July 29th, 2009

Day 5: Thursday, July 16, 2009
Los Angeles, Skid Row
As we walk down St. Julian Street, Ernie guards us like a proud mother hen. He makes sure that we don't wander off too far or walk on the outside edge of the sidewalk.

Ernie looks like a cartoon character.

He has a lustrous coif of black hair that he "will never cut" and a thick beard to balance out the equation. The lines of his face are so distinct, they look as if they've been etched there with bricks of charcoal. He wears shirts with no sleeves that bare his tattooed arms and "shorts" that cover almost all of his legs.

Ernie has been in jail 33 times.

I want to accurately explain the aura of this man who has transformed his life in the most dramatic of ways, but there are some things that just don't lend themselves to words.

You can see the warmth and courage radiating from his soul through his eyes. They are eyes that seek out those in need. Eyes that close when he prays for the heroin addict on the street.

Each day, different members of our team have taken turns leading Bible studies for the congregation at Set Free Church. Yesterday was my teams' turn to lead the afternoon session and I was nervous. That's being generous. I would've rather shoved a handful of ants into my mouth than speak to a crowd about a Bible I'm just beginning to understand myself.

Much to my dismay, none of my excuses worked, and my partner, Kyla, and I apprehensively took our places at the front of the sanctuary.

Until that moment, I had never noticed Ernie sit in the middle of the church. His normal perch is usually somewhere off to the side or behind the scenes. But this time, he was sitting right smack dab in the middle, and when I asked for someone to share the catalyst for the beginning of their drug use he spoke up immediately.

"A broken heart."

He went on and explained what he believed caused him to go down the path he chose years ago, but all I could focus on was that his eyes had seen how distressed I was to be up in front of that group.

As I said, I wish there was a way to describe this man's overwhelming grace. It's as though I see him as a wave of colors. Radiant yellows, reds, and greens emanating from his soul.

It is beautiful how God can work through people to reach you when you are troubled, how He finds those who are worthy of His gifts and uses them to touch others.

Day 6: Friday, July 17, 2009
Los Angeles, Skid Row
At first glance, Aaron strikes me as rude. He refuses a free doughnut and appears irritated when we don't immediately have a blanket to give him. There is something about Aaron that doesn't fit here.

His complexion is a luminous one—not the dull, worn complexion of so many that walk Skid Row. He speaks with purpose and subtle sense of entitlement. For lack of a better analogy, there seems to still be some fight left in him.

When he eventually sits down, I take the seat across the isle from him and he looks up at me over his coffee.

"I'm so tired, man. I'm just so tired."

This is a phrase I've heard many times this week (often from my own mouth), but I can clearly see the bloodshot red around the whites of Aaron's eyes. His is an exhaustion that sleep will not quickly restore.

He tells me that last night he waited in a McDonald's parking lot to help unload a delivery of apples until 4:00 a.m., but the truck never arrived. Now he is tired, hungry, and not the $200 richer he thought he would be.

It's just another disappointment for Aaron—one in a string of many that have taken him from a life with his family in St. Louis to living on the streets of L.A. in just two months.

As my conversation with Aaron begins to evolve, I can slowly see it transforming from a chance for him to complain into a chance for him to share the story this is obviously ripping him up inside.

Aaron tells me that he could go home anytime he wanted if he would just pick up the phone. But he is too ashamed—too embarrassed to let his family and community know that he has slipped again. This time with crack.

What draws me to Aaron most is his confession that he knows what he needs to do to fix his circumstances—but he obviously isn't ready to commit because he still thinks the situation is temporary.

"I know nobody starts out thinking they're going to be here forever, but two months turns into three, four, five months, and then five months turns into a year, two years, three years, and pretty soon you're the guy pushing the cart mumbling to himself."

Aaron is like so many of us who know how to repair our circumstances, but are too frightened to take that first leap of faith. He speaks a mantra of being broken and needing to change, but something about his words don't convince me. His words are wise and yet he is unable to take heed to his own advice.

I want so badly to think that our conversation is the first step down his path of recovery, but something in me knows that it very well may not be.

Aaron promised to come back tomorrow and I pray that he does.

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