An Accidental Youth Group: What Happened When God Brought Homeless Kids to Church

This wasn't my plan. I planned to serve a Christ-centered, fun, and predictable youth ministry. I guess two out of three wasn't bad... It was Christ-centered. It was also fun—mostly. But predictable? Not. Here's what happened when God planned it.

In 2008 I had been a general Christian ministries director for several years. I longed to focus on youth and children and was finally offered that position at a church twenty minutes from home. I was overjoyed. The existing program was strong, and the congregation was welcoming and eager to undergird youth ministry. I was excited to get started.

The youth wanted to meet on Sundays and Wednesdays, and I began preparing a hot, homemade meal every Wednesday. The meeting was named the Supper Club. This seemed like a good idea since the Church has consistently grown around the table. I enjoy cooking for a crowd, and funds were available for groceries. We settled into a comfortable routine.

After a couple of weeks, some less affluent students began to ask about transportation. They wanted to be at Supper Club but couldn't get a ride to or from the church. I started picking up any kid who wanted a ride from school to church using the church van. They worked on homework in the kitchen while I cooked. Kids were eating, socializing, learning how to make brownies, and following Jesus. It was all good.

But then, after a few more weeks, the numbers grew. And grew. The van was full. After a few more weeks, I noticed a few teens arriving at church on bikes and skateboards. They showed up well before our announced meeting time. They were invited to play basketball in the gym adjacent to the kitchen. That way, I could supervise everyone. But there were too many kids for a safe environment. I needed help. That's a good problem to have, right?

The Wednesday volunteers were willing to arrive an hour or so earlier, and the situation worked itself out. The weather was pleasant, so recreation moved outside to the basketball court. The rest of the parking lot was open to skateboarding and bicycle tricks. It was like watching a circus each week, and no one ever got hurt.

Everyone was enjoying themselves, and soon, nearly fifty teens were gathered around tables for the evening meal. We managed to get a couple more volunteers to supervise and clean up after the meal, which left me free to teach the older ones. A faithful woman taught the younger ones. The volunteers were stretched thin, and there were days when we barely had a safe child/adult ratio.

But there was another issue. We didn't know many of these new arrivals, where they lived, or their families. They dressed and presented themselves differently than typical church children. Even though they were welcomed, fed, and included in the faith formation lesson, there were some concerns.

A few adults approached me and suggested that these students only came for the meal. I replied that they also stayed for Bible study and were participating. But I was beginning to feel nervous myself. The challenges were growing along with the size of the group. Who were these young people? Where had they come from? How did they hear about Supper Club?

I knew that some members of this well-esteemed congregation would be highly displeased to see some of these students on the church property. These children, many teen boys, looked rough and talked tough. It was not the standard image of traditional church kids. I knew what some older members might say if they wandered by on a Wednesday evening.

I learned how well the boys played basketball or rode skateboards and how many times they had crashed my unicycles. I saw through the rough exteriors to the frightened, hungry boys within. When all the children were served supper, I would take my plate, sit next to one of these boys, and ask the same question: "What is your story?" I wish that I had been better prepared for the answers.

What I heard around those tables ranged from heartbreaking to blood-curdling. I counted ten boys who were homeless. They were couch-surfing at the houses of acquaintances, sleeping where they could. They told of being "kicked out of the house" and stepfathers who were drunk or high. Or no adult male at all and a mother that was drunk or high. All of these boys were neglected or abused, and it showed.

With Jesus as the only One encouraging me and a few incredibly dedicated adult sidekicks willing to take a risk, the mission was to be the living, breathing example of Jesus for those hungry and lonely teenage guys. The real challenge? Balancing this mission while keeping my job! It was clear that some didn't like this.

I didn't know what else to do except keep working—basketball, skateboarding, supper, and Jesus. Groceries became an issue. I approached the deer hunters I knew, including my husband, who each provided pounds and pounds of venison. I asked the congregation to give the youth group a "pounding," a rural tradition of providing pantry staples. No one asked why we needed so much food, and I said nothing. New children kept showing up.

