Frank

I never blogged about Frank; or Boston.

In April our campus closed down for a week and students, faculty and staff scattered in different directions. It wasn't Spring Break, but a working week, a week we call E-3 around here. Sort of an "in the field" or practical experience. Some went to England, Romania, Montana, Colorado, and others stayed right in our own backyard of Lincoln. My group went to New England.

Since it was my first year teaching, I was going to co-lead our group and it was going to be small. I was actually following the lead of another guy, who had to back out the week before we left because of a family emergency. It was the right thing for him to do, and none of us begrudged him staying, we only grieved for him and his family and missed the expertise he would have been bringing on the trip. So a couple days before we were to leave, I was moved from co-leader with little responsibility to leader of the group (four other students) heading to work with a campus ministry in Boston. I'd never done this before, but felt a lot of peace about it. I've traveled a lot, often by myself, and feel like a "leaf on the wind" in these moments. It's a surreal experience, you have to expect the unexpected because you don't know what will happen or who you'll meet, and yet these seem to be some incredible times of growth for me.

We flew into New Hampshire, had one of the roughest landings I've experienced, battling wind shear the whole way (I could feel the plane being rocked side to side. It felt like we were driving fast down an old, hilly country road with no shocks), but landed safely.

I need to back up for a minute. In Dorchester, a suburb of Boston, there had been a shooting a week before. It had happened in broad daylight and was the news all over Boston and beyond. It had been bad enough that the guardian angels had been sent in the day before we came to add extra protection in the area. When we arrived in Boston that night, our liaison from the college said, "Whatever you do, don't go to Dorchester." The next day we met with our project leader who said, "Tomorrow we're going to Dorchester."

What happened in Dorchester will be maybe another story, but not the one I want to tell today, other than to say there was another shooting the day before we went to Dorchester a couple blocks from where we ended up working. But what I really want to talk about is Frank.

We went to Park Street Church in Boston on a Sunday night. We had already been in Boston a few days, and were exhausted from a variety of events. I even had to struggle with whether we would go or not, but we did.

A little background about Park Street Church. Founded in 1809, Park Street Church is close to the Boston Commons, is a conservative congregational church, and has been involved in social issues since its inception (including a speech against slavery by William Lloyd Garrison in 1829. A balcony facing the corner of the street allows for public speaking). It's a hot spot for 20 somethings and college students in Boston, and we had gone that night to see what they were all about and see how Park Street connected with the larger college and campus life of Boston. After the service I spoke with a guy from the Middle east who was going to grad school (at Harvard?). We left after most of the rest of the people had cleared out, and made our way out into the Boston night, on our way to Mike's, a popular pastry shop on the north side.

At the bottom of the stairs was a man wearing layers of clothes, wraps around his arms, a thick beard and deeply leathered face with his hand out. Others were filing past, the rest of our group had walked ahead down the street, and I turned to go as well, but then stopped. I couldn't do it. I often get uncomfortable when seeing a stereotypical "homeless" person on the street. I wonder what he wants, whether he'll ask me for money, if he really needs something or is trying to scam me. Most of the time I feel angry.

This night, I was torn. I felt the irony of a man standing outside a church, a place that is well known for reaching out to the needs of the community, and walking by and doing nothing. I stopped. "Can I help you?" I asked, expecting him to ask for money.

"They won't let me in," he said.

"Who won't?"

"They won't." He pointed to ushers who were now closing the doors of the church. "I just wanted a Bible and they won't let me in," he said. I was stunned. I also didn't have a Bible with me. It was the last thing I expected him to say.

By this time, the students I was with had stopped, and were walking back toward me. The man and I continued to talk. David stepped up, "I have a Bible. You can have this one." He handed the man a small, leather bound pocket Bible. The man took it.

"Will you bless it?" he said.

"We can pray for you," I said, and we closed in. "What's your name?"

"Frank." And then Frank began to pray one of the most profound prayers I've ever heard in my life. He prayed for himself, for warmth, for protection, for forgiveness, and he prayed for us, for Boston, for the people walking by us, and then he began singing the song "We Shall Overcome" as tears came to his eyes and he rocked back and forth. When he was done we were left speechless, not sure what to do or say. I asked him again if he needed anything else, and he said no, so we said our goodbyes and quietly shuffled off into the night, absorbed in our thoughts, wondering what had just happened.