Two years ago, before the pandemic, our church partnered with another community across town to invite the residents to visit our church. You know the area I am talking about, that almost hidden section, with limited access to the other side. 

Lots of children, but not enough parks, or playgrounds, and sometimes no street lights for blocks. The sidewalks appear to disappear, the road blends into it. Some streets paved, others in need of repair, yet the community toughens up and deals with the pot holes. 

We walked into the selected apartment community with invitations to seek the word, GOD’s word to a better life.  There was a huge sign which clearly stated. NO SOLICITATION...

Some of the people were open to the invasion and politely took the message flyer, others sent the non-verbal response that clearly said “Tell GOD…I’m good”. “Or my favorite, I don’t think church is for me”.

Oh my GOD. (Literally) That was me. Nonchalantly thinking “No thank you. Church is not for me”.  

Pleasant View Homes was the registered city name for our housing project community. Developers called our zip codes low income, disadvantaged, and unclassified. We called it home. 

Every day, I saw hard-working families up early home late, making a life for themselves. Doing the best with what they had access to.

We didn’t have a family car, so we got around by way of “jitney” or a nice neighbor with a used car that ran. That church bus was driven every Sunday by a middle aged white man in a city uniform. I am certain he had a name, but we called him “bus driver”

Apparently, someone had identified our housing projects as needing Jesus. Or maybe a few parents got together in search of ways to get all the kids out of the neighborhood. It just so happened to be a church bus.  

I wondered who coordinated the outreach, who spoke to the parents, what kind of paperwork did they approve, if any? I suppose it was a fair tradeoff for the parents who “sent” their kids. It gave them a couple of hours to themselves. As it turned out, the sponsor of the church bus was the Salvation Army. The missionaries whatever that meant.

I was 10 at that time, and didn’t do much church visiting anywhere. Not even the traditional organ slanging, tambourine banging, two-stepping choir, fan-waving, backsliding deacon church. But, I did believe there was a GOD, we did have a bible in the house, somewhere. My Mother taught the Lord’s Prayer which was recited at bedtime in prayer position. On our knees with hands folded together gently resting on top of the quilted bedspread with sheets smelling like Clorox.

The Salvation Army missionary church opened doors to my childhood faith. My Mother found resources to supplement our basic needs and a summer camp for us. 

During our weeks at Gene Eppley Camp we ate 3 rib-sticking meals a day, I learned that some people called dinner, “supper” and my brothers could ask for and receive second helpings. There were fun activities which included nature hikes, beautiful lakes, paddle rides, and a discovery of the great outdoors. All of this belonged to GOD, the staff liked to say smiling. He wants you to enjoy it.

We learned about the Bible through animated hardcover picture books. You know the ones I am talking about. The people looked like the families from the “Fun with Dick and Jane” books.  As a child. I wanted to see people like me in God’s books about the human race.

After we returned from camp, new dreams beyond what I could see materialized. My thoughts expanded. Maybe, one day I will visit the real ocean or live close enough to it. Maybe, I will find out exactly what this place my Mother called “college” is all about. A belief in a real existence of GOD expanded with understanding of the Father, the son, the Holy Spirit. 

As the word spread, the church bus began to have more and more children attending service. I suspect it wasn’t about Sunday school. But more about babysitting for some parents. “What time that bus coming today”?

I was learning some of the hymns and praise songs. He Live…Deep and Wide. All one key, maybe.

And then a new family moved into our community. Their mission was destruction. The McMillians had a reputation for bullying people, taking over, until they met their match.

It was during one transition from spring to summer. Warm weather days were to be celebrated like a holiday if you lived in cold climate like the Midwest.  We were preparing to go to church that Easter Sunday in our new clothes. Our neighbors (The McMillians) had been run out of every neighborhood they lived in due to their Mother’s violent temper. She was a bully. (She thought)  The bus was out front waiting for us as usual, but the oldest daughter who was about 6’2 at 10, was given the assignment by her Mother to attack me.  I was looking rather red carpet ready in my baby blue crush velvet spring coat and matching dress, with fishnet stockings.

Shirelle and I were cordial, she didn’t scare me. I heard of her many fights, but that’s all they were to me, I had never ever seen them. She walked up to me to prevent me from walking towards the bus. Suddenly, like a barking dog, her Mother begins to scream at her “Hit her… HIT HER HIT her”

I could see in Shirelle’s eyes that she didn’t really want to. But had her orders. She collared me and raised me up on my tip toes, close enough for her to read my anger and disappointment in her allowing her ignorant Mother to influence her.  I could smell her. Her breath was like early morning hopelessness. All I remember was repeatedly saying “YOU BETTER NOT TEAR MY COAT”…. PUT ME DOWN… I AINT SCARED OF YOU…

PUT ME DOWN….AND YOU BETTER NOT TEAR MY COAT!  I looked her square in the face. Meanwhile, my Mother is walking towards the scene. More like she sashayed in her beautiful 40.00 hat that she had on layaway for 2 months.  Earlene, Helen’s Mom walked over and snatched the hat off setting my Mother off! She took off her high heel and began to repeatedly hammer her in the head.

My Uncle Eddie heard all the commotion from my bedroom window, and immediately took action.

“I’m coming sistah”. He shouted, grabbing the 2X4 that was propping up my window. It seemed Eddie must have slid down the bannister to get there. He opened up that door, and said, did you think I wasn’t coming?  And he just let Earlene have a couple of whop! Whacks! On the wrist!!!

Of course, by this time, the church bus driver closed the auto doors with that revolving silver handle. He didn’t take anyone to church that day.  But the next week the church bus did return, we did
“get back on the bus”. I was just happy he didn’t ask any of us any stupid questions. 

He just took us back to church. Getting out beyond my reality was something I looked forward to.  During the ride through different neighborhoods with 2 story homes, manicured lawns and windblown trees, I just loved wondering what that was like. I wondered if the neighbors got along with each other.

 I don’t know where the hope came from inside my Mother. Maybe, it was because she was 39 or grew tired of waiting to be fairytale rescued. Maybe she asked God what I was thinking about on that church bus ride through other parts of the city.  I just know that with God’s grace, timing, and resources, she stepped out on faith, she dreamed a new reality for us.

 It would take 8 years later that my Mother would catch 2 buses, and wait for a ride to clean rooms at the Hilton Hotel. Her savings allowed her to buy her first home. Thank You Jesus! 

For me, the Sunday ride, enrooted to the Salvation Army for church, was the real beginning of my faith journey. That was 53 years ago.  

Does church outreach to forgotten communities work? Yes. It does.