The Fence

Why Must The Curtains Close?

Why must seasons end? Why must straight roads turn? Why must the curtains close? Why must the credits roll?

Will the tears ever end? Must as soon as I stop crying about one thing, I begin to cry over something else? Why did I ever ask God to soften me, and pierce me, and let my blood flow?

Can't it be another way? Why would I move here and love here to be yanked away from it?

Today, I walked the city street one last time. Streets that I have often walked in prayer. I walked by the fence that I dream about. Even before I had ever walked that section of town, I had dreams of the ghetto, and a fence. That fence. There is no bike leaning up against it, like in my dreams. At least no bike on the side that I walk past. But without a doubt, it's that fence. As I passed the fence, and continued up the street, a car came flying down the hill, and a girl was shrieking from inside. Not far behind was a police car, in pursuit. I wondered why God turned my heart to the city, why I love it so much, and why that scene didn't panic me.

Why did God bring me here, and make my soul fall in love? Why did He open doors to a place to live and a job in Cockeysville? Why did I have to walk by an apartment for rent in the city today? Why couldn't the sign have gone up tomorrow? Must I be torn like this? Why must I love so intensely a place I normally would have run from, a place that would have made me uncomfortable, a place that would make me fearful? Why must these seven months end so abruptly? Why must the curtains close?

When can I come back, God? Will You bring me back?

When The Credits Roll

The chapter of my life in Lancaster will soon end. When the credits roll, tears will stain my face.

I have had to take one detour since my move to Lancaster. I was trying to go to a tack shop in Gap, but the road was closed; there was a detour. Seemingly, there was no reason for the detour. Perhaps there was road work, but I couldn't see it; maybe a tree was down; possibly a car accident. I don't know. The detour sent me on little back roads made of dirt for a horse and buggy. Eventually, I ended up at the tack shop.

I feel like I'm about to take a detour. There's no way through right now. It's not a bad thing; it just takes patience to wait. In April, I will move to Cockeysville. Still the ghetto, sort of. Everything pointed to the move: Rising gas prices, closer to the salon, only working one day a week in Lancaster for the summer, closer to family and friends, no apartments for rent in the city where I wanted to live . . . . My desire is to be back in the city one day, but for now I'm taking a detour.

I love Lancaster city: All the parks and cafes and beautiful streets; NewSong Fellowship, my church home here; my roommates. I have learned so much living here. I can parallel park my car now, and I (generally) remember to move my car for street cleaning! My weaknesses and my stengths do not define me; Jesus Christ does. Freedom. Frustrations. Need. Surrender. I've learned to cry, to be thankful, and to be alone.

I am finally settled here, and now I will take a detour and begin that process all over again in Cockeysville.

Horatio Spafford wrote this hymn in 1873. As the credits roll, my soul sings along.

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:
If Jordan above me shall roll,
No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life
Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

But, Lord, ’tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,
The sky, not the grave, is our goal;
Oh, trump of the angel! Oh, voice of the Lord!
Blessed hope, blessed rest of my soul!

It is well, with my soul.
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

The Story Begins

The story began back around April when I had a week of in-my-face God trying to get my attention. I had a conversation with a girl on facebook about pole dancing and prostitutes; for some reason the same topic came up at work; I watched "Price of Pleasure" because my friend, Chrissy, recommended it (it's a documentary about porn); then, God spoke in a voice only audible to my heart, but it was crystal clear.

I sat through the service in church that Sunday, and I couldn't tell you what the message was about, but at the end the pastor told a story about a Christian business guy on a business trip. I remember wondering what the story had to do with the rest of the message, but whatever the case it had a lot to do with what God had to say to me.

