In the Book of Luke, Chapter 15, Jesus tells a series of parables that describe the great lengths people will go to find something lost and the joy that follows when they do. He talks about a shepherd leaving a flock of ninety-nine to find a single sheep and a father who welcomes home a prodigal son after squandering half of the father's wealth. In Santa Barbara people don't generally lose sheep, but there are times when teenagers decide that the prodigal path looks better than life at home. Police officers find themselves in a unique position to find and reunite children with their families during times like this. It is an opportunity to start the healing process and rebuild families. Sometimes, we have the opportunity to be more than just the finder of a lost sheep.
Little Audrey's was an iconic diner in Santa Barbara. The restaurant was right in the middle of downtown and looked just like a place you might find along on Route 66 in the 1970's. For decades, Audrey served pancakes, BLT's, hamburgers and fries to thousands of customers. Cops paid $2.50 no matter what they ordered. Legend had it that a Police Chief once went down to the diner to confront Audrey about giving away discounted meals to cops. He ordered her stop. Audrey threw him out.
The diner was a family affair and Audrey's daughters and grandchildren worked at the restaurant with her. I ate at Audrey's two or three times a week. The rule of thumb was that when you paid for the meal, you left a tip that covered the cost of whatever you ordered. Over time, I got to know Audrey, her children and grandchildren. I would bring my family to the diner to eat. Audrey even held my oldest daughter as a baby and we still have her gift of an embroidered baby blanket.
One particular Sunday morning, I was working a patrol shift and went to Audrey’s early to grab some breakfast. I walked through the back door and could tell something was wrong. One of Audrey's daughters was in tears, Audrey was visibly shaken and the staff was oddly quiet as they went about their work. Audrey met me after I walked only a few steps into the business and told me that her 15 year old granddaughter, Brandy, ran away the night before. The family spent a sleepless night calling friends and driving through Santa Barbara looking for her. There were no such things as a cell phone, texting or e-mails. They were scared and worried. There was nothing more they could do. They had to open the business for the day.
I sat down to have breakfast and spent time talking with Audrey and Brandy’s mom about the circumstances leading up to that morning. Brandy’s mom was raising her daughter as a single parent. Over the previous months there was lots of arguing, disrespect and everyone in the family had opinions and expectations. It all ended with Brandy disappearing. That had not happened before. I finished eating, told them I would look for Brandy and left to go back to work.
It was typically quiet on Sunday mornings and I decided to drive around on the chance that I might spot Brandy out and about. The question was: Where would a 15 year old girl walk around on a Sunday morning after running away? Santa Barbara is 19 square miles with 100,000 people. I figured she would turn up in a few days and I would hear about it when I went back to the diner.
It occurred to me that five blocks away at the beach was a hotel that shared the same building with a local bar called Rocky’s. Rocky’s was a gathering place for 20 somethings. The staff was less than enthusiastic about checking ID’s and it was common to find under-aged kids in the business. The hotel was a place where teenagers would rent rooms and hold parties with minimal risk of the cops getting called out for loud music complaints. If you got denied access to Rocky’s, you could always go back up to your room for a shot and a beer.
I remember sitting in my police car and getting a sense that I should check there first. It sounds strange but it felt like the right place to go. I drove my police car out of the parking lot behind Audrey’s and travelled the five blocks or so towards the beach. As I drove past the front of the hotel, there stood a lone person. “Gee,” I thought, "That looks like Brandy.”
It was.
I did not believe it.
I pulled up to the curb. The look on her face not one of anger or fear but one asking for help. I pulled up to the curb and told her to get in so I could take her home. She accepted and climbed in the car. I did not ask her what she did or where she had been the previous night. I drove back to the restaurant.
Not ten minutes after I left the diner, I walked back in with Brandy right behind me. It was a very cool moment and there were looks of surprise on many faces in the diner. There was no yelling, no accusations, just relief as mother and daughter embraced. I spent a few minutes to make sure everything was ok. I left them sitting in a back booth of the diner quietly talking. It was a turning point for the family and I would watch Brandy grow into a young adult in the years that followed. I was blessed to see how my small role made a difference in a family’s life.
The following Sunday, I went back to the diner for breakfast. Audrey made me sit in the booth next to the kitchen.
“What do you want to eat, hun?”
“Surprise me.” I said.
The next thing I know, Audrey went into the kitchen, told all the cooks to stand back and after a little while I got the following:
A plate (and I mean ½ a loaf) of sourdough toast.
