Introduction: Where the Mess Meets the Sacred
Dedication
Note to the Reader
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Thank you for opening this book. I want to be honest with you from the start—this is not a book filled with easy answers or tidy endings. What you’ll find here are stories from the front lines of ministry, stories that are messy, painful, and sometimes even hopeful.
This book is about the hard work of loving people whose lives don’t fit into neat boxes—people who live on the edges of society, who carry wounds we might never fully understand. It’s about the tension between hope and heartbreak, faith and frustration, grace and grit.
If you come expecting a polished, perfect version of ministry, you might feel uncomfortable. But if you’re willing to sit with the discomfort, to lean into the raw reality of this work, I hope you’ll catch a glimpse of a God who shows up most clearly in the broken places.
These stories are not mine alone. They belong to countless unnamed heroes who live with pain and courage every day. I share them with humility, respect, and deep gratitude.
May this book challenge you, encourage you, and remind you that ministry isn’t a program or a project—it’s messy, real, and sacred work.
Welcome to the journey.
— Sarah
To my clients—
the ones with trembling hands, tired eyes, and stories the world too often overlooks.
Thank you for trusting me with your truth.
Without you, this book would be blank.
To my mentor, Spring Hunter—
for believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself.
To my tribe:
Jarett, my husband—thank you for years of listening, for holding me when the stories got heavy,
and for never once asking me to turn this calling off.
To Casey, my counselor—thank you for helping me find my voice,
and for reminding me that it matters.
And to Brooke—thank you for the best adventures of my life,
for showing me the beauty of friendship in the midst of chaos.
With love and deep gratitude,
Sarah
Chapter 9: The Preacher with a Cane
There are some people who enter your life like folklore—rough, raw, unforgettable. And there are others whose stories feel too big to fit inside a file folder or case note. He was both.
He grew up in the same town I did, though his version of it looked very different. His childhood held memories of segregated schools and land once owned by his family being sold off in parcels until nothing remained. He remembered Vietnam. Not just the uniform or the jungle—but the bullets, the trauma, the survival. His body came home, but a piece of him stayed behind.
By the time I met him, the streets had worn deep lines into his face. He had become something of a local homeless legend—equal parts mystery and mischief. Everyone downtown knew him. Especially law enforcement. He slept on a pallet near the square, one eye always open, ready to protect himself. He had reason to. People had jumped him before. Beaten him. Mocked him. If you got too close without warning, his cane might find your shin before your words did.
But he loved me.
And honestly? I loved him right back.
I’d pull up beside him in my car, and his face would light up. He never asked where we were going—he just got in. Sometimes it was for a burger. Sometimes to check his mail. Sometimes just to ride with the window cracked and the blues humming from the radio. Wherever it was, it was always an adventure. And I was always glad he let me come along.
Then one winter morning, I got the call.
They found him outside—his face frozen to the concrete.
His body temperature was barely 80 degrees. His pulse was nearly undetectable. And yet, somehow, he was still alive.
I raced to the hospital, not knowing what I would find. Day after day, I showed up at his bedside, encouraging the nurses who looked at him with fear or frustration.
“He’s not dangerous,” I told them. “He’s just been hurt more than most of us can understand.”
I wanted them to see what I saw. A man who had survived the streets, racism, war, and cold nights no one should ever have to face. A man whose bark was defense, not malice. A man who had been thrown away over and over and still got up every day and sang old hymns like he believed heaven was close.
Eventually, he was released to an assisted living facility. I was hopeful—maybe he’d get some rest, some peace. But even there, the bias followed.
The staff member assigned to intake him looked at me and said flatly,
“What do they expect me to do with these homeless people?”
I bit my tongue so hard it hurt. But I smiled and said:
“He’s not a case. He’s a man. A veteran. A survivor. A brother in Christ. He sings the old gospel songs better than anyone I’ve ever heard. Give him a chance—you’ll see.”
She didn’t say much after that. But I saw something soften in her eyes.
He was rough. Unpolished. Blunt. But he had a soul that shimmered under the surface, like gospel notes rising from gravel.
He reminded me that holiness doesn’t always come wrapped in gentle manners or clean clothes. Sometimes it shows up in a man with a cane, singing the blues into the night, asking only for a warm meal and a little dignity.
Some of the holiest people I’ve met wouldn’t be welcomed in most churches.
We’re all just a few hard breaks away from needing grace and a ride to check our mail.
People carry more than trauma—they carry resilience, music, and memory.
