Day 39 ~ West Coast Rock Tour

~ 39th Day ~

Casa Esperanza...The Skeptic...Detox Center...New Memories.

Not surprised that last night was full of vivid dreams, ranging from terrors to triumphs. Good thing Karen is a sound sleeper, otherwise she might have been woken up several times from either the laughter or the screams. Despite the consistency of sound sleep, I felt rested and ready for the awesomeness that today was expectant to bring. Karen, Daniel and I would be venturing back to the place where the 3 of us first met: Casa Esperanza.

There are 3 main shelters in Santa Barbara... The Rescue Mission, Salvation Army and Casa Esperanza. I stayed at the Sally twice as well as Casa two different times. The shelters are temporary resting places for people all year round, though the winter time brings a higher number of people needing a safe place. Many people who stay there have a history of substance abuse as well as metal illnesses... or both. But not all the people who check in for a bed have this history or even current struggles. Such was the case for my sweet friend Karen. She is from France and after going through a nasty divorce, she was left with only a few belongings and ended up finding shelter at the Casa. She had been staying there for a little while when I found my way off the streets and in through the doors to find rest myself. Karen was and still is beautiful and she has done a lot of modeling in her lifetime. I had posted a few black and white pictures from her modeling days a few posts ago, but forgot to explain those pictures. Her back-story was unlike the majority of those staying at Casa and she is currently writing a memoir of nuggets of her story along with her short but impressionable time being homeless. She was known for her striking appearance and for always carrying around several composition notebooks in which she recorded people's stories and experiences on the streets. These stories will be interlaced throughout her book and I'm honored to be one of the character developments in her book. Our time together during my visit back to SB is said to be the last chapter of her memoir and today's adventures will surely be written on these pages.

The morning was spent by me writing about a day that had already passed, while Karen was flying around the apartment on the emotional roller coaster her mind was taking her on. There was a visible battle going on in her head and I witnessed the down-spiral of her fear of the unknown that I, myself, had experienced many times before. When someone knows they are going back to re-visit places where we lived during the darker chapters of our life-story, our mind can set us up with worrying and fear. I tried to calm her down by talking about things other than the places we soon would be going, and encouraged Karen to not let her mind take her to where she wasn't presently at. We were still in the safety of her apartment, but she was mentally at Casa and Pershing Park where we would go later. As I typed, prayers were being fervently whispered for my fragile friend. We laughed about her behavior that morning after we came back from the places... only then did she acknowledge the unnecessary worrying and fretting, but that was part of the process she needed to go through. We can learn from and take away something positive from every negative reaction.

We hopped in Tumbler early in the afternoon and went to pick up Daniel at the library. The trio of friends were returning to our meeting place. Karen was still a ball of nerves when we parked near Casa and though I had been praying for her (and all of us including the people we would see there), my fervency picked up as we began to walk the sidewalk that led to the shelter. A tidal wave of memories crashed over me as this building came into view and the battle waged war in my own mind which I fought with praying in Jesus mighty and matchless name. My 2 stays here in the shelter and at the detox center that is connected to it will be shared another time, for, like the Wall, so much happened inside and around these walls. What I will share is that my time here wasn't exactly a safe haven, for I choose to continue using drugs and alcohol while living here. The only time I was clean for a short period of time was when I checked myself (after much persuasion) into the detox program for a week plus. The rest of the days were a cloudy with few clear skies in my mind.

Casa was often the overflow for people who were released from the local psych wards. I remember often seeing the large white van from the wards open the back doors and push our the men and women whose stay at their facility had come to a dead end and they were dropped off on the other side of the street across from Casa. They would then wander over to the metal door in their scattered and confused mind. With the last dose of their medication wearing off, their state of mind was compromised and the staff at Casa was left to try to calm them down due their drastic change of scenery. The people here at Casa were largely unstable and unmedicated.

The woman's dorm where Karen and I had a bunk bed together was not used by me to sleep all that often. The upper smoking patio deck was where I most often could be found during the night hours and I was usually joined by others whose addictions were running wild into the night. The dorm had over 50 bunks (the men's dorm had almost twice the beds) and the variety of women were differing and distinct to say the very least. From addicts to bag ladies, from sound-minded to not at all sound-minded, from those on their meds to those in great need of meds, from those sleeping quietly to those talking to the invisible people that they had grown accustomed to having as their only friends, from those who were young to those who were old... we all made up a collection of fabric that wove together a temporary family. I'm glad Karen's memory is good and she wrote down names and stories, 'cause my mind was scorched.

The courtyard was open to anyone who wanted to walk through the familiar metal door, so the 3 of us wandered right in and just stood to the side at first, for we were taking it all in. There were around 25-30 people sitting and standing around and at first, we didn't recognize anyone. The door that led inside the building was closed, and after giving my friends a mischievous smirk, I walked over to the turquoise door and turned the handle. Karen followed me inside and we found ourselves standing in front of the long desk of the office area where we had stood so many times before. Three young ladies, who were obviously staff, were behind the counter and I introduced myself telling them that we used to live here many years ago and wanted to re-visit the shelter. They were't at all interested in our being here and honestly, looked quite perturbed that we were interrupting their conversation that was about their annoyance of some of the people staying here at the present moment. The staff when we were here was a collage of both compassionate and lacking compassion people. This is typical of shelters... the people who work at them are either walking in their calling or simply settling for a paycheck without clocking in their hearts to the people they work with. So sad, but the ones who do see their job as the mission field that it is, are the ones who are the most effective with helping the people who walk through these types of doors. These 3 ladies didn't appear to be in-joying their mission field today and though they might have been having a collective bad day, it was discouraging that the only thing these staff members had to say to us Casa Alumni who wanted to thank them for what this shelter had provided for us, was "You both need to leave now cause we're in the middle of something here." My flesh got the better of me after this and though I had wanted to leave the desk with a rock, I didn't feel like blessing them for way they treated us and probably treated the other residents here. Yep, I totally failed in showing them kindness despite their lack thereof. It takes a special breed of people to not only work in shelters, but to treat the people like the human beings they still are despite their current situation. Obviously, I was more than a little salty at these staff members, but my single raised eyebrow was lowered when another staff member walked up to the desk area just as we were about to walk back outside.

This was the director of the detox program who now stood next to me, smiling at the girl she well recognized. We clasped our arms around one another and Carmen kept saying how different I looked, and how proud she was that I had finally gotten back on my feet. Our joy-full conversation was soon interrupted with a loud, exaggerated clearing of the throat by one of the disgruntled staff members and we were asked to take our little reunion outside. I had to let out another deep sigh and ask God to help me love these ladies and not let the bitter taste in my mouth sour my wanting to bring the light of Jesus into this dark and dismal place. They were added to my long list of people to pray for. Often, the staff at rehabs and shelters are just as lost as the people who come to stay her... we all need constant help with deweeding our hearts.

