A few weeks ago, I found myself in a court room that was
nearly empty. By the time the judge heard all the other cases, there were three
of us left in the room, two mothers and myself. The T.V. came on, and the judge
explained to the inmates that they were participating in video court from the
county jail. The mothers were there to support their daughters; I was there to
support one of the members of my Mercy family who had no one else. I was there
with him, but we never physically saw one another.
The judge called his name and listed his charges; she then
spoke to his long history of getting into trouble with the criminal justice system.
Today he was in court for loitering, a failure to appear on previous charges
and not checking in with his probation officer. Before the judge sentenced him,
she asked me who I was and if I wanted to say anything on his behalf.
Not having much legal
experience nor being an actual pastor, I was a little uncertain of what I
should say. I said to her, “Your Honor, I have had the pleasure of working with
my friend for the past two years. I know he is not perfect, and he has a long
way to go. But I ask that you remember in sentencing him that he is chronically
homeless, loitering is his life sentence. He also struggles with addiction and
mental illness that has gone untreated for many years.”
In my reflection of that day,
I felt powerless. He was sentenced to six months and then he has to face the
probation office. In the midst of my powerlessness, I found the truest sense of
my call. I was not the prosecutor there
to get a conviction, nor the defense seeking to get him off. I was not the judge there to sentence him. I
was simply there to be with him, to walk beside him. I walked away not knowing
if my friend knew that he was not alone, that we cared for him.
After two years of service
with the YAV/DOOR program, I find myself in a season of transition, the program
ends in August. I don’t know what I will do after this service year, that’s
kind of scary. My friend and I share a sense of uncertainty about what is to
come. Yet in the midst of an uncertain future, there is one who walks with us
both; who reassures us that we never walk alone. God was present in the court
room that day, as well as the jail, and is with us now. Whatever I do in the
future, I want it to be grounded and rooted in the intentional act of walking
with friends through difficult times.
