Chapter 3: The day the locks changed

Chapter Three: The Day the Locks Changed

I hadn’t even been on the job three months when it happened.

I heard her before I saw her—panting, frantic, and on the verge of losing control. She burst through the lobby doors with the kind of urgency that makes everyone look up. Her voice cracked under the weight of desperation, and the panic in her tone silenced the office. I didn’t know it yet, but that sound would stay with me forever.

It was the fifth of the month. Just three days before, she’d come home from the hospital with a large incision and nine staples still holding her abdomen together after a reproductive surgery that hadn’t gone as planned. Recovery was supposed to mean rest. But instead, it meant an eviction notice taped to her front door.

She had two small kids at home and no idea how she was going to pay the rent she had missed after being off work for just a few days. She was a tipped worker. Three missed shifts meant three days of no income. It didn’t take long for everything to unravel.

As she sat in my office—half-bent in pain, half-unraveled from fear—we started making calls. The property management company wasn’t large. Just one rent collector and one maintenance guy. In situations like this, money helps—but communication is everything. Sometimes, a few dollars short doesn’t matter as much as a disconnected phone line or a person unwilling to listen. That day, I was determined: this family was not going to sleep in a car on my watch.

We found the funds. We were ready to pay. But by the time we got the answer we needed, it was too late.

My phone rang that afternoon, and I could hear it before I answered. Screaming. Crying. Chaos.

“They changed the locks on me, Mrs. Sarah! I can’t get inside! The kids just got off the bus and we are locked out!”

I could hear her children crying in the background. They had just spent an hour on the school bus, and now they stood outside their own front door with no way in. No bathroom. No snacks. No stability. Her car had run out of gas and wouldn’t even start. She had medicine inside she desperately needed to continue healing. And all I could do was load up snacks and drive as fast as I could.

When I arrived, it looked like a scene from a movie I never wanted to be part of. Her six-year-old was crying; her five-year-old was clutching his backpack and hopping from one foot to the other needing the bathroom. She was pacing, shaking, and beginning to unravel.

A kind neighbor opened their door and offered water and a bathroom to the children. I sat in my car with her as the weight of the day broke us both.

She screamed. I prayed.

And then we both cried.

“God, you know right where we are sitting,” I whispered through tears. “There is nothing we can do without Your help. Father, please—make a way. We are desperate.”

And then my phone rang.

It was the maintenance man—the one I had tried to reach all day. I explained everything again: the kids, the surgery, the funds, the fear. He listened. Then he called the property manager. Within the hour, someone came to unlock the door.

That was the moment the dam broke—not just for her, but for all of us. She ran inside. Her children followed.

The youngest climbed on top of the counter, opened the cabinet, and shouted with joy, “I’m gonna eat Cheerios now that we’re inside!”

That sentence hit me like a punch in the heart. All he had wanted… was a bowl of cereal. All they had needed… was access to what was already theirs.

I thought about what it would be like to be stranded with my own kids, without gas in the car, no access to my medicine, no bathroom, and nowhere to go. The rage. The fear. The helplessness.

And yet—I was grateful. Grateful that this time, God had moved quickly. Grateful that when we called on Him in a parking lot full of despair, He answered with a phone call that opened a door.

But I also left with something heavier: the realization that this is what ministry really looks like. Not revival services. Not sermon notes. Just a mother with staples in her stomach, trying to hold her life together with the last thread of her sanity—and the presence of God meeting us there, in a minivan full of snacks and snot and sacred desperation.

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Final Takeaways:

• Crisis doesn’t schedule an appointment. It kicks down the door. Ministry means being willing to sit in the rubble.

• The Church isn’t always a building. That day, it was the front seat of my car, soaked in tears and prayer.

• Sometimes the miracle isn’t that everything gets fixed—it’s that God shows up at all.

• We don’t just minister to the “deserving.” We minister to the desperate. Because that’s what Jesus did.