Along with the blessing that Carmen was to me, I also recall another staff member who played a significant role in my time in SB, not only while at Casa, but while on the streets. Her name was also Katie and she was one of the youngest staff members at the shelter. Katie kept a consistent smile on her sweet face and she was loved and looked up to by the residents there despite her young age. One of most meaningful time she helped me was after a particular rape while living at the Wall. I walked to Casa after it happen (but stopped to smoke a rock on the way to numb out a little) and though I wasn't on the sign-in sheet for a bed that night, she allowed me to come sit in her office when I found her inside the building. I don't remember how long I sat in that chair by her desk or what we talked about, but I do recall her holding me for a while as this was really what I came to find her for. Katie was one of the few staff members who I trusted and knew that she looked at their job at the shelter as a mission field and not as a paycheck. There was another staff member who I was close to as well, both while living there and while on the streets, but we were close 'cause we got high on crystal meth together. While back in SB, I have heard that she is not working at Casa any longer, but she is still around the area... and not doing well.

But back to the staff member who was a vessel of light and was now radiating her still shining brightness on me once again. Carmen was and is a ray of hope and light at Casa. Her heart is healthy because she is willing to be open about her own life that is a work in progress (she doesn't look down on the people here) is that is what makes her so effective in ministering to the people she works with here who are in their own process of healing. Though my mind was foggy when I was a patient of hers, I remember her deep love and compassion for me and my journey through the valley. Her arms were always open to give me a hugs that I so desperately needed. We caught up on our journeys briefly and I gave her a rock with a simple heart on it. Moisture was in both our eyes that sparkled with gratitude for God's restoration.

Daniel and Karen were found sitting under the shade of some bushed and talking with some people who were wondering who the new faces were and what we were doing here. It was probably obvious that we weren't checking in for a bed that night, but that we were sitting in the courtyard said that we were still there for something. The reason was beyond coming back to Casa for our own closure... we were there to talk with the people who were still there. Karen had calmed down and was able to be present with the people instead of letting the other memories take her away mentally from where she was physically. There were some great conversations had with several people and much could be written of our hour in the courtyard. I'll share only one of these encounters and the name of this person will not be revealed due to her asking to keep her name and face confidential.

This was a lady who lived with us when we stayed here years ago. She had aged and her mind was still functioning, but the alcohol and most likely drugs, had done some more damage. We started talking by the sign-in sheet near the metal door, but took the conversation and ourselves just outside the walls and from earshot of others. Casa is a known gossip center, and she didn't want others hearing what she would trust me with telling. The battle with alcohol was voiced and I gave her a mint after she asked if I could smell the liquor on her breath. My old friend told me a lot about the chapters that had been written since I last saw her. She was going to school for culinary arts, and for this I gave her a big hug and told her how proud I was of her steps to get back on her feet. The rest was not so uplifting though and I struggled to find things to commend her on. Still, many highfives and hugs were given throughout our talk, for I saw how deep the sadness had taken residence in her aging eyes that had seen more than one should in her years. The thing that kept being repeated over and over by her was, "Katie, I'm so glad you are radiating the light of God. I can't believe how gorgeous and beautiful you are both inside and out... But I am a skeptic. You are so different now, but I am a skeptic and I keep trying to find something to doubt that God can change someone like you or me. I'll always be a skeptic." She said this phrase probably 20 times in the next 30 mins till finally I grabbed her shoulders firmly, yet with gentleness, and said, "------, you keep saying that you are a skeptic and there is power of life and death in one's words. As long as you keep speaking this over yourself, you keep this label alive. I charge you to stop speaking this into your spirit and search for a positive word to replace this label. It doesn't have to be 'I'm a believer in Jesus', but maybe you could start saying 'I'm searching for clarity and truth' or 'I'm a pilgrim in progress.' You don't have to believe what I'm sharing about my journey, but don't be so quick to try and find the doubt or skepticism. I didn't even mention God before you pointed out that I must have found God. Therefore, you saw Him in me before I even said He was now living in and through me. That is proof that should drive away doubt right there." Before we had this talk about the power of words and living the labels that we allow to stay stuck on our hearts, this woman had asked me a question that made me do an invisible fist pump to God. She had looked me straight in my eyes and asked, "Have you been born again, Katie?" I was overjoyed to tell her I absolutely had been born again and was forever changed because of this re-dedication to standing on the solid Rock. Though I am not perfect and often slip off that sure foundation throughout the day, it is so cool when others can see the light of God shining through us and in a way, can smell His fragrance without us even saying a word that we have been saved by the grace and mercy of our King. There is a saying that I love that says, "We witness to others, only using words if necessary." This self-proclaimed skeptic was witnessed to and I pray that she no longer proclaims that she finds more doubt than faith in our God who can massage even the hearts of those who try to deny His undeniable existence. 

We left Casa with new memories and hearts full of gratitude for the purpose in the often painful days when we called this place our temporary home. While walking back on the sidewalk, I happened to look down while thanking and praising God for what He had just orchestrated, and there before my next step, was a cross made from 2 thin leaves from a nearby tree. Though this may be a stretch of a sign from God of the cross that is still providing freedom and forgiveness today, it was a clear and obvious message of love to my heart. My eyes are often searching for visible signs of God in nature, though it's these reminders of His unfailing grace and love when I'm not even looking for them, that hold even more special meaning. Hungry and in need of time to process our experience of returning to the shelter, I drove Tumbler to a nearby McDonalds. Daniel and Karen ordered their lunch and I ordered a large iced coffee along with 30 cheeseburgers and 20 fries for the unknown number of people we would be visiting next... the Pershing family. 

I wasn't very gracious in allowing my friends to eat slowly, as my antsy heart was anxious to sit and eat with those who rarely sat in a McDonadl's booth or even ate from here. When they still had a few bites of their sandwiches left, Daniel looked at me in my visible restless state and said, "You want to go to the park, don't you?" Yeppers, and the coffee I was sipping wasn't helping to keep me contently calm spending time here when we could be with those who were so more in need of food. We hopped back in Tumbler and poor Daniel, with his lanky legs, was sardined in the backseat of the truck I'd lived out of for the last 7 weeks. He is not one to grumble or complain and he was simply glad to be with his old friends. Karen was comfortable in the roomy front seat, but her nerves were making her uncomfortable once again like this morning's experience.