Ministry means biting your tongue sometimes—but it also means telling the truth with kindness.
Jesus doesn’t always wear robes—sometimes He’s wrapped in a coat from Goodwill, carrying a cane, still singing.
There are things I’ve witnessed in this work that I will carry for the rest of my life—beautiful things, redemptive things. And then there are the wounds I carry that I didn’t see with my own eyes, but that pierced my heart just the same.
The call came from the hospital—or maybe he called me himself. I can’t quite remember. I only remember the words “possible heart attack” and the way dread landed heavy in my chest.
When I got there, they were already running tests. It wasn’t a heart attack. It was a pulmonary embolism—silent, sudden, and deadly. He had nearly died. Statistically, he shouldn’t have made it. But he did.
When I sat beside his bed in the ICU, his voice was weak and cracked from tubes and trauma. But what he told me next broke me in a way that no diagnosis ever could.
“I was on the side of the road,” he said.
“I was slumped over in my chair, and I knew something was wrong. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I was trying to wave somebody down.”
I could picture it—his frail frame bent forward in a wheelchair, leaning against a concrete barrier that separated the road from the bridge. Alone. Helpless. Trying to mouth the word “help” to any car that would look his way.
“And then a truck pulled up,” he said.
For a moment, I felt hope. Someone had stopped.
But then he went on.
“They rolled down the window and screamed at me—‘Get a job, you bum!’—and then they threw a hot cup of coffee in my face.”
I sat in stunned silence. My breath caught in my throat.
“I thought I was gonna die,” he whispered. “And that’s the last thing I heard. That I was a bum.”
There aren’t words to describe the rage and grief that filled me in that moment. Not just for him—but for what it says about the world. That someone could see a man slumped over in a wheelchair, clearly in distress, and respond with hate.
I went home that night and wept.
I pictured him there, on that bumper. Hands barely able to lift. Mouthing the word “help” while cars drove by. While one didn’t. While someone hurled coffee and cruelty.
He spent close to three weeks in the ICU. The closest brush with death I’ve ever seen in this work. But somehow—by mercy I can’t explain—he recovered.
But even now, years later, I still carry that image.
I carry it as a reminder: That behind every rough exterior is someone who’s been screamed at, discarded, or dismissed. That no matter how strong or stubborn someone seems, they may be sitting in the wreckage of a moment they can’t forget.
And I carry it as a witness. That this world can be cruel—but Jesus is kind. That people may hurl coffee and condemnation, but God still sends help. And sometimes, help looks like a case manager walking into an ICU, holding a friend’s hand.
The world may call them bums. But God calls them beloved.
Cruelty wounds deeper than illness. But kindness heals where medicine can’t reach.
No cry for help is invisible to heaven.
Sometimes survival isn’t just a medical miracle—it’s a spiritual one.
The bridge between despair and hope is often built with presence.
I’ll never forget the day I walked into his hospital room and saw him weeping.
He had just lost his second leg.
For someone experiencing homelessness, losing even one limb changes everything. But losing two? That’s not just a physical loss—it’s a loss of mobility, independence, identity, hope. It was devastating.
He had done remarkably well with one prosthetic leg. He could navigate his camp, get to appointments, even show up at our center on his own. But this—this second amputation—was different. It broke something in him. And when I entered that room and saw them dressing his new wound, he looked up at me and the tears started to fall.
We had tried everything to avoid this outcome. Wound care, rides to the clinic, prayers. He had tried. We had tried. But it wasn’t enough.
His tears that day weren’t just about the pain. They were about the weight of what was coming next—how the fight to survive had just become even harder.
In the days that followed, he was moved to rehab. I kept visiting. At first, he didn’t say much. Just nodded. Let me sit with him. Sometimes presence says more than words ever can.
Weeks passed.
Then one day, I was at the ministry center when someone came flying down the hallway, yelling breathlessly:
“Sarah, you have to come see! You have to come now!”
I rushed to the window.
And there he was.
Outside, standing upright, clutching the side of the building for support—with both prosthetic legs on. Walking. HOBBLING. Determined.
I burst into tears right then and there.
He looked up and saw me through the glass and grinned. “I hoped I could surprise you!” he shouted.
I ran outside, hands over my mouth, still crying. And then he said something I’ll never forget:
“Step back. I want to walk to you.”
I froze.
He let go of the wall.
And then—slowly, shakily, and with every ounce of strength he could muster—he walked. One foot, then the other. No crutches. No hands. Just heart. Grit. Glory.