A plate of sliced tomatoes.
A plate of bacon.
A plate of hash browns (Audrey style).
A plate with two steaks cooked medium rare (The way I like them).
A plate of fried eggs (I think there were four).
Coffee, orange juice and milk.
The food just kept coming. I felt bad now. There was no way I could eat all of this.
Then I got the bill…$2.50.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
A Baby in a Basket
Exodus 2:1-6 tells the story of Moses and how he as an infant he was put in a basket and floated down the Nile River. The daughter of Pharaoh found him, adopted him as a son and started a chain of events that brought Israel to the Promised Land. We can unknowingly be God’s instruments and be called as servants with results that we will never know. The challenge is to be willing to listen and respond to God’s calling when the opportunity presents itself.
For two years I was part of a street crimes enforcement unit. Our mission was to go out in t-shirts and jeans every day to find crimes in progress and arrest people committing them. It was one of the best jobs of my career. I spent most of the time was chasing drug dealers and users. One of the busiest areas for drug dealing was right in downtown Santa Barbara. On one block in particular were the Faulding Hotel and the Adobe Motel.
The Faulding was a five story hotel that might be described as a ½ star at best. The Adobe a two story property and was not much better.
The Faulding Hotel was not a place any officer felt comfortable in even during daylight hours. I always had a partner along as back up any time I ventured up the stairs looking for criminal activity. The good people who lived here were on general relief or some other form of government assistance. There were also drug dealers and users that wanted a place to sleep with no questions asked by disengaged desk clerks. These were the people we wanted out of the hotel.
Directly across the street from the Faulding was the Adobe Motel. Motel rooms were rented to prostitutes or dope dealer’s for as long as they had a supply of drugs to sell. I made a habit of stopping in to the front office at least once a week to take a look at the guest register. I was always sure to find a “registered guest” subject to search and seizure that pretty much guaranteed an arrest. The trick was to get through the motel room door and get in before drugs got flushed down the toilet.
On one particular day, I was with two other officers and we had just entered the ground floor of the Faulding Hotel. We walked through the musty lobby, passed the front desk and headed toward a carpeted stairs that led to a sitting room filled with mismatched couches. I was in the lead and saw a woman holding a baby in her arms walking toward me from the sitting room. I recognized her as a woman that had used drugs in the past and I had arrested for possession and prostitution many times. I used the word “had” because she was currently clean. Her reason to stop was in her arms. Her baby gave her the hope and motivation to stop using drugs but not the financial means to escape the hotel.
As she closed the gap between us, I could see a look of concern on her face. My two partners drew up close as she stopped in front of me and asked if I remembered her.
“Sure.” I said waiting for what she wanted to tell me.
“Last night, I heard that Kristy was shooting up in the third floor bathroom and she left her baby on the floor in urine soaked clothes after she was done. I picked up the baby and brought her to my room and put her in some of my son’s clothes.”
“Is she still in your room?”
“No, Kristy’s boyfriend got her this morning and took her over to room 108 at the Adobe across the street.”
“Where’s Kristy?” I asked.
“I haven’t seen her since last night.”
This mother didn’t care that she was talking to a cop in the middle of what was nothing less than a lion’s den filled with parolees, dope dealers and thieves. And yet, even among people that many would classify as criminals, there are times when it is acceptable to tell. This was one.
My first daughter was 8 months old at the time and I easily identified with the fears of the woman standing in front of me. It was clear to me that my partners and I needed to find this child and take action. I turned to my fellow officers to figure out our next step and to my surprise they had walked away leaving me standing alone with this reformed drug user that was seeking our help.
I had no idea where my “partners” disappeared to and I really did not care. I had a child to find and rescue. I could care less what I had to do to make sure a helpless little baby girl found refuge. I turned and walked out of the lobby and headed across the street toward the Adobe Motel. Room 108 was at the end of the “L” shaped motel on the ground floor. I walked through the parking lot in a direct path to the front door of the room. The door was closed and standing just outside was a man that easily weighed 300 pounds and would be a formidable foe if things went sideways. I was in street clothes and only had my weapon and a pair of handcuffs with no one to back me up.
There are times in our journey of faith that God motivates us to action with righteous anger. The junkie mother that preferred getting loaded over caring for her child, the desperate mother asking me to help a baby at risk, thoughts of my 8-month-old daughter and partners that conveniently disappeared because a felony arrest was unlikely to result if we found the child fueled my resolve to find this little baby.