A little backstory on why this trip to Pershing was especially purposeful (beyond bringing the people much needed nourishment) was that Karen's last memory of this park was a scary experience and she hadn't stepped foot back in Pershing since that dark memory. Years ago, she was walking back from the beach and had been followed by a group of guys. Scared of what they wanted, she began to run and then tripped on the uneven sidewalk. The guys were about to surround her when a nearby man and his son came over to help her up and chase off the men. Who knows what could or would have happened late that night if not for the man and son seeing Karen's need of intervention, but the memory had stuck with her and today she would be going back to face the fear of this park in general.

I had purposefully planned on bringing bags of food with us not only to feed the family, but also to create a diversion for my friend who had found the courage to go back to the place that held this last memory. When you yourself or someone else is going to re-visit a dark place of their past, it's important to go with the intention of not only facing the fear, but in doing so, to do something that will create a new, positive memory. Whether it's feeding some people like we were about to do, or going to have a picnic with other friends, bringing a frisbee to toss around, volunteering to clean up an area or paint an apartment, or do some garden work... wherever the place is and the dark memory is attatched, go for a specific reason other than the obvious one of going back to face the fear. That way, the facing of that memory isn't at the forefront of one's mind, but rather they can think about the positive and helpful reason they are going. The memory and fear will be faced while they are doing something to help someone else. That was really wordy in trying to explain, but hopefully the point was clear: To face something inside oneself, it's helpful to get OUTSIDE yourself. It's like doing 2 things at once and both you and someone else are helped in the process. Such was the case this afternoon for Karen. While we were walking into the park, I noticed her focus wasn't the sidewalk where that last memory was made, but she was smiling as she walked towards the group of people whom we were about to feed. It was beautiful and watching Karen and Daniel interact with the people was so cool to witness. And they were hungry, so the burgers and fries were right on time. The time was also right for Karen to re-visit this park... and make a new, fresh and beautiful memory that she can now look back on and smile instead of shiver.

We stayed at Pershing for quite awhile and my family was glad to meet some of my friends. While I sat with Gator, Hydro, 2 Feathers, Bruce, Ray Ray and Bruiser, 3 others guys were seen walking into the park from a distance. I met them halfway and asked if they were hungry. Indeed, they were, so they were invited to come join the group that huddled around the McDonald's bags. I asked the new guys where they were from, where they had just came from and how long they had been in SB. They had just arrived and this was there first afternoon and one of them said, "And what a welcome this is for us!" I saw them over the next few days in Pershing as well as on State Street, and many more conversations would be had with them individually and collectively. The one who kept tugging on my spirit was named Eddie, who carried around a large black case for his electric guitar but had no amp. We talked in between huge bites of his cheeseburgers and I learned much about some chapters of this young wander's life-story. I gave Eddie a "We All Have A Story" rock and he would pull it out every time I saw him in the following days.

We could have stayed much longer than we did, but I felt it was time to go. This feeling of needing to leave the park came suddenly and even though I was right in the middle of listening to one of the new guy's tell me about some of his past chapters, I looked away from his face and turned my gaze towards Daniel, sitting a few feet away from me. I have him the "are you ready to go?" look. He had sensed the time to move on as well and he nodded in an agreeing confirmation. Right after he nodded and we both began to stand up, the radio that Hydro constantly has playing music changed from a Doobie Brother's song to another group (?) song with the opening lyrics "I don't know how we're gonna get out of here"... and I finished the song's sentence with "but we'll start by standing up and saying see ya'll later to my family forever." They all cracked up and hugs were distributed all around. Even Karen shook their hands and hugged a few of the people before walking away, having handed out food to those in need as well as facing her fears in process.

What a day it had been. All of us were a combination of pumped up and exhausted. Daniel was dropped off at HotSpots on the busy strip where Salvatore was waiting. Yesterday, I had made a trip to K-Mart in between the awesome mission fields that God walked with me on, and I bought 2 sleeping bags for my brothers. The nights can get cold here even though California is know for it's warm, sunny weather for the most part. No reason Daniel and Salvatore, who were faithful ministers of God's love to those on the streets and warmed so many people's hearts, had to sleep through the cool nights without warmth. It was a small gift for the treasure that both their friendship meant to me.... priceless.

We often have to step outside ourselves
To discover what is inside us all along.
Fear can keep us from missing out
On helping someone else out.
Create a new memory today,
Pack courage and hope.
Feed someone...
And yourself.

~Unshakable Peace, Courage and Purpose~
cling to the Rock 
Psalm 18:1-2

Day 38 ~ West Coast Rock Tour

~ 38th Day ~

The Wall...Treasured Tracker...The Feast...Doctors Without Walls.

This was a super packed day. 
An emotional roller coaster to say the least.
Forewarning at the length this post might become.

I woke up in the backseat of Tumbler. Telling Karen that I needed some time alone for a couple of nights (the night before, sleeping outside and last night sleeping in my truck) she understood after I explained that getting too comfortable at someone's house was trying to be avoided as well as needing time to be by myself. When I came back to her hospitality, she didn't quite understand the sleeping on a bench part, but there are others who probably wouldn't get the reasoning behind this either. I was grateful for her "come and go as you please" attitude.

Today had some known and unknown mission fields. The first two were known, yet the first still held an unpredictability for I was going back to my main stomping ground while living on the streets of SB... "The Wall." If a book was ever to be written about this farm-girl's life both on and off the farm, there would be a whole chapter written about this place where I traded a pocket full of corn kernels for a pocket full of rocks (and not the ones I carry around these days). It's hard to write a short description of the Wall, but I will try my best for those of you wanting to read other news feed in your allotted time on FB.

When I lived here, the Wall had no opening and closing hours. It was active 24/7 and though the nighttime was often busier than the normal hours people were up, we weren't afraid of doing dark things in the daylight hours. This is how addiction can take affect and all of us living there, were living for the next high. There were 5 main dealers, 3 main call girls, 7 other guys who didn't deal but had come to call this place home and countless men and women who would frequent this place to pick up and either smoke there or take it another location. The main group was another family unit who I grew very close with. Though many would question their loyalty, love, and protection, they were these things... just not all the time. We were dysfunctional, to say the very least. We argued, fought, swore at each other, burned each other, lied, cheated and stole from one another at times. But we were a family. We understood each other, laughed, joked, hugged each other, looked out for one another, consoled each other and love was shown in many ways. Our dynamics and deep bond would never be used as an example in family counseling, but we were a unit of drug addicts who survived the circus of chaos by sticking together.