• People on the edge don’t need platitudes. They need presence. And sometimes, they just need Cheerios.

Chapter 2: The Mad Hatter

Chapter Two: The Mad Hatter

Yesterday was Halloween, and for a moment, I thought I was going to have to dress up as a human shield.

I had stopped by one of the regular spots where I sometimes found people holding signs or sleeping beneath the awnings of closed stores. There was a chill in the air, and I had extra blankets and food in the car—just enough to offer some warmth for someone preparing to brave the coming cold. I spotted a man on the curb, weather-worn and still. He held a cardboard sign with quiet desperation, the kind you only notice if you're really looking.

Before I could approach him, another man pulled up in a truck and got out, carrying a to-go container. My heart warmed. Aww, look at that, I thought. Someone bringing him lunch. The world really is full of good people. I smiled in his direction, comforted by what I assumed was a shared purpose.

But I had misread the moment.

The man with the to-go container didn’t hand over lunch. He didn’t kneel or offer a kind word. He stood tall—towering, really—and unleashed a storm.

“I’ve seen your kind around here,” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to slice through the air. “I don’t like you coming in these establishments, using the bathrooms. Why are you distracting drivers? You need to go do something with your life and quit being lazy!”

I stepped instinctively between them. It wasn’t courage, not really. It was more like disbelief—an internal voice saying, Surely this isn't happening. But it was. I had become a human shield.

The man sitting on the curb didn’t argue. He didn’t raise his voice or look for an exit. He just sat there, the weight of the insults seeming heavier than the cold he was about to face that night.

Then the final blow came.

The man looked directly at me and said, “Do you really think you can help him, ma’am? I go to church, but this is different.”

That line burned its way into my spirit.

I go to church, but this is different.

Suddenly, my empathy shifted—not just toward the man on the curb, but toward the one with the finger pointed in accusation. I wondered what must have happened in his life to close his heart so tightly. What gospel had he been taught that stopped at the church doors? What Jesus did he know?

I watched as my new homeless friend accepted a blanket and a few packs of food, his “thank you” as quiet and deep as his suffering. But it was the man who had come full of condemnation who walked away carrying something heavier—something that can’t be fixed with a blanket or a meal. He walked away with a heart cloaked in pride and a soul untouched by compassion.

As I got back in my car, the words of Jesus echoed in my thoughts: You are the light of the world. And I found myself asking—what kind of light are we, really?

It’s easy to shine around those who look like us, think like us, act like us. But what about when we’re asked to shine in the shadows? What about when love demands we stand in the cold, in the tension, in the in-between? What does our faith look like then?

This wasn’t the first time I had seen a man judged for being poor. It wouldn’t be the last. But something about the sharp contrast between the words, “I go to church” and the actions that followed made this moment feel like a mirror. And the reflection wasn’t easy to look at.

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Final Takeaways:

• True faith isn’t proven inside a sanctuary—it’s revealed in the street, the shelter, the unseen spaces.

• It’s not enough to “go to church”—we are called to be the Church.

• When love costs us our comfort, our pride, or our plans, that’s when it most resembles the love of Jesus.

• The light of Christ doesn’t flicker in familiar places—it shines brightest in the dark.

• Condemnation is easy. Compassion is holy.

Jesus didn’t pass by the hurting. He sat with them. He ate with them. He saw them.
And if we want to walk with Him—we have to be willing to do the same.

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Chapter 1: The White House

Chapter One: The White House

She came in frantic, her hands trembling as she tried to make sense of a world that wasn’t listening. Her eyes darted, wide with fear, her movements rushed and uncertain. She was hearing impaired, and that barrier—already isolating—was now made unbearable by pain and desperation.

She motioned urgently, pulling at her clothing to reveal a wound at the base of her abdomen, raw and angry, the smell unmistakable. There was no time for modesty, no space left for social norms or comfort. She needed someone—anyone—to see her, to understand.

