Every day I see someone bundled beneath a clump of dirty blankets on the city steps. Every day I see a man crumpled against an old dusty building, trying to sleep off a hangover and a bad life. Every day I see lines at the soup kitchen and lines at the shelter. Lines of grimy fingernails and unkempt hairlines and tattered clothing barely cutting the icy wind. Barely crawling through another day in the city. My city. Your city.
But what I don’t see everyday is this man in the plaid scarf and the faded and frayed jeans. This man who steps out of the cadence of the downtown business district and intentionally crosses the path of the homeless. This man who breaks the gaze, breaks the routine, breaks the silence and instead just sits down on the curb next to a disheveled shell of a man, “You hungry?”
Trevor wanted to be a lawyer. His quick intellect would take him far and his driving passion could keep him there. Influential. Respected. Comfortable. But then a basketball accident broke his back and he spent the summer into his senior year of highschool lying in bed partially paralyzed. As the days ticked by, Trevor asked hard questions of God. Sometimes there were angry tears. Sometimes there was just silence. But God was listening, and before long, so was Trevor.
God wanted more for him than the admiration of a law firm. A broader interaction than just that of a court room. His influence would not be commanded or legislated or found hanging in a mahogany frame on an office wall. No, God had a better idea. So after a year of rehabilitation and relearning to walk, Trevor enrolled in Lincoln Christian College and Seminary and began a pursuit of ministry. Even then, he didn’t know the shape that it would eventually take.
Meanwhile on the other side of the country, Kyle is going through some hard times. His wife has died and work isn’t going well. Some days the only way to survive is to numb the pain. To silence the cries from within and try to forget that no one is there. No one cares.
Who executes justice for the oppressed; who gives food to the hungry? The LORD sets the prisoners free. The LORD opens the eyes of the blind; the LORD raises up those who are bowed down; the LORD loves the righteous. Psalms 146:7-8
Now it’s 2006. Trevor has become a successful pastor in Texas. His lessons are relevant and his congregation is growing. He and his wife have begun a family and God is proving Himself good and faithful. Life has come full circle - he is influential, respected, comfortable. But it is only just beginning.
Trevor often speaks about the song that we each carry within us. Our internal rhythm by which we are inspired and driven. We are taught from early on to dance to the beat we hear and to collect an entourage within our life of supporting actors and players. But in this chapter of his life, God revealed to him another song, and with straining ears he began to hear the somber tones of the oppressed and the widow and the abandoned.
“You hungry?”
Trevor couldn’t have known that sometimes Kyle went three or four days without food. He couldn’t have known about the homeless camp, “the fraternity”, where they share resources and stories and lives. He couldn’t have known the relationship that was being birthed in that very moment of compassion. The ministry born. But God knew. And He was smiling. After some subs and chips, Kyle smiled too. “Thanks for making me feel human again.”
I met Trevor and Kyle when their conference, Remedy For This Heart, came to Nashville. Because I was slated to sing as part of the formatting, we had extra time through the day to hang around and discuss the winding paths of life and God. I was intrigued by this story and had lots of questions.