The first picture you see is one side of the bridge where we typically congregated at. The fences were climbed with ease, for they were our front door. We had the leap down to a science and if chain-link fence hurdles were in the Olympics, we all would have gold medal records. Over the fence, the dirt mound was traversed to the top and flat portion of compacted dirt. Their is 3-4 feet gap from the top of the mound and the bottom of the overpass bridge. We would crouch while walking up there and there was a science to this as well. People driving or walking on the road and sidewalk below could see constant activity up here. There were always a few of us who would be hopping the fence, crouching and moving or sitting on the top against the cement wall, standing/sitting at the bottom on the other side of the fence, but there was one place that we most often were that no one could see us while there. On one side of the bridge and on the top, compacted area, we had built our own personal hideout. We stole some shovels and dug a pit that was 4 feet deep and a queen sized mattress was laid at the bottom of the hole. When we were sitting on the mattress, not even our heads could be seen from the bottom as people passed by. In a way, it was our "bed of thorns." Everything was done here... from selling rock, smoking rock, and doing things to get money for another rock. When I first started frequenting the Wall, I wasn't allowed in the hole cause the family is very selective about who is and isn't allowed in it. But after a while, I not only was allowed to do anything in it, but I spent many hours of the day and night holed up in this hole. But this was only one of the many places I would do all types of dark things at.

Next to the bridge, there were sections of grassways, bushes, trees and other cement walls. The bridge is located right next to the Santa Barbara Rescue Mission where the men live for the inpatient program, where the outpatient program is located and the men's shelter is held. The cement wall that separates the grassway and hill leading to the freeway that goes over the bridge is where we would also congregate. I remember many times when I'd be sitting on the hill under a tree near the freeway, seeing the men in the program watching us. Surely, we were not helping their minds be free of triggers by doing deals and smoking crack in eye-sight. This area behind the Mission was active non-stop. There were beaten paths where we would walk back and forth from the street into the deeper parts of this section in between the freeway and the Mission as well as other buildings and lots along this stretch. It was a neighborhood block per se. The paths led to thicker sections of bushes and trees and in these more dense foliage places, we had studio apartments of sorts scattered throughout. We hung sheets on tree limbs and on the tops of bushes to create a sectioned off place where we would do deals, smoke, trick with men, and on the very rare occasion, actually sleep. Most of us would go days without sleeping and then crash when our bodies or minds would beg for rest. I was typically up for 3-5 days at a time and I remember being up for several 7-day stretches. This is typically when my dealers/pimps would refuse to sell me more and would tell the men who called for me that I was off-duty. This was usually when I would wander to Pershing Park to drink vodka and smoke pot till I passed out and would wake up a day or two later... only to get liquored up and stoned again till my appetite for crack would rear it's head and I'd wander back to the wall (against my Pershing family's pleading for me to stay with them and not disappear for another 3-7 days). What a crazy cycle, but this is how strong my addiction had a hold on me. Still, I was allowing it to run rampant and not willing to take any steps to stop the running madness.

 The cops were certainly on to the activity at the Wall. They drove by several times a day and night visits were also common. Problem was, we knew this area like the back of our hand and most raids ended up with them crouched over, hands on their thighs or hips, panting for breath, while we were out of sight in the maze of paths, bushes, holes cut in fences and metal sidings that led to other sections we knew the way through. Oh, we did get caught once in a while and a few of the night raids were planned and staked out well in advance and ended in handcuffs being snapped on our soiled and calloused hands. I was arrested twice at the Wall, once for a glass pipe (they couldn't find the 3 crack rocks I'd discarded right before they pounced on my friend and I... I found them later that day after I was released) and the other for hiding out near the creek bed in a cluster of bushed with a random guy who had just purchased my services for the rocks I was now smoking with him (They did find the crack that day and I was locked up for a few days). Most of the raids were done at the bridge as well as the area most commonly referred to as the Wall... a section of road that the 3rd picture shows. This used to be the place where 30-60 men would stand or sit while waiting to be picked up for a few hours or a day of work. People would drive by and pick one or more of the guys to do handiwork for them. Among the men actually looking for legal work (though many of them were not legal immigrants), the dealers, pimps, call-girls and addicts were scattered throughout the sea of men. Though we didn't actually blend in with the others, it was a smokescreen of sorts and we tried to look at normal as we could in our state of mind (or lack there of) when the police would drive by or stop to search us not at all gently. I remember countelss times being in the port-a-potties getting high when suddenly someone would pound on the plastic wall to let me know that a black and white was pulling up. A lot of things were flushed and/or stuffed in those bathrooms. And more things were done in them than using the facility and getting high... it was a place where much darker things were done. This stretch of the road was well-known in SB and though I had already drove by this area the 2cd day I was back, today I would park Tumbler and walk these streets to stand in front of some of the many places where I hit rock bottom... in more ways than one.

I was meeting a dear, sweet friend at the Rescue Mission, and purposefully arrived an hour early. I knew at some point on this return trip to "Egypt" that I would go back to face and feel what needed to be physically walked through at the Wall. I parked Tumbler under the main bridge (there were others nearby that we used to chill under, but this was the primary one and location behind the mission with the hole we dug). I was surprised at the lack of activity and when I got out of my truck, not a soul was seen. This was actually a blessing for I needed to be present with my feelings at the sights and smells without the presence of anyone else nearby. It was as if God has scattered the people so that my mind could stay focused on the place and not any person. The bridge was the same, but newer fences had been put up. They weren't bent over in places (except one section) and the garbage that usually littered the dirt mound and around the fences, was cleaned up fairly well. The slope of dirt had eroded away so much and when I looked to see where the hole once was, it appeared to have been filled in (I could see this through an eroded crack of dirt). My eyes were taking it all in and I wrestled with the plethora of memories that played through my mind like previews before the main movie. I had purchased the ticket to the show when I willingly came to re-visit this place, but I wasn't exactly sure how this movie would play out... and the previews of memories were like premiers in and of themselves. Trying to be mindful to not suppress the emotions, I sat with each memories for as long as was needed to acknowledge that it happened and left a scar, but that it wasn't happening now and I wasn't the same person I was back then.

I lingered under the bridge for 15 mins, taking it all in of what was the same and what was different. I peered through the chain-link fences to the paths that were still noticeably walked. Though the desire to hop the fence and traverse up the slope, walk down the path to the thicker foliage, and then run across the freeway to the wide median where other paths and places were once carved through the thick trees/bushes, I didn't need to physical go to these places that I still mentally could go with ease. It's okay to go back to dark places, but how far we walk into them, is a personal choice. Some may need to "jump the fence" and others can find closure simply by staying on sidewalk. I chose the later.