I approached the door to the motel room with the large man in view. He was standing to the right of the door in front of the window that had the drapes drawn closed to prevent me from seeing inside. The large man either recognized me or saw my badge and gun on my belt but it was clear that even without a uniform on he knew what I was.
“Where is the baby?” I demanded.
“In the room, asleep.” The large man replied indignant.
“I am going inside to check on her.”
“Do you have a warrant?” He demanded moving in front of the motel room door.
I would do to him in a less than professional manner if he did not move. He made the decision to do the right thing and stepped aside.
I opened the door and stepped into what amounted to a 10 by 16 room with a bathroom to the rear. There was a double bed against one wall and the baby was placed in the middle, sleeping soundly. She looked healthy and dry. Between the bed and the bathroom wall were a pile of large plastic bags that were filled with clothes and other junk. I saw nothing in the way of diapers, formula, baby clothes or anything else necessary to care for an infant child of no more than 8 months.
“Where are the baby’s clothes?” I asked surveying the less than clean condition of the room.
“In those bags somewhere.” Came the response from the large man. It was clear he had no idea where anything was.
“What if the baby needs a diaper change?” I never thought as a cop I would be giving an oral parenting exam to anybody.
“I don’t change diapers.” Came the reply and that was all I needed to make my decision.
“The baby is mine.” I said and moved toward the sleeping baby carefully picking her up as if she was my own daughter.
As I picked up the child and turned to leave the room the large man insisted that he had women friends he could call on to help him with feeding and diaper changes. I don’t even think I gave the guy another look but brushed past him out the front door. Now I found myself standing in the middle of a crappy motel parking lot in street clothes with a baby cradled in my arms and a 9mm handgun and badge strapped to my side. The good news was that my partners made their way over to the motel and met me as I walked across the parking lot.
“Get the car.” I directed one of the guys I was working with. We returned to the police department. I turned the baby over to a child protective services worker. I never saw that little baby again.
Three months later I was back walking in front of the Faulding Hotel and I spotted Kristy walking toward me. It was clear that she was still using and was working as a prostitute for income. We had a short conversation and I wound up giving her a ticket for being in possession of marijuana. After this encounter, I made a beeline for the station. I immediately called the child protective services office and found out who this woman’s caseworker was. As it turned out, the caseworker told me that she was glad I called to tell her about my contact with Kristy because the caseworker was planning to give the child back to her at the end of the week!
After that, I made it a point to notify Kristy’s caseworker any time I arrested Kristy or saw her loitering around the area of the Faulding. The child was given up for adoption and a few years later I found Kristy once again in front of the Faulding. This time, she was clean. She told me about the family her daughter was with and that she got to see her daughter on occasion. The little girl I rescued from a drug using mother is now 19. I don’t know how things worked out for her or where she is. I do know that God put me in the lobby of the Faulding Hotel to take the “basket floating down the Nile” out of the water.
For two years I was part of a street crimes enforcement unit. Our mission was to go out in t-shirts and jeans every day to find crimes in progress and arrest people committing them. It was one of the best jobs of my career. I spent most of the time was chasing drug dealers and users. One of the busiest areas for drug dealing was right in downtown Santa Barbara. On one block in particular were the Faulding Hotel and the Adobe Motel.
The Faulding was a five story hotel that might be described as a ½ star at best. The Adobe a two story property and was not much better.
The Faulding Hotel was not a place any officer felt comfortable in even during daylight hours. I always had a partner along as back up any time I ventured up the stairs looking for criminal activity. The good people who lived here were on general relief or some other form of government assistance. There were also drug dealers and users that wanted a place to sleep with no questions asked by disengaged desk clerks. These were the people we wanted out of the hotel.
Directly across the street from the Faulding was the Adobe Motel. Motel rooms were rented to prostitutes or dope dealer’s for as long as they had a supply of drugs to sell. I made a habit of stopping in to the front office at least once a week to take a look at the guest register. I was always sure to find a “registered guest” subject to search and seizure that pretty much guaranteed an arrest. The trick was to get through the motel room door and get in before drugs got flushed down the toilet.
On one particular day, I was with two other officers and we had just entered the ground floor of the Faulding Hotel. We walked through the musty lobby, passed the front desk and headed toward a carpeted stairs that led to a sitting room filled with mismatched couches. I was in the lead and saw a woman holding a baby in her arms walking toward me from the sitting room. I recognized her as a woman that had used drugs in the past and I had arrested for possession and prostitution many times. I used the word “had” because she was currently clean. Her reason to stop was in her arms. Her baby gave her the hope and motivation to stop using drugs but not the financial means to escape the hotel.
