The place of whore's and prostitutes

I was angry.

I was tired.

My stomach was growling, and I just wanted to go…..but there I was.

It was a beautiful August evening, Wednesday, which meant time for the Community Revitalization Collective. We had met, and now three of us were out around 8th Street inviting folks to an upcoming event. I wish I could say my heart attitude was right, but I would be lying if I did. Actually, I really just wanted to go home and eat.

We were going up and down the streets in the Whittier District, handing out invites for free haircuts at Heritage Park the following week. We had a lot more invites than open doors. So, the guys decided to push until we had them all handed out. That meant going directly to 8th Street, where all the homeless folks had gathered after eating.

The sun was beginning to go down, my stomach was growling, and I was searching for a way to move closer and closer to the car and further away from the destination we were now heading to. At the same time, I felt a tug in my heart from the Lord to go down a specific alley and head in the way of 8th Street; the guys followed.

As we walked, they often stopped to speak to those milling around in the alley. I noticed a young woman walking out of what appeared to be a driveway leading into the alley. She was with a man who appeared to be getting “dressed” as they walked. I assumed “something” had gone on prior.

I think I judged in my heart. I don’t know, but yes, I probably did.

As we approached the area they had come out of, I realized it was an open lot and led directly to the Banquet, where the unhoused were now spilling out after getting their evening meal. I paused for a moment and considered what I had thought I saw…I think I judged again.

The guys were walking and talking to the men around us. I was pondering all that I was witnessing. Not that it was new to me, I’d been around many of these folks before. However, the weight of their plight weighed on my heart, and I wondered about the stories of each person passing before me, around me, and behind me. Some were inebriated and stumbled, falling, leaning, staggering….existing. How did we get to a place where so many fellow human beings, brothers, and sisters, are just existing in the streets?

We crossed the street and landed in a big parking lot where many of the unhoused were milling about. My husband greeted everyone like they were long-lost friends, handing out invites and patting folks on the back. Marcus greeted folks, gave out invitations, and explained what was happening. And I….well, I was still hungry. I did my best to stand somewhat close to my husband, thinking of myself.

Sigh

A man approached, he had been speaking with Ian and Marcus just moments before, and I knew him from previous encounters in the area. He walked up and reached out his hand to shake. Like any good South Dakotan, I reached back and shook his hand. He was drunk and stumbling. His words were senseless babble. He pulled me closer and began to speak about being a veteran and how he had served somewhere, at some time, in someplace. I looked for my husband, who was joyfully walking along, engrossed in a conversation with Marcus.

And I thought, hmmm this probably isn’t good.

I pulled away a bit, my hand still firmly in the man’s hand, and I began to say random things about veterans. Pulling away a bit more, my hand still firmly in his grasp. He mumbled incoherently.

“Hey,” he said, I’m single!”

I felt my insides grow faint, “hey, I’m not, and there’s my husband.”

“Who?” he asked.

“Ian,” I responded, using my head to point in the direction that Ian was. I pulled my hand away with force this time and moved quickly towards my husband and Marcus. Ian hadn’t noticed that I wasn’t around him, so the look on my face as I walked over was full of all the secret messages that a spouse gives their spouse when they are in big trouble.

So now, I’m outraged and really hungry. Not to mention I don’t feel all that loved and old junk that lies dormant in my heart from my past begins to echo in my heart.

I always think I’ve healed; the Lord has healed my heart in many ways. Nonetheless, some crappy feelings seem to find new life in painful moments. It’s crazy how old pain always tries to swoop in like it’s going to bring comfort; it can’t, it doesn’t, it’s just a reminder of past betrayals and more pain. The worst part is, even if briefly, I question the goodness of God. I hate that.

The guys finished their conversation and moved on to the next crowd of people. I now loudly pronounce my decision to leave, but they still have invites. Reluctantly, I follow. After several conversations and overseeing an encounter some homeless elderly were having with the police, we began walking towards our cars.

And then she was there.

I saw her standing in the alley near one of the shelters; she was with some guy. She had a face mask hanging on her chin, her clothes were tattered, and her black hair was pulled back, dangling limply above her shoulders. I judged; I know I did. As I went to walk past, my husband said, hey!

I sighed. My mind was on myself. Still.

She responded; she knew him. “Hey,” he said, “did you get your stuff?” He asked her about something she had come into the thrift store to get when he was working. I don’t remember her response; I just wanted to leave.

Marcus handed her his last invitation, and the conversation about the event began. She was drunk and staggering, uneasy with these two big men standing around her. I felt my heart soften towards her for the first time, and I moved in beside her and smiled. She looked at me; her eyes were a brilliant brown. Her teeth were mostly there, one broken. The mask was dancing over her chin as she spoke. She was thin…real thin. She looked away, then looked back, and said, “I come from a place where they make whores and prostitutes.”

I began to open my mouth. I was going to speak wise religious life-giving, life-altering platitudes. SIGH. I stopped myself, and I said, oh. I knew exactly where she was from, and my heart fell to the ground.

Yeah, whores and prostitutes; she staggered and laughed. I am a whore and a prostitute. I said so, “uh, what is your name?”

“Dee Janice,” she said.

“Wow,” I said, “that’s like my mom’s name.”

“Yeah,” she said, looking past me.

I smiled at her. She was back and forth in her thoughts, incoherent words followed by words of deep pain. My heart felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

Ian asked if he could pray for her, and she agreed. As he began to pray, she spoke simultaneously, praying for herself. She grabbed my hand; I was overwhelmed and held her hand back with my heart.

“Yep,” she declared. “I come from the place of whores and prostitutes. Dear Lord, help the whores. The Lord doesn’t like whores and prostitutes.” As Ian proclaimed grace and mercy over her, she decreed her life situation.

And I stood there, silently holding her hand.

When she walked away, I said, “God bless you, Dee.” With that, she grabbed the nearest man and walked away with him. I didn’t judge, not her anyway, but I did consider myself and my wretchedness.

I don’t remember much about the drive home. But I remember the presence of the Lord, the heaviness of reality, the depth of our human existence, and the once-in-a-lifetime chance I had to meet a young woman named Dee who had survived the place where they make whores and prostitutes.

A place that literally exists.

I saw her again in September, and I nearly lost it. She was at an event that we were hosting. I was so grateful that I got to say Hi; I haven’t seen her since.

I pray she is well. I pray she is at peace. I pray she is warm. Mostly, I pray that she knows Jesus.

#homelessnessawareness #mystory #thegroveprojects The Grove Projects #hhweek