There were 45 mins before I was to meet with my old "Tracker" and still dear friend, so I took a right on the road the Rescue Mission was located and walked towards the area where the cement sitting area, port-a-potties, and men used to stand and wait for work. This place did have people nearby and I braced myself for potentially seeing some familiar faces. The tree that I used to climb and smoke up in the branches was passed... so many memories of countless hours I perched up in this tree. I saw 3-4 men I recognized but they didn't remember me. Whether it's because I looked different, it had been too many years and their minds were more fried, or God put a hedge of protection around me, I'll never know, but besides looks of curiosity and slight confusion at this lone girl walking in this area known to not be the safest, no one stopped me to inquire of why I was walking here. I gave a few nods to let some know that I meant no harm, but I didn't stop walking... till I passed the men near the bathrooms and walked to the other side of street. More memories flooded my head when I walked passed certain places where we would jut into the foliage to other paths and places where we would stun and deadened more brain cells. There were cement tunnels that water would trickle through where we would crouch inside along the curved walls to get high. There used to be hollowed out clumps of bushed that had sheets and blankets spread on the ground, but I couldn't see if they were still hollow or had grown in from where I stood. I walked past the creek where I would take men who paid for my services, and my skin tingled with regret of how I was not only used but also using their appetite of pleasure to feed my appetite for the drugs that kept my mind foggy enough to perform such things. I don't share these things to made anyone shake their head in disgust, for pity, to highlight the depravity of my mind, but rather because I'm not afraid to voice the truth of my past. This is part of the reason my heart beats a little faster (out of compassion and empathy) for women who prostitute. It's part of my story... and the muzzle that used to be clasped on my mouth has been ripped off and forever discarded. Though it's not easy to put (written or verbal) words to these dark time in SB as well as in other cities in IL, I will not be silent to the truth. God gives me the courage to voice my largely painful past in hopes that the purpose is for encouraging others to find the courage to unbuckle their own muzzles with help of God's strength and then allow Him to use their own dark chapters to bring light to others. May some of you reading this post feel a rise in courage and a boldness mustering up within your heart. After all, what we've experienced in life is not just about us. I'll keep saying this over and over in hopes that at least one really, truly gets this. Ooops, rambling rant over 

My this post is already long! I'll speed things up a bit here. When I was walking on the other side of the place where the men were gathered (and some were passed out on couches that had newly been set up along the metal fence), one of the men stood up and walked to his edge of the sidewalk. "Hey, whatchu doing 'round here? I saw you take a couple pictures. Do you work for the city or police or something?" I took this as good cue to walk across the street and not a warning to quicken my pace toward the Mission area. "No I don't work for the city. I'm taking a few pictures of this place cause I used to live under the bridge up there and this place here was where I also used to hang out a lot of the time." I was standing in front of him now. I stuck my hand out and when I told him my name, he introduced himself as "Black." I could write several paragraphs on the conversation Black and I had over the next 30mins, but that will be saved for that potential book. To an on-looker, Black was rough, hardened, and up to no good. But I got to know the man inside that exterior front. He told me about his past life, his present situation and the challenges he faces daily. I stood with him near the hang-out area for awhile and then asked him to walk me back to my truck. A funny thing happened on this walk. My old tracker (counselor) at Bethel House, whom I was to be meeting in half an hour pulled over by the sidewalk where Black and I were walking. The last time I remembered seeingAlana was the same sight she was seeing now... I had been walking with an older man on the sidewalk (having just turned a trick with him). I couldn't help but laugh out loud when she pulled over and said "Hey girl" just like she had years ago. I told her that this was not what it looked like, and though I was still going to get a rock with this man, it was a different rock than the one I was going to purchase years ago. Alana laughed and said she wasn't assuming what I though she might be. We agreed to meet in the Mission parking lot after I finished ministering to Black. When Tumbler was reached, I pulled out a rock that said "Live each day the fullest you can; Not guaranteeing there will be a tomorrow; Not dwelling endlessly on yesterday." He pulled me into a tight side hug and told me that he wished so many of his friends and family could here my story and get a rock to remind them that there is a Rock higher than any other "rock" (whatever that may be). I felt honored that God would have me meet this man and hopefully encourage him to one day drop the "rock" he used to fill his void, and allow the Rock, the Void-Filler, to be his positive and purposeful stronghold. I would see Black the other times I drove by the Wall area, but I didn't stop to talk with him again. Still, he has been added to my long list of people from the Wall to pray for.

More pictures will be posted along with several other paragraphs about my time before and now at the Wall, but the hour is only 11:30am in this post and so much happened this afternoon and into the evening that I have yet to share. When Black and I hugged for the last time and he walked back towards the other men, I hung a right into the Rescue Mission parking lot to meet up with my beloved old counselor. Alana was using her lunch break to grab some food and fellowship with me. We hopped into her car and headed to a nearby restaurant. A big smile remained on my face for most of the next hour or so. I was so full of joy to be sitting with someone I not only looked up to while at Bethel, but still have a deep respect for. Though she isn’t working at Bethel any longer, she has been a counselor at the outpatient recover program at the Mission for the years since I last saw her when living on the streets. Alana has always been a huge cheerleader in my bleachers whether I was using or trying to stay clean. Her love is unconditional, like the Savior who saved her from a destructive lifestyle as well. Her testimony is radical, like everyone’s story that was once dark (without God) and has now been transformed to one of light (walking with God). 

There was so much to catch up on with this woman who sat next to me as we ate our filling food. The conversation was nourishing as well, and the time went by too quickly for my liking. Still, I was grateful for this quality time with Alana and it wouldn’t be the last time our paths would cross while back in SB. I love her so much. She is a beautiful representation of Jesus and she continues to impact not only my life, but everyone who has the honor of knowing this compassionate vessel of God’s hope and love. A "Peace" rock was placed in the hands of this beautiful woman of grace.

It was a after 1pm when I our paths parted and a parking spot a few blocks from the Wall was found to simply sit and inhale and exhale the feelings that were still ruminating in my heart and mind. Though there were some tears that slipped out through the cracks of a few wound that had been re-opened, I didn’t find myself breaking down like I had been prepared to possibly happen. Though I was open to letting the damn of hurt and sadness bust open, it was if God was saying, “Not now… not yet my child. I will allow you to feel enough for this day, and I will hold you tight. But I will allow a slow release of tears over the next few days and I’ll comfort you in these days too. But the full release of tears will come later. Trust Me, beloved daughter… you won’t break beyond my bestowing my peace in the pain.” I sat there will this “enough” for over an hour. My mind was full, but not racing; My breathing was deep at times, but not gasping for breath; My heart was full of both pain and gratitude, but it didn’t consume me. My steady and sure Counselor was with me and at times, I could literally feel His strong, gentle arms around me. This only happens once in a great while, where I can tangibly feel Him… and this was one of those times.

