell that he is a changed man.  He exudes joy and confidence.  Even after a lifetime of struggle, he has a smile on his face.

This came as even more of a surprise when I heard what had happened to him just one month ago.

Today, Freddy has purpose, a life and a caring community around him.

At the end of September, Freddy was jumped by a group of thugs as he walked down the street one evening.  Despite the fact that he didn’t have anything of value on him, they beat him up, breaking his jaw in the process.

Wishard Hospital did what they could to fix him up, but Freddy still suffers daily pain, especially when he tries to chew solid food.

And yet, he is still a remarkably joyful man.  He spends his days tirelessly sorting cans of corn and boxes of cereal, doing his part to help vulnerable families in his new neighborhood.

Transformed

Freddy’s story speaks volumes about the power of a transformed life.  But it also reminds me of the importance of organizations like Shepherd.  Their staff welcomed Freddy in, despite the difficulties of his past. 

To Shepherd, grace is more than simply a buzzword.  It’s the foundation of their ministry.  This is why they are so effective.  They care for those who have been forgotten and abandoned by the rest of us…

Thank you, Freddy, for showing me the true meaning of transformation.  And thank you, Shepherd, for opening your arms wide.

It is stories like these that show me just how powerful the kingdom of God can really be…

A couple of days ago, as I was busily running around preparing for my upcoming trip to Ukraine, I got a call from Austin Bonds, a great friend of mine on staff with The Relief Bus in New York City.  Their staff had just finished a meeting, and he wanted me to talk to one of their guest speakers.

To my surprise, it was Jole, who I had written about at the end of my New York trip!  (Click here to read the article)

In the article, I talked about my experience taking Jole to The Bowery Mission.  Jole, who had been homeless for more than a decade, was ready to turn his life around and begin the six-month program there.

As he checked into the Bowery, I knew that the odds were against him.  With the beautiful summer weather outside and his newly kicked habit of cigarette smoking, it was going to be very hard for Jole to stay committed to the program.

But there, on the phone, was a man who had overcome those odds.

Sure, he had only been staying at the Bowery Mission for a month and a half, but his life had already been changed forever.  In fact, he had accompanied the Bowery’s director, Tom Basile, to the Relief Bus staff meeting to tell his story of transformation.

We didn’t get to talk long.  Just enough to exchange a few words of greeting.  I tried to express how excited I was for him, but for the most part, I was simply speechless.

I’ll admit.  In my heart, I had definitely entertained some doubts about whether Jole would stick around.  But as I hung up the phone, I realized something significant…

The odds don’t matter to God.