Inner City Ministry

Smiling little faces chased our van and immediately after stepping out I was tackled by little children wanting hugs, piggy back rides and just an extra snuggle. Everyone was full of joy and returned back to the base feeling exhausted their bodies aching with deep joy that God used them to “love on” the little children of ______ (fill in the blank). This has been the majority of my experience of missions. An immediate self-gratification that God used me to love on some children who desperately needed it. It feels great, an inexplicable high that makes you want to give up everything and run away to a foreign country where you can love until there is no more hurt. Then God brought me to West Garfield. The van pulls up but no children follow, you are met by cold stares of people wondering what you are doing in ‘their hood’. If you walk into the children’s program you will see children happily playing, they may greet you with a hello but beyond that do not pay you much attention. I’ve watched my good friends and other well-meaning volunteers spend many Tuesdays working with the children only for the kids to forget their names and choose not to sit by them during group time. I’ve watched the discomfort on their faces wondering what they are doing wrong and believing that the kids disliked them; but that’s not it at all. You see, children in the inner city have been hurt too much and too deeply; they have seen countless people in their lives make promises and break them; they have seen people say that they love them and then abuse them and they have seen the constant flowing current of volunteers who come in thinking that they are going to “help them” and soon then after leave when they realize that their efforts do not seem to be appreciated or their fear overrules their desire. These children have seen too much to carelessly jump into the arms of a stranger no matter how beautiful their smile is, how far they’ve traveled to see them, or whatever noble intention they have. So the kids hold them at an arm’s length, guarding their hearts fiercely refusing to open up until, through countless hours of dedication and dependability, they begin to believe ‘maybe this person really does care about me’. I watched a good friend of mine who patiently pushed through and faithfully showed up every Tuesday and one day after more than 4 months I saw a little body scoot up next to her to sit at her side. Soon I heard the children calling her by name and asking to be put in her group. They began to unbolt the little treasure box where they safely guard away their heart. Little does she know the depths of this. I think back to my own start here in West Garfield, I cheerfully greeted people only to have heads turned and eyes rolled. I remember having a handful of people on my heart who I was praying for and clearly remember the praised mile markers when ______ actually responded with a hello back to me or when _____ said hi to me first. It was months before a conversation of more than a robotic “hi how are you, I am good’ conversation took place. It was probably my second semester before faces recognized me and actually smiled when I approached. One year hit and more walls came down, simple walls that in many cultures are never seen as a wall, such as a family member of a child recognizing me and calling out my name. After a year and a half some of the kids began allowing me to love them and loving me back. It took until year 2, and a horrible tragedy of losing one of my children by a stray bullet and countless hours of being by the sides of mourning children before they gave me the honor and privilege of seeing their tears and unveiling their hurting hearts. After nearly 3 years of nonstop dedication, a family of one of my little girls invited me into their house to lie on their floor and help their little girl with her homework, as I left that evening her grandma walked me out to the car and asked me how she could ever thank me for investing in her kids. My experience in Garfield is such a short breath compared to the many incredible people who have dedicated their entire lives, for years well beyond mine, and I claim no pride of my own for the mere glimpse I have been able to experience; but what my short experience has taught me is this: Inner City ministry is not an instantly gratifying field of ministry. It tears out the part of you that selfishly wants to receive honor and praise for the calling God has given you. It throws to the ground the arrogant voice in you that thinks you have the ability to change the world. Inner City ministry is hard, it’s painful, and it takes all of you. Inner City Ministry is not for the feel good missionaries who want one foot in ministry and the other foot in their own selfish pleasures. Inner City Ministry will rip you apart, spit you out and leave you bloody, broken, and undone; but places you, in absolute dependence, into the arms of our Savior who has come to bring good news to the poor, bind up the broken hearted, proclaim liberty to the captives, open the prison gates to those who are bound, bring comfort to those who mourn, give the oil of gladness instead of mourning, a garment of praise instead of a faint spirit; who will build up ancient ruins, raise up former devastation and repair the ruined cities and devastations of many generations. (Is 61)