When it was time to move, both physically and mentally, I found myself driving towards Pershing Park. I had made a promise to the group there (especially Gator) that I would stop in at least once if not twice every day I was here, and I held that promise not out of duty or sake of keeping my word (though that was important too), but because I wanted to. As my last days drew near, I sensed that this may very well be the last time I see Gator. Though none of us are guaranteed another day on earth, I felt that Gator’s time was drawing near and I wanted to spend as much time with him on this visit as possible. Before walking into the park, I did some writing in Tumbler as the group was in full view. I was spotted by them and my writing was paused a handful of times when some of them individually came over to chat for short periods of time. Some of the deepest conversations were had with my brothers and sisters who would hang on my passenger door after I rolled down the window. These talks were one-on-one versus the group dynamics of talking with everyone vying for attention and wanting the microphone. The talks around Tumbler were more focused with individual attention and ministering. I finally put my laptop away when I realized not much was getting wrote on the screen, though much more important things were being “written” in real time.

My backpack was strapped on after more rocks were pulled from my large containers in the back. I was starting to make a dent in one of the 3 I had filled with rocks when I left Woodstock. It was not a race, but I did smile that I was finally seeing the bottom of this bin. When I walked up to the group, I greeted Gator even though he was passed out. The others were flashed peace signs with "What's up my family!?!" Bruiser was the first to stand up and tackle me in a big bear hug. I love this guy… we were close in the time I lived here before, and that hasn’t changed. He is one of the few who is making an attempt to fight his addiction to alcohol. He often leaves the park for a day or two in order to sober up, but it’s a hard fight to stay sober when he returns. One can rarely stay clean and sober when spending much of their time here. That is why it’s called “Prison Park” and unless you leave (for days or years), you will end up not only sitting but consuming the substances that make this park famous (not in a good way). While I was here visiting, it was important for me to repeat over and over to Bruiser that I was proud of him for fighting the fight and not giving up. When dealing with people who struggle with any addiction (alcohol, drugs, food, shopping, sex, work, etc) one needs to acknowledge the small things that the person does, even if they keep going in and out of their unhealthy behavior. We are hard enough on ourselves and our own guilt can encourage us to continue using, so more guilt and shame by those around us doesn’t help us in the fight. There’s a whole post (or 16) that could be written about this topic. Just be mindful to pat them on the back and cup their downcast faces in your hands as often as possible. There are always things that can be commended, instead of constantly berating them for the poor choices they are well aware they are making. A balance is necessary here… be honest about the ripple effect the addiction is producing, but lace the truth with love and encouragement. Hope is never lost until we give up loving them where they are at in their journey. Enough said on that for now 

Bruiser and I had another talk about where he was with the fight today and I felt it was time to give him his rock. Since he had gotten in a little scuffle with the police yesterday (that was the picture I posted in yesterday’s post that showed the cop cars at the park), and he was released with a minor infraction, I laughed at the rock I knew was perfect for my brother who can let his pent up anger (from a past filled with pain) get the best of him and often is released onto others. The rock was shaped like a face that had it’s mouth open like it was shouting. I had written “It’s okay to be angry, but don’t sin when you are.” This was a paraphrased verse from Psalm 4:4. I typically don’t write things like this on rocks, but the way this rock looked like an angry face, it was the verse that came to mind. Bruiser busted out laughing and said it was totally the right rock he needed to keep in his pocket. Again, I have so much love for him and truly hope He either has or will one day surrender his life to God. He may not stop drinking, but God doesn’t ask us to clean up before becoming His child… He wants us to come as we are and it’s His job to do the restoring of our lives. Some never change their lifestyles, but I can testify that to continue willingly living with addictions and habits is all the more miserable when you open your heart to the One who sees both the good and bad in us… yet still loves us unconditionally. How sad that many people (especially Christians) put conditions on who can and can’t (in their minds) be welcomed into God’s family. Oh boy, there’s another long, long, long post in that sentence! I’m not even going to go further on this… except to say that judgementalism is one of the most undiagnosed and unrecognized addictions in today’s society.

While talking with some of the others, I was reminded that today was Wednesday. The importance of this announcement wasn’t to inform me of my lack of awareness of what day it was, but to trigger my mind to the regular happenings in the park on Wednesday evenings: The Feast. The usual people at the park are joined by several dozen other homeless people on this night, for an organization called Common Ground (which is largely made up of people who come from all different churches) that comes with literal car loads of food. They come at 5:30 every Wed… and I mean EVERY! They were coming when I lived here before, they had been here every Wed in the time I was away, and they were coming tonight. Oh what a reunion this was. Though none of the 25+ servant hearts remembered me (I looked a little different with all my teeth and somewhat clean clothes), but I pulled 3 of them aside after they had served the food and told them I remembered them. It was important to thank them for not only feeding us plates piled high with home-cooked deliciousness, but for the love and grace of God that they were handing out every Wed here with the people most ignore and don’t take time out of their busy schedules to spend time with. The 3 people I began to tell tidbits of my story with, soon became a larger group as others were pulled in to hear how their seeming small act of kindness had left a deep impression on one wanderer (though others were being impacted, but may never come back to tell them). I encouraged them to continue this tradition of planting seeds of nourishment for the body as well as the hearts of the homeless. There weren’t many dry eyes in the group, including my own eyes. I gave one of the most remembered ladies a “Love” rock and hugged each of the men and women before walking over to another group of servant hearts that had shown up while I was conversing with the Christ-representatives.

Every Wednesday in Pershing was not just about the Feast, but it was also the night “Doctors Without Walls” comes to the park. This is a group of doctors, nurses, and people in training/school to be medical practitioners. But all that is required to volunteer in this stellar organization is a willing heart, whether licensed or not, to meet some of the medical needs of those living on the streets. They come on Wed nights, but they also pop in the parks and walk the streets throughout the week. I remember them well and was taken care of several times while last here. I had a staff infection 2 different times as well as a treatment (mostly compassion doses administered) for times I was beat up during rapes. The hearts of these people bends to meet the needs of the homeless… though sometimes the needs are not always medical. One person in particular was pivotal in ministering to me: Jennifer. And she was here tonight. 

