Doors : treasure

 Treasure Trunk

He was from Gator Country. Where spicy is a mild word among the locals. Jambalaya and Jazz are native residents being born on the streets where he once called home. Philly was far from home. His first day was the one day that he would of never seen as a door to another world far from the swamps where darkness was said to lurk. What was left of his windshield , shattered. Two boys , just boys with hearts needing to be filled with more than their graffiti world had to offer. His heart needing to be poured out because it was full. Ministry was not what he planned on , Back then in the beginning he was a  Roman Catholic at the time of starting a Bible study with those two boys. He never guessed he would be fixing more than cracked glass.

Baby and I love to treasure hunt. One mans junk is anothers treasure trunk. There downtown Philly , was this hole in a wall shop. The outside was worn , cracked sidewalk and bags of what appeared to be trash sat. There was a table with  a mixture of what- nots and wares. This was what gave it away more than anything else. An X on an map. As we entered the door it was like entering a storage room filled with bags and boxes. There were clothes on racks tightly packed , everything appearing  to have some value to the owner of the shop even some things that were tattered. Hands deep in boxes and racks we soon had our arms full of this and that. A group of volunteers who traveled from Mississippi and other parts , a youth group and their pastor , were there helping to empty bags of donations and put them where they could find room. The man everyone called Papa was very happy and began to pull photos from a large bulletin board showing everyone his children and grandchildren , some biological others spiritual. When the group left my curiosity grew. This is when i asked him about this place , and his children. He showed me a small room on one side of the building which looked like a place to store the unopened bags of donations but then to the back there was another door and inside were rows of chairs , hymnals and bibles. There were musical instruments and there on the floor a stack of framed photos and obituary's. The photos were of young people. He told me that they were also his children. There were over twenty there and they were all homicides, some accidental some self inflicted , some from choosing to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, some just drive bys.   I noticed on his hand there were a list of names and signs. He showed me and told me that it was his prayer list and next to the names the sign of the Holy Spirit. He was very concerned about one girl Epnne, she was missing now for several months.

This very enthusiastic man said he never planned on Ministering to the youth , he never attended seminary school. He was now Protestant. His wife was a writer of childrens books but the thrift store was not where she felt her calling, he showed us one of her books and her photo and called her his Beautiful Wife. Several stories of this little shop and the man they call Papa had been written and he gave me one written by his daughter. From first sight you would never guess that this broken down building with bags of stuff would house a game room in the back with a pool table and other games and things for the youth to do or a small chapel for spiritual enlightenment or that it was really a place where love was being planted and harvested daily in the hearts of those some would call less fortunate. I call them blessed.

From the street , broken sidewalk , bags and boxes full of other peoples junk , mostly trash they dropped off for someone else to deal with to the cement steps, paint peeling cracked building. There is a door and through it a story. A story worth telling , a story of love.

Cynthia LuvbabyLuv