Here's my version of the story (it's something along these lines): He can't sleep and he hears some noise in the pub below him. He walks in and orders a coffee, and asks the man behind the counter what all the commotion is. "Oh, it's the prostitutes getting off work. Happens like clockwork every night at this time." He overhears one of them, a girl called Agnus, mention that it is her birthday the following day, but that no one ever celebrates it with her. After she leaves, he suggests that they throw her a birthday party the following night. So the next night there are decorations, and a huge birthday cake. When Agnus walks in they sing happy birthday to her and throw her a party. She asks if she can take the cake to show her friends. She runs out the door, telling them not to move and that she will be right back. In the awkward moments that follow, the business man suggests that they all pray for Agnus, and so they do. "Hey," says the man behind the counter, "I didn't know you were a Christian. What kind of church do you go to?" "I guess the kind of church that throws parties in the middle of the night for a prostitute," he answers. "That kind of church doesn't exist," says the man behind the counter, "and if it did, I would go to it." The story pierced my heart. As I sat there at the end of the service with a piece of bread and a cup of juice, I asked God to speak to my heart. And He did. "Rescue these captives, Julie. They're so precious to Me. Go to the ghetto."

Prostitutes? I've known I've been called to young girls since I was in high school myself. I knew that was my ministry. It IS my ministry. And I even understand how 'young girls' and 'prostitutes' fit together, but . . . .

I didn't forget what God said, but I knew He was going to have to show me more.

About a month later, I visited my dear friend, Ashley, in Lancaster. On my way up, I drove through what I term "the ghetto." And I fell in love. It was cute, the people were outside together experiencing community and investing in one another. I thought about all the sinful life cycles that lived there, and all the hurting girls, and I knew God was tugging on my heart. As I sat on their couch, we talked about me moving up there when I got back from camp, and living with them for awhile, but it seemed almost a joke – something that wouldn't ever really happen. On the way home, I passed a church that I looked up later online that has ghetto ministries happening weekly. It may seem clear, but it wasn't until later that I started putting things together. Prostitutes, the ghetto, and now provision to move into the ghetto by having an in-between place to live.

A couple weeks later, I was in D.C. Although we didn't drive through the ghetto, it was sketchy enough to count for something close! And again, I realized how much my heart yearned for a place much like it: poor, yes, but with so much need to see Christ in their next door neighbor. I had been reading through Luke, and each time Jesus sat down with the poor, the 'sinful', and the unexpected, it was confirmed again.

That's who I'm called to be. The next door neighbor who, by inviting them over for dinner or sitting out on the front steps with them, will really just be doing what Jesus did.

But that was before I left for camp. There was still a distance between those thoughts and the real thing.

Now, the real thing is in a few weeks. Looking for a job is real now. I began looking for jobs near the ghetto in D.C., Baltimore, and Lancaster. I have come across a part-time job in Lancaster, and as I train in the next few weeks that's going to be real too. Decisions are not only real, they also have to be made quickly now. No more time to sit and think about it. The real thing is saying goodbye to my family, friends, church, Bible study groups, and my girls' small group. And, if the ghetto is getting more and more real, so is the prospect of ministry with prostitutes. Don't know how it's going to play out, but I know that what I heard that Sunday morning was real. Maybe it will be a girl next door. Or maybe it will be much bigger than that.

It's almost too much to process. All the things that need to be done overwhelm me: job search, calling BGE, taking care of address switches, seeing friends I haven't seen all summer and telling them goodbye again . . . . All the emotions overwhelm me too: excitement, fear, nervousness, sadness, anticipation . . . .

I remembered the story from Genesis 12 when Abram leaves when God tells him to go. He doesn't wait around. He trusts. Until recently, I wasn't really trusting God to provide everything I needed in order to obey. But as I lied in bed one night, my heart swarming with thoughts and feelings, God and I talked. And I felt peace. He's taken care of little things: a place to live for awhile, a place to store my things until I have a few paychecks and can find a happy ghetto (or near the ghetto) apartment. And He'll take care of the big things too: a second job, a church, friends, . . . . Finally, this heart of mine sat still long enough for me to trust. Long enough for me to surrender. Long enough to hear that voice in my heart call me to the ghetto, to girls, to prostitutes, and have peace in it.

That's my story. And it's probably just the beginning . . . .