When I walked toward where she was standing, she looked up and recognized me immediately. A big smile busted out on both our faces. “Oh my gosh... It’s you! What happened? What are you doing here?” I told her about my parents coming to get me 5 years ago and how I still slipped back into addiction after a 9 month rehab, but then clocked into what would be my last program. When she heard why I was back in SB, her smile grew wider. Jennifer radiates joy. She is well-known in the community and in the homeless community. She is one of a few who started this amazing organization and my, how it’s grown since I was last here. What started with just a few volunteers, has now blossomed into several dozen people who frequent the streets of SB. I was so proud of her and how this free service is helping so many people who can’t afford trips to the hospital. They go TO the people… they meet their needs as much as they can right where they are. Jennifer and another guy named Jason may never know how much they helped me in those dark times. 

I didn’t want to hold her up from the others volunteers she was training tonight, but it was important to look her in the eyes and thank her. After this acknowledgement of my gratitude for her was voiced, she then told me a story that left my mouth open. She told me that I had given her a rock 6 years ago and that she not only still keeps it in her car, but she uses it as an analogy to at least one person a week. The rock I’d given to her was one that had broken down the middle, but I had glued it back together and written “Embrace The Brokenness” on it. Now my smile was growing even wider. She said that the words were a bit faded, but the message had not. I couldn’t even remember giving this rock to Jennifer, but she did. This merge of our paths would not be forgotten. She is another woman I greatly respect and look up to. Please look them up on the web and play a role in helping them mend more medical and emotional wounds. 

A real bed was beckoning my tired, in more than one way, body and mind. But a stop a HotSpots to check in with Daniel and Salvatore was made before I would venture to a roof over my head. We talked for an hour or so and I was introduced to a local artist whose studio was around the corner. His name was Danny and he was known for his “Santa Barbara Rocks” rocks. Another fellow rock admirer and artists… I had to meet him and wanted to give him a rock. His art on the rocks was mainly skull-heads and it was interesting to hear how he wanted to bring a smile to people’s faces with something that points to death. To each their own. 

He was an interesting person and what intrigued me most was not his rocks, but the poetry he recited that was all about Jesus, the cross, salvation, repentance, surrender, and love. This man was certainly gifted in writing and I wish the poems he recited from heart had been captured on camera. This man who was infatuated with skulls (death) was all about eternal life in Heaven. I left him with a “Love Rocks” rock and our paths crossed several times in the remainder of my days in SB.

I drove to sweet Karen’s apartment and when I dropped my backpack, I put my head on her chest a couple times as we talked about both of our busy days. The role of a mother was needed this night and a deep sigh was released as she stroked my head, knowing this was a calming technique when I am in need of human comfort. She was used by God in so many ways during this visit back to a place that brought up more memories than I remembered. This wouldn’t be the last night I needed her to hold me in her motherly arms. I slept well this night and would need the good night’s rest for what tomorrow would hold.

Pat people on the back more than you point a finger at them.
We all struggle with something… visible or unaware.
Search your heart for weeds that need pulling.
And seek to encourage someone,
Rather than to judge them.
Grace is for everyone.

~Unshakable Peace, Love and Purpose~
Cling to the Rock 
Psalm 18:1-2

Day 37 ~ West Coast Rock Tour

~ 37th Day ~

Bench vs. Bed...Starbucks...Police at Pershing...Surfer Mikey...State St.

Funny how the days are already getting jumbled. Though last night I did make it to bed to lay down in, it was not the plush king-sized bed at Karen's place. After I left Pershing park, I wrestled with wanting to find a patch of grass near Gator and the group to bed down for the night, but instead, I contacted my friends Daniel andSalvatore to ask if they had room for my sleeping bag in their squatting spot. They did... and I met them at the secret location at 1:30am. Some writing was done in the safety of Tumbler till this meeting time. When I met my brothers in the dimly lit location, we laid out our bedding. I was shocked that Daniel only had a sheet and a thin cotton blanket and Salvatore had nothing to sleep on or cover himself with. His sleeping bag had been stolen a week ago after he stashed it in a cluster of bushes. It's hard to stash things in a city where so many live on the streets and sleep outside. Something needed to be done about their lack of bedding, but that would be addressed later.

Daniel and I sat on the steps that led to the cement balcony the 3 of us would sardine ourselves on tonight and we talked for 40mins till Salvatore's silhouette was seen coming towards us. Our trio was firmly planted in the foundation of our Provider and King... my 2 brothers are mighty men of God who defy the normality of most Christian lifestyles. Yes, they live on the streets; they have minimal comforts; they live day to day; they are homeless... and they are the closest to being modern day disciples than anyone I know. Daniel and Salvatore stay together much of the time ("road-dog disciples") but they often part ways during the day to minister to individuals for periods of time. Many Christians would question their situation, lifestyle, ministering, evangelizing, and even sanity... but I will vouch for these two amazing men in the Christian courthouse that leans more towards comfortable complacency and judgementalism than sacrificial living and boldness for sharing the Gospel with those outside of their Christian cliques. That was harsh, I know, but it's the sad truth. I was so blessed to be linked up with my brothers who not only minister on the streets, but live there themselves with the people who most ignore. I'm not suggesting everyone sell their house and car and start living on the streets, but this is where God has called a minority of His children to be most effective in their mission fields. I am a total fan and advocate of these few and tonight, I would sleep outside with 2 of these few.

All didn't go smoothly in the first spot we spread our bedding (or lack there of) for a cop car pulled up to us and parked 15 feet away from us. He didn't get out and shoe us along, but his presence was all the hint the 3 of us needed to move our bodies and belongings. I was used to this relocation at all times during the night when I slept outside years ago. Sometimes, the cops would shine their light on us and yell at us to move along, other times they would arrest us (I was locked up twice for transiency when in SB, but this was not unwelcomed for the cot and 3 meals a day were a nice vacation for a few days each time) and there was even a cop that would come to Pershing late at night and bring us all McDonalds (but this was a rare visit from the normal perturbed police). Neither of us were salty from the surprise black and white car, and we packed up with smiled on our faces. This was part of living on the streets... being moved along.

We walked a few blocks to a place that was behind another large building and the concrete balcony was traded for long benches for each of us. It was now almost 3am and our bodies were beckoning for rest. I felt bad for my brothers as I snuggled inside my warm sleeping bag that my mom had purchased for me for last summer's "Europe Rock Tour" and I made a mental note to find a store that sold sleeping bags for the cooler nights my brothers would be sleeping outside through. We got 5 hours of sleep before being rudely woken up by a business man who was on his way to work. Maybe his $100 shirt wasn't starched correctly that morning or he had missed his evening yoga class the night before, but compassion was not one of his strong suits. We learn how to act or how not to act with everyone we meet.