As she closed the gap between us, I could see a look of concern on her face. My two partners drew up close as she stopped in front of me and asked if I remembered her.
“Sure.” I said waiting for what she wanted to tell me.
“Last night, I heard that Kristy was shooting up in the third floor bathroom and she left her baby on the floor in urine soaked clothes after she was done. I picked up the baby and brought her to my room and put her in some of my son’s clothes.”
“Is she still in your room?”
“No, Kristy’s boyfriend got her this morning and took her over to room 108 at the Adobe across the street.”
“Where’s Kristy?” I asked.
“I haven’t seen her since last night.”
This mother didn’t care that she was talking to a cop in the middle of what was nothing less than a lion’s den filled with parolees, dope dealers and thieves. And yet, even among people that many would classify as criminals, there are times when it is acceptable to tell. This was one.
My first daughter was 8 months old at the time and I easily identified with the fears of the woman standing in front of me. It was clear to me that my partners and I needed to find this child and take action. I turned to my fellow officers to figure out our next step and to my surprise they had walked away leaving me standing alone with this reformed drug user that was seeking our help.
I had no idea where my “partners” disappeared to and I really did not care. I had a child to find and rescue. I could care less what I had to do to make sure a helpless little baby girl found refuge. I turned and walked out of the lobby and headed across the street toward the Adobe Motel. Room 108 was at the end of the “L” shaped motel on the ground floor. I walked through the parking lot in a direct path to the front door of the room. The door was closed and standing just outside was a man that easily weighed 300 pounds and would be a formidable foe if things went sideways. I was in street clothes and only had my weapon and a pair of handcuffs with no one to back me up.
There are times in our journey of faith that God motivates us to action with righteous anger. The junkie mother that preferred getting loaded over caring for her child, the desperate mother asking me to help a baby at risk, thoughts of my 8-month-old daughter and partners that conveniently disappeared because a felony arrest was unlikely to result if we found the child fueled my resolve to find this little baby.
I approached the door to the motel room with the large man in view. He was standing to the right of the door in front of the window that had the drapes drawn closed to prevent me from seeing inside. The large man either recognized me or saw my badge and gun on my belt but it was clear that even without a uniform on he knew what I was.
“Where is the baby?” I demanded.
“In the room, asleep.” The large man replied indignant.
“I am going inside to check on her.”
“Do you have a warrant?” He demanded moving in front of the motel room door.
I would do to him in a less than professional manner if he did not move. He made the decision to do the right thing and stepped aside.
I opened the door and stepped into what amounted to a 10 by 16 room with a bathroom to the rear. There was a double bed against one wall and the baby was placed in the middle, sleeping soundly. She looked healthy and dry. Between the bed and the bathroom wall were a pile of large plastic bags that were filled with clothes and other junk. I saw nothing in the way of diapers, formula, baby clothes or anything else necessary to care for an infant child of no more than 8 months.
“Where are the baby’s clothes?” I asked surveying the less than clean condition of the room.
“In those bags somewhere.” Came the response from the large man. It was clear he had no idea where anything was.
“What if the baby needs a diaper change?” I never thought as a cop I would be giving an oral parenting exam to anybody.
“I don’t change diapers.” Came the reply and that was all I needed to make my decision.
“The baby is mine.” I said and moved toward the sleeping baby carefully picking her up as if she was my own daughter.
As I picked up the child and turned to leave the room the large man insisted that he had women friends he could call on to help him with feeding and diaper changes. I don’t even think I gave the guy another look but brushed past him out the front door. Now I found myself standing in the middle of a crappy motel parking lot in street clothes with a baby cradled in my arms and a 9mm handgun and badge strapped to my side. The good news was that my partners made their way over to the motel and met me as I walked across the parking lot.
“Get the car.” I directed one of the guys I was working with. We returned to the police department. I turned the baby over to a child protective services worker. I never saw that little baby again.
Three months later I was back walking in front of the Faulding Hotel and I spotted Kristy walking toward me. It was clear that she was still using and was working as a prostitute for income. We had a short conversation and I wound up giving her a ticket for being in possession of marijuana. After this encounter, I made a beeline for the station. I immediately called the child protective services office and found out who this woman’s caseworker was. As it turned out, the caseworker told me that she was glad I called to tell her about my contact with Kristy because the caseworker was planning to give the child back to her at the end of the week!
