They're My Neighbors

This past week, I participated in my church’s annual mission “trip” in our own city. The Houston Project enables us to love on the people of Houston and hopefully introduce them to Jesus Christ and give Him the chance to shine through us during our time spent with each of them. I have not been with this church for very long, but when I heard about the Houston Project, I just assumed that everyone signed up, and therefore, I did so without hesitation! There were over 1,500 people signed up altogether, spread out between thirteen sites in Houston and the surrounding suburbs.

I quickly began to understand what I was getting myself into. I’m an accountant. I was going to be a VBS teacher for 8-9 year olds. Huh?!? Was God playing a practical joke on me? Don’t these kids need somebody more qualified than me?

Most everyone, including our Pastor, kept saying that while the people of Houston will be very blessed by our involvement in their communities, the people who will end up being blessed the most are those who serve. I was signed up to be a faithful servant. I couldn’t have been more excited, or nervous. How was I going to know what to say? How was I going to bring up Jesus Christ to these wee ones? How was I going to hold their attention when their minds are in a thousand other places? What if they ignored me?

Let me set the scene for you:

Houston’s Third Ward: one of the poorest urban areas in the country. It’s 95 degrees outside. The children range from age 3 up to age 11. There are plenty of mosquitoes around. We feed them and play with them outside, then round them up to go inside. We sing and dance with them, then do Bible stories and a craft. One day they make t-shirts; the next, picture frames; and yet another, a salvation bracelet. Then we treat them to some snow cones for a little break, perhaps a balloon animal or two, and then we take them back inside for “good behavior” prizes and the wrap up session. This happens like clockwork for four nights. And hopefully in the middle of all of this, we are sharing the good news of Jesus Christ and they are listening.

It’s backdrop is an envy of all real estate developers in the area. It is the downtown skyline of Houston. It’s right there, within reach. People would pay a super-duper-ultra premium to live in this location. I turn around while playing with the kids, and it’s practically staring me in the face. The heartbeat of the 4th largest city in the country is right there, and yet that heart is not beating for these people of the Third Ward.

Some more statistics:

4.0 miles – the distance from my office in downtown Houston to Houston’s Third Ward. A short distance from seven figure salaries to absolute poverty.

5.4 miles – the distance from my house to Houston’s Third Ward. Not far from what now seems like a little bubble that I live in. I was previously ignorant to what was going on so near to me.

A vast majority of the population in the Third Ward is African-American. It is a small pocket of Houston that is bordered by two universities and a major highway. Thousands of people drive right by it every single day and don’t even know that it’s there. They don’t even blink an eye. Thousands of people, just like me, who have never even set foot in the Third Ward, not to mention would be able point it out on a map of Houston.

The houses are run down, everyone hangs out outside, and as you drive down the streets, you have to go extra slow to not hit kids playing or adults gathered together on a street corner. When it gets dark, it’s not a safe place to be for a thirty-something white gal who knows she does not inherently belong there. But when the sun was up, this is what I saw:

I saw faces of innocence, hope, and despair.

I saw children who clung to me as a figure that represents life, love, happiness, security, and protection.

I saw absolute bliss at the thought of a snow cone or balloon animal of their own.

I saw children who wanted to be obedient. They wanted discipline and structure.

I saw an eagerness to learn something new and to interact with new people.

I received neverending requests for piggy back rides, or simply to be held.

I saw them as real people. Human beings created by the same God who created me. They’re my neighbors. They live 5.4 miles from me. They’re practically in my backyard. God loves them just as much as He loves me. I am called to love them; they are His children. There are really no excuses to ignore them; I can’t use the excuse that ignorance is bliss any longer. I’ve met them. I know they’re there. They’re my neighbors.

So what next?

They need teachers, mentors, and friends. They need to be taught and shown that Jesus Christ is the way, and the truth, and the life. They need to be loved on; not just for a day, or a week, or a month, or once a year, but for a lifetime. They never once asked what my background was and what I did for a living; they don’t care. To them, I was someone to cling to, talk to, listen to them, hug them, high five them, teach them, dance and sing with them, show off to, and love on them. That’s really their only desire. All the credentials in the world mean nothing to them.

I ask one of my sweet girls Jasmine: “How was your day? What did you do all day?” She responds: “Nothing. My mom talked on the phone all day and was screaming”. Sweet girl. You’re my neighbor. Come with me and I’ll love on you.

I ask another young boy, Tyreese, why he is misbehaving that particular day. I never get a straight answer, but I have a feeling that the fifteen minutes that I spent alone talking with him were really what he was after. I tell him that God loves him no matter what. That God is happy when we are good, and sad when we are bad, but that He loves us ALWAYS. And then I ask him if he wants to make God sad. “No ma’am”. Precious, impressionable boy. Come give me a hug. I’ll love on you. You’re my neighbor.

Then there are the two sisters, Miracle and Erin. They show up late every night, missing out on the Bible stories and the crafts. But they seem to always get there in time for snow cones and walk away with huge amounts of takeaway containers with leftover food. The first night it irritates me. They are getting food, but not spending any time with the group or participating in any activities. The second night, it irritates me more. Then the third night, I soften up. I realize that they are just trying to provide for their family. They have no choice over what time they get there. They are doing what they can to make everyone happy. I tell them that we are having pizza the last night, and that if they want some, they better come on time because it will be all gone. And guess what? They came on time, got hot pizza, and stayed to enjoy the rest of the evening. They got to be kids. I will not judge them. I’m not in their situation. And they’re my neighbors.

They are protective of each other. Big and little brothers and sisters, friends, neighbors. They have each other’s back. I pray that I don’t become desensitized to them, EVER. I need to expose myself to them over and over again so that I don’t forget their sweet little faces. I’m not asking for a pity party, or for someone to come in and save the day, but why aren’t we better at loving them? Showing a little bit of ourselves to them? Introducing them to the hope that is found in Jesus? And maybe preparing them, just a little, for the great big world out there that has so much to offer them.

Too many of us live in ignorance. We don’t do what we are supposed to. We make excuses for why we can’t help out others: we’re too busy, our work schedules don’t allow, we need “me” time, we have errands to run. Oh really? Is that what we’re going to tell God? Is that our excuse?

From the lyrics of Casting Crowns:
But if we are the body
Why aren't His arms reaching?
Why aren't His hands healing?
Why aren't His words teaching?
And if we are the bodyWhy aren't His feet going?
Why is His love not showing them there is a way?

We are His arms, His hands, His mouth, His feet. The Bible clearly tells us that believers are members of the Body of Christ. We are all important members of His Body and serve a purpose. All of the members of the Body of Christ work together to glorify Him. You are Christ’s body- that’s who you are! You must never forget this. Only as you accept your part of that body does your “part” mean anything – 1 Corinthians 12:27 (MSG).

So after this week with the little ones, an exhausting week spent in Houston’s Third Ward, I have a passion for them. I want so badly to do something for them. To be someone for them. I want to find out what part of the body of Christ I am, and how I am to reach out to them, and then go after them.

We leave on the last night (and the kids don’t realize this is our last night), and I tell each of them how much fun I had with them that week. I dread the question, “Will I see you tomorrow Lisa?”, and it came, more often than I had hoped. And I was honest with them. But I also told them that I would be back someday. And I will. After all, they’re my neighbors.