The morning mission field was a nearby Starbucks, and the 3 of us chased the sleepiness away with cups of caffeine for the next couple hours. Coffee shops may seem like luxuries to those living on the streets, and they are. They provide a place to drop our bags, use the bathrooms, and get a cup of coffee like most people who have houses start the day with. Daniel and Salvatore also use Starbucks, the local library and HotSpot WiFi shop to get off the streets and recharge themselves for ministering on the streets. And these places are mission fields themselves, for many people congregate there with whom they have conversations about Jesus and the assuredness of eternal salvation. These 2 men are mission minded... much more so than most I know who go to Starbucks to simply fill their tank rather than filling others hearts with truth and love. It's a beautiful thing to witness these 2 witnessing. I scribed some rocks while there, made some phone calls outside and had a couple brief conversations with people sitting on benches outside the coffee house. When I went back inside to say I would be parting ways with my brothers, Salvatore pulled out a cross he had made for me and I was touched by his servant heart that is always looking to give rather than take. This cross will be cherished for all my earthly days and a reminder of the sacrificial love and forgiveness that Christ gave in dying on the cross for me and for everyone else no matter was class or social status they are labeled. He died for everyone... and loves everyone regardless of our lifestyle. 






Off to the next mission field of the day, I walked to where I had parked Tumbler for the night and drove towards Pershing Park to see who was gathered there on this beautiful gift of another day. To my delightful surprise, my old friend and brother Surfer Mikey was there and he recognized me right away when I walked up to him. We hugged and smiled and laughed at how the sun had given us both more wrinkles around our eyes. Mikey is seemingly always smiling and this may be adding to the permanent crinkles on his boyish face. He is nearing 50, though his personality is one of a teenager. The ocean is admittedly his daily therapy session and he has been surfing since he was a toddler. Mikey doesn't live at Pershing but he frequents there often. Unfortunately, a couple years back, he was jumped by some guys and they beat him up real bad. The doctors put a metal plate in his head and the effects of the beating have left him slightly impaired in his mind... but he is still the lovable and sweet Mikey. He was curious to where I'd been since leaving SB and I gave him the gist as I pulled out a "Love is the greatest gift" rock. He was so stoked that my rocks had been switched and he told me that he remembers me talking about Jesus even when I was still addicted to rock cocaine. I chilled with Mikey and 3 other guys including 2 Feathers for a while longer till I sensed it was my time to leave.

It was early in the afternoon and I cranked out a day post while sitting in toasty Tumbler. The weather was so pleasant in SB but with no breeze, 80 degrees outside meant 90-95 in my truck. All the water I was drinking was making my visits to the bathrooms, that hold more memories than I can remember, a common trip during these times of writing and resting, but I was creating new memories of using them for what they're intended for. Many scars were opened up and became, once again, bleeding wounds during my almost 13 day stay in SB, but the bleeding slowed, dried up, scabbed over and healed into another scar during this time. I needed to face and feel many things while here... and God allowed me to feel enough emotion not to break to a point of being vulnerable to falling back to old habits of numbing. He allowed me to feel enough to not be in denial, but the breakdown (in a good, needed way) would not come till after I left SB for a second time. More on this later 

Putting away my laptop and pulling out my heavy backpack, I left Tumbler once again to walk State Street with the Rock ministry. Oh, the people God would have me cross paths with into the late evening on this busy strip. The walk from where I parked at Pershing to the beginning of the strip is 5 blocks and a beautiful jaunt. State St. is super long and the strip is about 2 miles long (guestimation). On my days and nights there, I would usually walk a total of 2-3 miles and this was quite the daily workout with the cargo I carried on my back. This late afternoon and evening entailed the typical walk as well as stopping to set up my rocks at 2 different locations: one a bench a block away from the ocean and the other on the sidewalk against a closed up shopl that was 7 blocks from the shoreline. Both places produced many conversations with people who stopped to look at the rocks and hear the message behind them. But the most interesting conversations were had while walking. One was with Charles ("Chuck") Taylor who walked with me to my second place I set up. He ended up sitting with me for a good 30min before I had to somewhat ask him for some space. Some people will sit for longer than God wants them to stay and gentleness needs to be laced with setting boundaries. We did have a stellar talk, though, and somehow got on the topic of dying and God sparing our life so as not to take it for granted. I shared about my heroine overdose and Chuck shared about a skateboard accident while high on speed. The paramedics that happened to driving past him when he crashed, saved his life by performing a trecheotomy procedure. He showed me his scar and we both agreed that it wasn't our time to die, so all the more reason to treasure every gift of another day. I gave Chuck a rock that had a simple blue heart on it and encouraged him to acknowledge our God who had spared our life for reasons and purposes both known and unknown.

Another interesting and unique person I met was named Chris. She was elaborately dressed and her personality matched her bright and eclectic clothes. She wanted a rock so badly and had trouble choosing which one she liked most. When she finally chose another heart rock I'd made, she pulled out a large handful of change to give me in exchange, but I dropped it back into her purse and told her they weren't for sale. She told me that my treasure was surely in Heaven and I may not take money from her, but God would give me something wonderful in exchange for the gift of the rock. This was the best "payment" I could have received along with the long hug and kiss on my forehead that Chris gave me before walking away with her head bobbing back and forth like a little kid whose dad had just bought her a balloon.

My time was almost up on the strip, and the walk back to Tumbler grew darker as the streetlights dwindled with each block. I no longer fear the dark, but there still is a needed sense of caution and wisdom when walking alone at night. I pulled out one of the unscribed rocks from my backpack and clentched it in my fist the whole way back. My mother's voice along with so many others echoed in my head, "Now you be careful out there on those streets late at night, Katie." My pace wasn't quickened with fear or uncertainty of the alleys and large trees, but I was aware that an invisible war was waging around me all day and into the night. Satan was not liking the light and love of God I was trying to bring to the people here. Every article of the armor of God was repeated over and over as I walked. I was claiming my victory in Christ, my Captain and heard Him saying to walk by faith and not by sight. He would light my dark path and I trusted Him to be my Staff and Shield in this familiar territory. I knew God was victorious and though satan may win many wars with the choices of free-willed people, the entire war would end with his defeat. I clung to the feeble rock in my hand while walking... but it was the Rock I was clinging to as this journey continued in the land I once lost many battles on. I was a different woman today. I was a warrior in God's Army.

When the day is over and you take off your day clothes,
Don't take off the armor of God (Ephesians 6:10-18).
When you wake up and put on your day clothes,
Remember to keep the armor of God on.
It's good to know Bible verses.
It's better to walk in them.
Live the Living Word.

~Unshakable Peace, Trust and Purpose~
cling to the Rock 
Psalm 18:1-2