We found her a notebook, and her handwriting shook across the page:
"I had surgery and am homeless and my incision is hurting really bad."

Just eleven words. But behind those words was a world of suffering.

She didn’t know the name of her doctor. She didn’t know where she was supposed to go next. A cab had brought her to town and left her here, alone and forgotten. Five days post-op, nowhere to rest, nowhere to heal.

I knew we needed medical help, and somehow—thankfully—we found someone willing to take a look at her wound. It was clear the infection had already taken hold.

But then came the bigger question. One I’ve heard too many times.
“Where could she go?”

That question led me to the white house. Once grand, now faded. Once filled with light, now shadowed by the lives of the broken and the barely surviving. But it was the only place left with a door we could knock on.

The first thing I saw when I pulled up to the white house was a man sitting outside in nothing but a pair of shorts. No shirt, no shoes. A cigarette dangled from his mouth, and empty bottles of liquor lay scattered at his feet like ghosts of long nights. I had come with food, clothing, and medicine—just enough to get her through the weekend. But even with my arms full, I felt unarmed.

I parked and gathered the bags, bracing myself for whatever I was about to walk into. I asked the man for Room 8, my voice steady even though my stomach wasn’t. He nodded toward the house without much interest.

As I stepped through the front door, a dozen pairs of eyes seemed to turn toward me at once. Suspicion. Curiosity. Maybe even hunger. I didn’t belong there, and everyone knew it. The air was thick with fifty years of stale cigarette smoke, the kind that clings to the walls, the furniture, your lungs. I had to force myself to breathe.

The grand oak staircase loomed ahead, still beautiful despite the years, like a broken heirloom no one had bothered to care for. I climbed the steps quickly, scanning door numbers—6, 7—and then paused. Room 8 was invisible, hidden behind a door left wide open.

I’ll never forget what I walked into.

She was lying naked on the bed, her tiny frame barely covered by a hand towel. The room was dim, the light muted by a haze of smoke. A smoldering cigarette rested on a tin can beside her, used as an ashtray. A cheap bottle of vodka stood next to it, half-drained and abandoned. The way she was lying… I knew someone had just left. The air still felt occupied.

Whether what had happened was violence or survival, I couldn’t tell. But the suggestion of it—the vulnerability of it—hit me hard. I felt a chill of fear crawl up my back, thinking about the doors nearby, the men who might be behind them. Could one of them hurt me too? I shut the door gently, but firmly, and set the bags down.

I covered her with a blanket I had brought.

She stirred and opened her eyes, blinking through tears that came almost instantly. She reached for her notebook—the only voice she had in a world that didn’t hear her—and began to write. Over and over again, she scrawled the same two words: Thank you.

When her eyes drifted to the medicine, the soup, the folded clothes, her shoulders shook. It was then that I understood something I didn’t expect to feel: relief. Not because I condoned what may have happened—but because it seemed, somehow, that she had chosen it. That in a life stripped of choices, this one, however heartbreaking, had been hers.

There was a kind of sacredness in that moment. Not pretty, not clean—but sacred, still. A life at its most fragile, still reaching out in gratitude. And me, just trying to meet her there.

I was grateful to care for her that day—deeply, humbly grateful—because it felt like the fulfillment of a promise God had started whispering to me weeks before.

It had begun two weeks earlier, on the eve of a church trip to Indianapolis. I was still volunteering in the homeless sector back home, not yet on staff, not yet equipped with anything more than a willing heart and a few dollars to spare. That night, as I packed, I felt a tug so strong it stopped me mid-task. God laid it on my heart to bring care kits—soap, snacks, clean socks, anything I could gather—for the homeless I might meet on the trip.

I didn’t have the money to do it. Not really. But somehow, God made a way. I packed what I could with what I had, and off I went, not knowing that the act of obedience I thought was about them was also about me. That trip changed my life. I came back home with more than memories—I came back with direction. Not long after, I was offered a staff position as a case manager, advocating full-time for the people I had been volunteering to serve.