After that, I made it a point to notify Kristy’s caseworker any time I arrested Kristy or saw her loitering around the area of the Faulding. The child was given up for adoption and a few years later I found Kristy once again in front of the Faulding. This time, she was clean. She told me about the family her daughter was with and that she got to see her daughter on occasion. The little girl I rescued from a drug using mother is now 19. I don’t know how things worked out for her or where she is. I do know that God put me in the lobby of the Faulding Hotel to take the “basket floating down the Nile” out of the water.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Sorrow and the Badge
One of the best assignments I had as a police officer was in 1989 when I worked as a member of a street crimes unit. I rode bikes, walked foot patrols and worked in street clothes to catch people doing everything from drug dealing to aggressive panhandling. Every day was an opportunity to arrest felons and write tickets to people for nuisance crimes. Santa Barbara had a large population of homeless people and the focus of the team was on the small percentage of them that chose a criminal lifestyle. I was always busy and put many of the same hard core, criminal homeless in jail over and over.
In early 1991, I received a call from the Santa Barbara County Elections Department and it was not good news. A clerk working at the front counter watched two homeless men enter the office and begin searching a publicly accessible database that listed the names and addresses of registered voters. The clerk figured out that they were searching for police officer’s names. He heard them talking about me.
Days later, a neighbor saw two homeless men enter the apartment complex where I lived with my wife, Margie. She was pregnant with our first daughter. They looked at the names on the mailboxes and left. Our name was not listed. The manager of the complex removed the nametag from the mailbox hours after I heard from the Elections Office. A week later, we moved out of Santa Barbara. This was the only time that I was targeted off duty for being a police officer and had to move.
More times than I can count people called me names, swore at me and threatened me. I recognized that their anger and hatred was not because of the person I was but because of the badge I wore on my uniform. I did not respond in kind, but did my job and made an effort to be fair no matter how evil people were towards me. In the book His Passion, Christ’s Journey to the Resurrection, the following passage reminded me of this kind of hatred.
“When Christians speak of Jesus as a ‘Man of Sorrows’ who is ‘acquainted with grief,’ they are not describing His spiritual nature. Grief was something thrust upon our Lord by his opposition. It was flung at Him along with blows and curses. He did not exchange his joy for sorrow; the sorrow came from without. The joy remained within Him and the hostility that built up against Him, all the conspiring that resulted in His betrayal, arrest, imprisonment, trial, crucifixion, sentencing, flogging and crucifixion did not change Jesus. If he became acquainted with grief, it was only to endure it.”
In early 1991, I received a call from the Santa Barbara County Elections Department and it was not good news. A clerk working at the front counter watched two homeless men enter the office and begin searching a publicly accessible database that listed the names and addresses of registered voters. The clerk figured out that they were searching for police officer’s names. He heard them talking about me.
Days later, a neighbor saw two homeless men enter the apartment complex where I lived with my wife, Margie. She was pregnant with our first daughter. They looked at the names on the mailboxes and left. Our name was not listed. The manager of the complex removed the nametag from the mailbox hours after I heard from the Elections Office. A week later, we moved out of Santa Barbara. This was the only time that I was targeted off duty for being a police officer and had to move.
More times than I can count people called me names, swore at me and threatened me. I recognized that their anger and hatred was not because of the person I was but because of the badge I wore on my uniform. I did not respond in kind, but did my job and made an effort to be fair no matter how evil people were towards me. In the book His Passion, Christ’s Journey to the Resurrection, the following passage reminded me of this kind of hatred.
“When Christians speak of Jesus as a ‘Man of Sorrows’ who is ‘acquainted with grief,’ they are not describing His spiritual nature. Grief was something thrust upon our Lord by his opposition. It was flung at Him along with blows and curses. He did not exchange his joy for sorrow; the sorrow came from without. The joy remained within Him and the hostility that built up against Him, all the conspiring that resulted in His betrayal, arrest, imprisonment, trial, crucifixion, sentencing, flogging and crucifixion did not change Jesus. If he became acquainted with grief, it was only to endure it.”
Friday, July 9, 2010
Ignoring the Crowd - The Story of Angie
Ephisians 2:8-9 For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast.
