This morning was different.

For over a year now, my Saturdays have consisted of one thing: the streets and people of what they call the "Homeless Corridor". In the ever blossoming cove of downtown Fort Worth, sky rise lofts and booming businesses paint the perfect picture of any big city. Now we Texans know good and well that while everything may be bigger, our pace and accents are just a tad slower than that of competing cities. But still, head to Sundance Square around lunch time and you'll see the suit clad, blue-toothed men scurrying about the sidewalks, eager to work their way to the weekend. Aging architectures with missing windows are being restored into $250,000 havens. Quaint corner café's and high class dining peek between the walls of steel. Museums, monuments, gardens and galleries pose an invitation for natives and tourists alike. Good 'ole Cow Town has become quite the town.

Take a wrong turn, however, and you'll find yourself wandering a different land. Just across the highway holds scenery so different its as if you've stepped through Lewis's closet and into a nightmarish Narnia. Head to E. Lancaster around lunch time and you'll see the baggage clad dirty men scurrying about like a destroyed ant bed, eager to get in line for their next meal. Roll up your windows before you smell their disaster and they smell your fear. Aging architectures with missing windows are left alone. Café's and restaurants have been boarded up. The only sign of life in this desert are the beating hearts that crowd the sidewalks. If it weren't for them, E. Lancaster might as well not be on a map. There are different invitations on this side of Fort Worth. The woman on the corner who's hair hasn't been washed in months...she has an invitation. The circle of guys behind the dumpster huddled down and bundled up…they have an invitation. The random cop car begging for intimidation in a sea of criminals…that's an invitation, too. The obvious question in any right mind is how one highway can separate such different worlds and cultures, but some things just don't have answers. Or, in my opinion, some questions are just too risky to ask.

Either way, this dark and forgotten land has been somewhat of a home to me. The simplicity in the air can set a soul free. There's something about such harsh reality that reminds me to be alive.

This morning I am sitting in the Day Resource Center, surrounded on every side by these harsh realities that have become my friends. I've been here before, but today its different.

The Day Resource Center is packed with chairs that face a big screen, movie playing television providing the only means to an escape these people can find. I haven't been in here in quite a while. Even in the discomfort, I have become comfortable in the streets. The open air fades the smell a little and concrete fields mean I don't have to get too close to anyone I don't want to. Here, however, I had to struggle just to get my little butt in a seat. The long ratty hair of the woman beside me is tickling my left shoulder and the dirty sweatshirt of the man to my right is keeping my arm warm. I can feel the breath of the man behind me and if I'm not careful my knees may bruise the back of the person in front of me. Behind me and to my right is a chocolate skinned woman with round cheeks and full, chapped lips. Wearing an oversized ski coat, her frame is hard to make out. As she's fallen asleep her body has gradually leaned further and further onto the shoulder of the person next to her. It's cute in a way. A dark red color has been painted on her fingernails, only now to be noticeably chipped and fading. Her head is fully covered with a navy blue toboggan, the kind we Christians buy in bulk to hand out during winter. I wonder if in her mind the only dignity she has left lies in her polish remains.  I wonder if her hair has much in common with her fingernails. I wonder if the person beside her minds or even notices her sleepy weight.

 To describe this room as "cramped" is an understatement. "Uncomfortable" is a nice way to put it. The stench of brokenness is like a sweet reunion to my selfish soul.

 I often question why most people out here have some sort of addiction or a record a mile long. Its hard for me to give in to the belief that they've "always been this way", or they simply "choose" this lifestyle. Yes, there are many of my friends that choose to sleep in the shelters and eat off of charity. But, somewhere along the line they had to make the choice to give up. Some kind of darkness had to flip the switch of self worth off and convince them that life isn't worth anything. Somewhere along the line, darkness won the battle.

 I have to wonder: is it the trouble that put them on the streets or the streets that got them in trouble?

 When the place you call home creeps with demons and reeks of death, there is a weathering that takes place on a spirit. Denver Moore, homeless man and co-author of "Same Kind of Different As Me" says, "The streets'll turn a man nasty." Later he explains homelessness by saying "Sometimes its drinkin or druggin that lands a man on the streets. And if he ain't drinkin or druggin already, most fellas like me start in once we get there. It ain't to have fun. It's to have less misery. To try and forget that no matter how many "partners in crime" we might hook up with on the street, we is still alone."

 We that claim Jesus as life believe that He is the answer and hope to every longing and ache our hearts can fathom. Yet even we, being surrounded by life-giving families and communities, experience loneliness. We fall into addictions. We are prescribed anti-depressants. We apply for credit cards in hopes of soothing our need for newness. Little demons that peck away at our being.

 I am convinced that when darkness isn't broken by light, death starts a knockin. So yes, Jesus is "the answer", but is this a reality on the streets of Lancaster? Nope. (Maybe until  we are diligent in pushing back darkness like it was our only purpose in life, will this even begin to be a reality for the "least of these".)

 After time, I believe this dark hole of a home begins to wither a soul. Cries for light aren't heard. Cravings for truth aren't satisfied. And the soul begins to die…

Expecting someone in this environment to cling to the hope that Jesus can and will meet their every need is like expecting a flower to stay green under a blanket. The reality is that without light, the flower beings to wilt, and eventually, she gives up.

Yes, I realize these are natural things against a supernatural God. Yes, we serve a Lord of miracles. Yes, if you surround a candle with darkness it will burn with light (as one once argued). If we're going to go that route then who's there to trim the wick when it gets heavy?  Eventually even a candle burns down to a puddle of shapeless form.

 I am also convinced there is good. Somewhere under all the layers of dirt and depression, behind the years of anger and shame, there is good in these people. I see it every once in a while. A few weeks ago, a woman who fights to love Jesus every day gave everything she had to support our friends on a mission. It was twenty three cents. A little girl in the shelter known for hitting anyone that doesn't give in to her way shared a bite of her donut with me. In front of me, Paige sits on the floor with her back against the wall. A man about our age with shaggy brown hair and wrinkled khaki pants jumped up and offered her his seat. Somewhere in his heart, there is good. Even on the darkest streets in the country, there is chivalry. Jesus saw the spark of good left in people, too. The tough skinned prostitute suddenly kneels to wash his feet with her tears. The scrawny little tax collector ends up dining at the table of the Christ.

A flower may wilt and the petals may become black. It may lose its fragrance and have no backbone to stand straight. Cut it open though, and you may be surprised to see some green.

 It's there. And I am convinced I can find it.

 Want to join me?

-Keri