That day at the white house, standing in a room that reeked of survival and suffering, I remembered all of that. I remembered the tug, the kits, the trip, the “yes.” And I realized I was living in the answer to a prayer I didn’t even know I had prayed.

No longer was I scrambling to find supplies. I had food. I had medicine. I had blankets and clothes and the authority to use them. I didn’t have to worry about money anymore—I had been outfitted to care.

God had given me exactly what I needed, not just for a job, but for her. For that moment.

Even though I was standing in one of the darkest places I’d ever been, I felt covered in light.

Final Takeaways:

1. God often prepares us for moments long before we understand why.

2. When you follow His promptings, even when it doesn’t make sense, He meets you on the other side of your obedience.

3. The broken places are sacred when you carry love into them.

4. Ministry doesn’t always look like a pulpit—sometimes, it looks like a blanket, a can of soup, and a listening heart.

5. The provision always comes when your heart is positioned to serve.

This was just the beginning. The white house wasn’t the end of the story. It was the doorway.

OG:second chances

Twenty years ago, I was placed in the back of a cop car for trying to smuggle contraband out of the store. It was the lowest place I have ever been in my addiction and while I wish I could say that that day was a turning point, it wasn’t.

Today I was leaving the store and remembered that day like it was yesterday. All of the regrets came flooding back and satan tried to convince me that I am just as broken now as I was then.

He reminded me of all the times that I had let my parents down. Let my church down. Let my community down. But mostly, let myself down. Let’s face it, when all we think we are is just a pile of wasted breath, satan has us right where he wants us.

Defeated. Broken. A lost cause.

As I was loading up my stuff, I looked across the parking lot where a woman I had recently prayed for came running up. When I first met her, she walked with a limp and could only reach out with one hand, the result of a stroke that nearly took her life. Yet today, she was moving with more fervor than anyone I had ever see.

She had a woman with a small child with her and asked me to pray for them just as I had prayed many times for her. They too, were facing a trial in their lives. There in the parking lot, three desperate people who might have told you that their lives were hopeless at one time, had an encounter with the spirit of the Living God.

The same living God that told the lame to walk. To see the captives free from their chains of addiction. To comfort a mourning mother whose child was sick and needed a touch from Jesus.

He is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow. He is still restoring lives. He is still defeating the weak one. And he is still calling those of us who may have discounted the use of our broken lives to tell of a God who is able to rewrite the history of a broken world, because that’s what he does.

What satan meant for evil twenty years ago, God turned around. And now instead of telling this story through the eyes of an addict, I gladly tell it from the heart of a lost child who was relentlessly pursued by God and given a new life to lift high the name of Jesus.

His is the kingdom. His is the power. His is the glory. Forever, amen.

A Reminder

Sometimes I think that God gives us second chances, and I am so thankful for that!

Last night as I fell asleep, I had the best intentions. I have really been pressing in to God, especially during this this season as we lead up to Easter. I am immersed in books, scriptures, devotionals...You name it, and I am doing it! But this morning as I get up and look around, I see sick kids. I see a rushed morning schedule. I see preparations that fall on me as a mom and feel like I am not doing enough. I am slightly overwhelmed in the middle of a morning that is supposed to be spent nestled up with the Lord for my “Him time,” yet here I am. Discouraged.

I know it is popular in the Christian belief to declare “God has a plan for your life,” and I do believe that. I say that to people all of the time! But today, God is reminding me that yes, he has a plan for my life, but he also has a plan for this day. Am I walking in relationship with my Heavenly Father? I think and hope so! But what about right now? As I sit here and type this, amidst sick kids and a dirty house and a hectic schedule?

This post is my attempt at taking back my day. I had originally started to pour this out to my small group, but apparently GroupMe won’t let me say this much. So you get to hear it...ha!