A dear friend of mine, Pastor Tom Stephen, wrote in his book Fearless that Jesus calls us to listen to His voice of assurance and hope even when others tell us to give up. On his Facebook group PCH Disciples, Tom recently quoted Dr. Albert Schweitzer who said, “Anyone who proposes to do good must not expect people to roll stones out of his way, but must accept his lot calmly, even if they roll a few stones upon it.” There are times when the “right” thing to do is not always the God thing to do. The story of Angie is one of them.
For almost two years, I was part of a team of police officers assigned to deal with nuisance crimes in the downtown and beach front areas of Santa Barbara. My job was to arrest people for crimes like panhandling, drunk in public, drug dealing and the like. Most of the time, the people I arrested were living on the street.
On one particular Christmas Eve in the early 1990’s, I was working with two partners looking to arrest people who were panhandling in the downtown area. There is nothing wrong with helping out a fellow human being, however; the people we were after used the season to prey on people’s compassion to get money for alcohol and drugs. We knew these individuals well as we arrested them many times for this type of crime. As we drove through downtown Santa Barbara filled with holiday shoppers, we spotted Angie, one of the more productive panhandlers. A pretty face telling lies about her hard life as a homeless girl trying to make it back to her hometown, the name of which changed every week.
Angie was a young woman who lived on the streets of Santa Barbara. She was 18 years old and hung out with Mark. Mark was much older and took “care” of her. It was common for a young woman like Angie to rely on an older man to provide her protection and companionship under the guise of a twisted kind of love. He sold marijuana and she panhandled to make money. They were part of a group that choose to be homeless and engaged in criminal activity to support their lifestyle. They loitered in the downtown area and were a nuisance to business owners, tourists and residents.
On this particular night, I was wearing jeans, a t-shirt and a jacket to blend in with other Christmas shoppers. I walked toward Angie and got close enough to listen as she asked people for money. She did not notice me standing near her. After a few minutes observing Angie commit multiple panhandling violations, I arrested her and put her in handcuffs. I called my partners to drive up in the unmarked police car to take her to the police station. At the station I would fill out the paperwork required to book her at the county jail. Normally she would be released after a few hours but since it was Christmas, she would remain in custody through the holiday.
Angie started crying immediately and pleaded with me not to put her in jail on Christmas Eve. She knew it meant she would spend Christmas in jail. She wanted to be with Mark. This was about her twentieth arrest for panhandling and there was no reason to let her slide, Christmas or not. My partners and I told her to be quiet since she would never stop panhandling so why in the world would we cut her a break. Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.
We got to the station and I started the paperwork. As I filled out the jail booking form, I began to consider letting her go with a citation rather than to put her in jail. It seemed to me that this might be an opportunity to show her grace and mercy in a situation where none was justified. I stopped filling out the paperwork and went to find my partners to tell them what I decided to do. Both of my “partners” immediately began to ridicule me. In fact, they later left the station without me and went to dinner to let me know they did not approve of my decision.
I tossed the jail booking form in the trash and filled out a citation for Angie. I let her out of the holding cell she was sitting in and escorted out of the police department to the driveway. I told her this, “Angie I am not going to put you in jail tonight because I am choosing to show you grace. You don’t deserve this and it is only because of grace that you are going to be able to spend Christmas with Mark.”
She signed the citation. I gave her a copy and she walked down the driveway and into the Christmas Eve night. It was a cop story that became a God story.
A dear friend of mine, Pastor Tom Stephen, wrote in his book Fearless that Jesus calls us to listen to His voice of assurance and hope even when others tell us to give up. On his Facebook group PCH Disciples, Tom recently quoted Dr. Albert Schweitzer who said, “Anyone who proposes to do good must not expect people to roll stones out of his way, but must accept his lot calmly, even if they roll a few stones upon it.” There are times when the “right” thing to do is not always the God thing to do. The story of Angie is one of them.
For almost two years, I was part of a team of police officers assigned to deal with nuisance crimes in the downtown and beach front areas of Santa Barbara. My job was to arrest people for crimes like panhandling, drunk in public, drug dealing and the like. Most of the time, the people I arrested were living on the street.
On one particular Christmas Eve in the early 1990’s, I was working with two partners looking to arrest people who were panhandling in the downtown area. There is nothing wrong with helping out a fellow human being, however; the people we were after used the season to prey on people’s compassion to get money for alcohol and drugs. We knew these individuals well as we arrested them many times for this type of crime. As we drove through downtown Santa Barbara filled with holiday shoppers, we spotted Angie, one of the more productive panhandlers. A pretty face telling lies about her hard life as a homeless girl trying to make it back to her hometown, the name of which changed every week.