One week, as I was getting ready to leave the kitchen and teach, one of our boys brought a new boy in. They had missed supper. The one I knew approached me. "Mama T.?" (I had received a nickname by then.) "He's hungry." He gestured toward his companion and said nothing else. I looked at the new boy. He was young—no more than thirteen.

"Well, we can't have that," I responded. There were seldom leftovers, and that night was no exception. I went into the pantry to scrounge for something to put in this child's tummy and found the old standby: peanut butter and jelly. There was also a loaf of bread. While I made the sandwiches, I overheard the one whisper to the other, "See? I told you she was nice." Whose children were these? Where were the mothers? How could this be happening? I poured glasses of milk and put the scant food in front of them.

What kind of ministry was this? I was getting scared. I was not prepared or trained for this. The rumblings from adults who discovered these teens were getting loud. "These children are taking advantage." "They just come for food." The volunteers were getting antsy from being questioned. But we couldn't stop feeding hungry kids.

By then, it had been a year since the first of these boys had shown up, and many church children had started attending only on Sunday evenings. The pastor received complaints. He had seen the group and understood God was doing this work and that I was caught in the whirlwind. But he was in a delicate position. Parishioners can be demanding. When they say this has to stop, they expect it to stop. I could feel things unraveling.

We continued week after week until the spring of 2010. We had been feeding homeless boys and lots of other kids for about eighteen months. There were ups and downs, pressure, and joy.

The school administrators knew that these boys were homeless or "McKinney-Vento,"* as they are called in public schools. I asked the guidance counselor if there was anything else we could do for the most vulnerable kids. There wasn't, but one meal a week was not a drop in the bucket of fixing their situations. I prayed for help.

Then, in early April 2010, my husband and I received a phone call.

My husband was and is a pastor. At that time, we served in a denomination that valued the itinerancy of its clergy. That means that occasionally, ministers were arbitrarily moved to a new congregation. My husband had been moved to a church 100 miles away.

We protested vociferously. What about the work I was doing? An older administrator scoffed loudly. "You're just a youth leader, " he snorted dismissively. I was stunned at the unkindness. I looked at another administrator. I had told her what was going on. She avoided eye contact and said, "You have a choice. Stay where you are or go with your husband." I responded that there was no choice. My husband was my first commitment.

We moved in July 2010. I commuted for six weeks, but the nearly two-hour drive each way proved too difficult. More than that, my effectiveness was gone. I could not give what anyone needed—not my husband, our new congregation, or the children who counted on me. I resigned, knowing that no one would pick up the work I left behind.

Feeding and caring for poor rural children is hard work, and there were real concerns.

Here is the big question: Is it right to mix carefully raised affluent children with those who had never known an hour of security or safety from birth? For all they had in common, they might as well have been from different planets. Some parents didn't like it—even those with deep compassion for impoverished children.

Meeting twice a week had the natural effect of keeping the groups separate, but it was still not a great answer. There must be a place where understanding and love can grow—where fear disappears, and friendship fills the gap. I don't know how to create that.

All I know is that for thirty months of my life, I was privileged to work and serve a group of young people who are now fully grown adults I would not recognize. I think of them so often. I can still hear their voices and see their faces as though it all happened yesterday. I wonder if they remember when they were welcome at church and allowed to be normal teenagers who could count on a meal and the word of God. I hope so.

I doubt that I will ever know what became of those young people. But I do know that I have been eternally changed. I see the world differently now. I understand that we are all homeless, hungry, dirty, and in need of a place to be loved and fed just as we are. We are all in this life together; the Church has the only message to bring us to one table.

May His Kingdom come.

*The McKinney-Vento Act, in part, provides a definition of homelessness that includes children whose housing is considered insecure for various reasons. This federal act ensures that homeless children are allowed full access to public education.