Today is our pantry day at work, and that means that the sidewalk to my office will have people lined up all the way down it, waiting to get food for their families. Today I am not going to simply walk inside and start getting busy, I am going to be intentional about the people I see, greet, hug, pray with, cry with, encourage...Because maybe I don’t know what God’s plan is for my life, I know what he would have me do today, and that is where it starts (well, as soon as I warm up some chicken noodle soup and hot tea for my sick man child, anyway).

Friends, I guess that what I am trying to say is that it is easy to get sidetracked by the things that have nothing to do with our plans that God has for us. Being intentional about looking up from our own circumstances and seeking the face of God will oftentimes deliver us to our place of the day, where the Great I Am is trying to get our attention about the things that he has prepared us for, so then it becomes his day.

And the best part? That little stuff doesn’t seem so big anymore, and more times than not, the people that we think we are sent to encourage for the day, usually being the ones to encourage us.

Be blessed! This is the day that the Lord has made and I will rejoice and be glad in it!

prayer of a child

It was the prayer of a precious little girl that caused my meltdown tonight. Staring into the faces of some of my closest friends, I fell apart. It took everything in me to get through the end of the prayer, and I thank God that when I did, I had a screen full of brothers and sisters looking back at me with love and concern in their eyes. There was no way to hide how I was feeling, but it honestly took me by surprise. How could I not notice?

Before Covid-19, depression commercials were not that uncommon. I would watch them and think to myself, "Geez, this commercial is depressing!" and I would dismiss its message. I now realize that the diagnosis itself falls on a spectrum that is so wide that one who is simply "having a bad day" falls under the same category as someone who is having thoughts of suicide. It is such an ugly word, and I hate the connotation.

But wait a second. How could this have happened to me? I mean, I'm Sarah. I love life! I love to laugh. I love to smile. I love to make other people smile! I sing in the grocery isle. And sometimes, I may even do a little dance when no one is looking. I find refuge in my God who has saved me and given me a new life, one of abundance! And of grace, and mercy, and true joy. He has given me a reason to rejoice, so why am I crying? Why is it hard to get out of bed? And to stop taking my anxiousness out on my husband, and kids?

Because, well, life. These walls. This home schooling. This solo existence. I thank God for the ways he continues to use me to reach out to the hurting, and the homeless, and the weary. It gives me such enjoyment, and its like fresh air in my lungs. But then everyone walks off in their own direction, and the sound of silence is loud in my ears again.

The truth is that I am no less of a human, or a Christian for that matter, for having this cloud above my head right now. For breaking down and admitting that I miss the normal. I miss my Sunday school class. I miss my work family. I miss worshiping with my church family. I miss my quirky pastor.

I miss normal.

But still I say, look, surely my God is doing a new thing. He shows me that everyday. He gives me a reason to smile, even when it hurts a little. He is the lifter of my head off of my pillow, and the refresher of my soul, even in the desert. I will sing his praises, even when no one is around to hear them. I will thank him for restoring my mind, and rejoice for the dear friends he has given me who love me during my brokenness, and refuse to stay silent as they hear me utter the words, "It's been hard."

Dedicated to Hannah, for her prayer that touched my heart tonight, and the rest of my small group family.

Last day with Joanna

Today I said to her, “You know I love you, though!” as she left my office. I never would have imagined that less than an hour later, I would be telling the paramedics that yes, I knew who she was. I would be standing in the middle of a scene that resulted in the loss of my friends’ life. That I would be rehashing the conversations that led up to this moment where I would no longer be able to hear her voice again, except the voice messages she left me every day, sometimes two or three a day.

Gone just like that.

And then the speculations. My God, how people can be so cruel. People suggesting that maybe she was high; or maybe she deserved it because of where she was standing on the bypass; or perhaps she was just an afterthought because she was homeless and not worth a second thought.

Well she was to me. She had a name. She had family that loved her. She had friends that she would protect, no questions asked. And I was one of them.