Mission Impossible
Why had I agreed to go? I posed that question to myself
as I reviewed my recent conversation with a church friend.
Speeding toward home, I wondered out loud, "Will I ever
learn to say no?"
That innocent chat at the grocery store resulted in an
unwanted commitment. Before thinking it through, I'd agreed
to be the special music for the group from church going to
the rescue mission the following week. I not only didn't
know anything about rescue missions, I wasn't a vocal
soloist.
I'd sung in large and small vocal groups most of my school
years, but me singing by myself?
Why had I mentioned to Glen that I was studying voice at
Moody Evening School? That's why he'd asked. He thought I'd
be a great addition to the regular group who went every
month to present one of the nightly programs.
Over the next few days I wanted to call him to cancel, but
I'd been taught to keep my commitments. Instead, I looked
through music and prayed about what to sing. I kept coming
back to "I Believe in Miracles," a favorite since I'd first
heard it sung at church several months before.
Before I knew it, Friday arrived, and so did I, promptly at
6:30. The rest of the group was already there, so soon we
headed downtown in several cars. I kept one ear cocked to
the conversation around me, but I didn't participate in it.
Butterflies had already started in my stomach as I thought
of my upcoming solo. I kept chiding myself for agreeing to
go.
The car stopped, breaking my reverie. "This can't be it," I
thought. "This looks like an office building." However, the
lighted sign on top of the building indicated we were at the
right place.
We entered the mission and followed the superintendent up
the side aisle and across the front of the auditorium to the
prayer room. Curious, I glanced around trying to take it all
in.
Framed Bible verses hung on the front and side walls, and
grand pianos stood on each side of the platform. The men sat
on folding chairs facing the platform.
Arriving at the prayer room, I was introduced to the
superintendent. He asked me several questions, talked with
the men, and then left. The church men and I chatted for
several minutes, and they tried to put me at ease, knowing
this was my first time in a mission. Then each of us prayed
for the speaker and special music, but especially for the
men attending, that their hearts would be receptive to the
gospel message.
All too soon we filed to the platform. As I sat facing the
men, I noticed their dirty and disheveled clothes, matted
hair, and unshaven faces. The forlorn, hopeless expressions
gripped me. I'd never encountered such despair.
I started asking myself questions. "Why were the men there?
Were they hiding? Were they there because of alcohol and
drugs? Had they fallen on hard times?" With my limited
knowledge of rescue missions, I had no answers. I'd seek
answers to those questions and others I might think of on
the way home.
The leader got up and stood behind the podium. He greeted
the men and asked them to open their song books and named a
page. As the singing started, my butterflies increased.
"What am I doing here?" I asked myself. "I don't belong
here. I don't even want to be here."
My solo grew closer with each hymn sung. As my apprehension
mounted, I began a conversation with the Lord, asking Him
what I was going to do.
The leader interrupted, and I heard him say, "Joyce come
sing for us."
With my knees shaking, I walked to the podium. My
conversation with the Lord continued.
"Lord, you know the reason I'm here is because I can't say
no. It's just you and me now. Please give me the strength I
need," I pleaded silently.
Then, listening to the introduction to my song, my eyes
swept again over the dejected expressions before me. An
overwhelming desire to share the love of God with the men
enveloped me.
I stood a little taller, smiled a little wider, and began to
sing "I Believe in Miracles." My heart's desire was to
convey that message. Since taking Christ as my personal
Savior the year before, I was a miracle--a "new creature in
Him." The men needed to hear that they, too, could be one.
As I sang that message from my heart, I began to relax.
Relief washed over me as I sat down. Soon my pounding heart
started to return to its normal rhythm and the butterflies
began to subside. Leaning back in my chair, I watched and
prayed for the men as they listened to the speaker.
Suddenly, unbidden thoughts crossed my mind. "Would it be
easier next time?" I chided myself.
"Would there be a next time? Did I want there to be?" Yes, I
realized I did. A strong desire had been borne in my heart.
I wanted to minister in song to the homeless people of
Chicago's Skid Row; men and women I'd known little about
just a few hours earlier.
As I'd watched a flicker of hope pass over several faces
during my song, I felt compelled to come back. Perhaps my
music could be a catalyst to help bring the hope of a new
life in Christ to some of these men and women who seemed to
have little or no hope left.
What had seemed an impossible mission that night, became a
possible mission with the Lord's help; a mission and
ministry that lasted for 20 years until the Skid Row area
was razed for urban renewal.
Joyce Heiser copyright 2004
djheiser@ez-net.com
Joyce Heiser treasures her memories and is grateful for her
many years of ministering to some of Chicago's forgotten
people and knows that she brought a little sunshine and hope
into their lives, if only for a few minutes. She has several
stories in the 2theheart.com archives and has a story
featured in the new book.