He Went a Little Farther

Christmas is supposed to be a time of great joy and celebration. But for me it was a season of turmoil. The nature of our work had brought a series of threats against my life and a string of acts of vandalism against our property. There had been bomb threats, fires set, windows broken and pit bulls turned loose in our Children's Ministry Area. There was at least one contract on my life. The police cautioned me that I should not go anywhere alone. After weeks of feeling restricted, as though I couldn't even cross the street without supervision, I was fed-up. I didn't care about the Christmas Spirit, I just wanted to be out somewhere, on my own. The bed of my truck was filled with trash and junk I wanted to throw away. With little regard for the risk I was taking by going out alone into an area of the city where there were people who wanted to kill me, I headed toward our ministry center in what was then the notorious Short North District of Columbus. There behind our storefront, located in a dark and seemingly empty alley known as Wall Street, sat our dumpster. The dumpster was located in a small alcove. There was enough space behind the dumpster for homeless people to shelter themselves, and many did. I once identified the body of a murder victim found there by the police. A homeless man with his pants pulled down and his head bashed in. Wall Street was a dangerous place. Being there alone at night had cost more than one person his life. As I got out of the truck and started to unload the junk into that dumpster, the scene bore no resemblance to the poem, "The Night Before Christmas." Until, "When what to my wondering eyes should appear?" Not "A miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer." . . . But a girl walking out from behind the dumpster. No older than sixteen, she was not one of Santa's elves. Her clothing told the story that she was definitely "on the streets." Even in the early morning darkness I could tell this girl was exceptionally pretty. Yet the bruises on her face, her discolored lip, and a black eye told a Christmas Story that did not come from the pages of the Bible, nor the pen of Clement Clarke Moore. The police have told me that when a child or teenager lands on the streets of Columbus, Ohio, he/she will be 'recruited' by sex traffickers within four hours. This child was some trafficker's slave. Her wounds were a tale of an abusive handler or a "trick gone bad." Attempting to appear as sophisticated and sexy as one can appear while crawling out from behind a dumpster, she inquired, "Mister, would you like me to show you a real good time?" Stunned by the moment, I thought, "Oh God, this is somebody's daughter! A child who should be home with loving parents, 'all snuggled in her bed', dreaming of Christmas morning and waiting to get up and open presents! Instead she's down here behind a dumpster. She is sleeping in a place where homeless men go to relieve themselves. She's at risk of freezing while waiting for someone, anyone who will pay her a few dollars for a real good time." Trying to grasp how far this was from "The Night Before Christmas" or "Silent Night, Holy Night, all is calm, all is bright" I attempted to gather my composure. "Sweetheart, sit down on the tailgate of my truck and let's visit for just a minute." I grabbed an emergency blanket that I kept in my truck with which she could warm herself. Eyeing me, the truck bed, and the blanket, she sensed an all-too-familiar danger. Looking at me with fear and mistrust she asked, "What do you want me to do Mister?" "What did I want her to do?"