I stood still, watching him come toward me. The courtyard had filled with people—clients, volunteers, staff, even folks who had come for food that day. They stopped and watched. And when he reached me—sweating, crying, smiling—I opened my arms.
We both sobbed.
The whole courtyard erupted into clapping. People cheering. Some crying. Others just standing in awe.
And in that moment, on a concrete sidewalk outside a food pantry, it felt like heaven had come to earth.
This wasn’t just about walking again. It was about hope being resurrected in real time. It was about a man the world had overlooked standing tall—not just physically, but spiritually. It was about God showing up in prosthetics and pavement and applause.
Healing doesn’t always look like restoration—it sometimes looks like resilience.
The miracles we witness are often born from the messes we walk through.
You don’t have to be whole to be powerful—you just have to keep showing up.
Sometimes, the greatest sermons aren’t preached—they’re lived, step by shaky step.
God meets us not just in our rising, but in the long, hard walk it takes to get there.
Well, here I am again, Lord. For years you have given me a dream to write a book. I have started half a million books, yet always somehow find a way to talk myself out of my disgraceful writing. I guess you could say that this looks like obedience. If left up to my own decision, I would have given this writing session a second guess and talked myself out of it simply because of the enemy of comparison. I'm pretty sure that the Bible gives us a glimpse into the dangers of that very thing, or else there might not be a commandment somewhere that mentions the big-C word (covet) but here I am, thinking of all of the amazing writers I know and trying not to talk myself out of closing this laptop. Yet, obedience moves my fingers.
Truth be told, I know that you have given me a spiritual gift and while it may not be as good as others I know, it's mine. You are a good giver of gifts and I would never want to neglect the things that you have given me. So I humbly press on and rest in the fact that this is obedience, whether my brain is convinced of this gift or not.
Thirty days.
Six years ago, you stirred something in my heart and it changed the trajectory of my life. I was on summer break from the classroom and you challenged me. I wanted to serve my community. I didn't want to waste away my summer break. I felt a nudge to sacrifice my time off and go where you sent me. Community pantries, clothing closets, church... I just knew that I wanted my time off to count for something. I had no idea what you were up to, but you have never proven to not be faithful. After all, you are a Good Father. You led me to places where my perspective changed on so many levels. You put me in front of people from all walks of life, and you gave me so much fulfillment to walk alongside them. To offer prayers and encouragement when you prompted me to, to love as you would.
That summer, my life changed. You reminded me of the calling that you had put in my life as a young child and my heart was so full to be able to serve people once again. I believe a revival was stirred in my heart that year, and I am so thankful for that. Six years later, I am still thankful for the calling that you have put on my life and for the people I serve. Whether they are sheltered or homeless, addicts or preachers, sinners or saints, lost or found, loved or forgotten, we all have something in common: we need you.
As I approached the new year, I pondered the state of my heart. I have to admit, 2022 had a lot of highs and lows. Our family has become closer and I am thankful to you for that. I see you working! Yet, my heart still aches for the loss of mom, an unexpected event that still takes my breath away when I stare too long at her picture or watch a video of her laughter. Still, I press on to the things that you have for me to do. For the next thirty days as I pray and fast, I commit myself to new revelations that you have for me. Each day, I will obey my calling to write out the ways you spoke to me that day and ask that you speak loud, for your servant is listening.
Day 1
Before the work day had even begun, I received a text from a coworker who had discovered a woman sleeping behind the building. The temperature was barely 32 degrees and it was a miracle she had slept outdoors in it and was able to tell about it. Wrapped barely in a blanket that would cover her body stretched out, she was happy to talk to the staff as we tried to help her on this frigid morning.
As I thought about what it must've been like for her to find our building in the middle of the night and sleep outside in the dark, I cringed at the thought. The bravery she must've had, and the determination she showed by making it to us to wait until the morning to be discovered, I was humbled. She had made it to us and survived. I remembered times in my own life when I had nothing. No hope, no direction, no understanding of how to be ok. Just as this woman walked to the hope she had heard about from others who told her about the "center that helps homeless people," I thought about my own life and how there had been moments in my own life where Jesus met me when I had no hope. How thankful I was to have made it to Him, and what it meant to have a firm foundation again. When we talk about our unsheltered neighbors and how hard it is for them to go without running water, heat, and walls when there is snow on the ground, the foundation is missing. Today perhaps, I realized that we can still have a roof over our heads and be missing a foundation, and he is more firm than any walls could be.
Today, I am thankful for the true foundation I have in you, Jesus.