Angie was a young woman who lived on the streets of Santa Barbara. She was 18 years old and hung out with Mark. Mark was much older and took “care” of her. It was common for a young woman like Angie to rely on an older man to provide her protection and companionship under the guise of a twisted kind of love. He sold marijuana and she panhandled to make money. They were part of a group that choose to be homeless and engaged in criminal activity to support their lifestyle. They loitered in the downtown area and were a nuisance to business owners, tourists and residents.
On this particular night, I was wearing jeans, a t-shirt and a jacket to blend in with other Christmas shoppers. I walked toward Angie and got close enough to listen as she asked people for money. She did not notice me standing near her. After a few minutes observing Angie commit multiple panhandling violations, I arrested her and put her in handcuffs. I called my partners to drive up in the unmarked police car to take her to the police station. At the station I would fill out the paperwork required to book her at the county jail. Normally she would be released after a few hours but since it was Christmas, she would remain in custody through the holiday.
Angie started crying immediately and pleaded with me not to put her in jail on Christmas Eve. She knew it meant she would spend Christmas in jail. She wanted to be with Mark. This was about her twentieth arrest for panhandling and there was no reason to let her slide, Christmas or not. My partners and I told her to be quiet since she would never stop panhandling so why in the world would we cut her a break. Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.
We got to the station and I started the paperwork. As I filled out the jail booking form, I began to consider letting her go with a citation rather than to put her in jail. It seemed to me that this might be an opportunity to show her grace and mercy in a situation where none was justified. I stopped filling out the paperwork and went to find my partners to tell them what I decided to do. Both of my “partners” immediately began to ridicule me. In fact, they later left the station without me and went to dinner to let me know they did not approve of my decision.
I tossed the jail booking form in the trash and filled out a citation for Angie. I let her out of the holding cell she was sitting in and escorted out of the police department to the driveway. I told her this, “Angie I am not going to put you in jail tonight because I am choosing to show you grace. You don’t deserve this and it is only because of grace that you are going to be able to spend Christmas with Mark.”
She signed the citation. I gave her a copy and she walked down the driveway and into the Christmas Eve night. It was a cop story that became a God story.
Monday, April 5, 2010
If the Shoe Fits...
Meeting people where they are at does not always mean sharing the gospel. Scripture speaks of providing for the basic needs of people as part of sharing the grace and forgiveness of Christ.
On one particular night it was 3:30 in the morning, the middle of a graveyard shift. The weather was freezing cold and it was raining non-stop. The storm was rolling in from the north Pacific and it didn’t help that I had the police car heater running on high with the dashboard lever pushed to where the red bar was the thickest. Not even drinking hot coffee helped. Instead of warming me up, I was wired on caffeine and had to find a bathroom every half hour. My boots were damp and were like ice cubes after every traffic stop or call for service that required me to get out to the car.
I was driving on what was a normally busy Santa Barbara street that parallels the beach. At one particular intersection is Sterns Wharf. This is a popular tourist destination with a trademark, three dolphin fountain at the base of the wharf. Just to the east of the fountain is a public bathroom that is locked at night. Only a partially covered entrance provides any sort of shelter in the middle of a rain storm.
As I drove past the bathroom, I saw a figure standing at the entrance to the bathroom. I could see through the rain that the figure was a homeless man. City buildings were closed from 10:00PM to 6:00AM and that gave me “probable cause” to stop and contact the man. I pulled up in front of the bathroom leaving enough room to ensure a safe distance between my police car and the “suspect”. I used my radio to give my location and watched to be sure he made no quick movements to hide an open bottle of alcohol or run away to avoid arrest for a possible outstanding warrant. I turned on my police car spot light and shined it in his direction.
I made my approach and recognized the guy as someone I had written many citations to for possessing open containers alcohol or small amounts of marijuana. I had also arrested him for being drunk in public a number of times. This would have been a good night to find a reason to arrest him. The county jail facility would at least give him a dry place to stay and something to eat until the weather passed.
He had no warrants for his arrest and he was not drunk so I told him that he could not stand at the bathroom and that he had to move on. It was pouring at that point and he was soaked through. I felt bad that I was going to make him walk off the beach without any way of keeping the rain off.
“I got rolled tonight and they took my shoes.”
I looked at his feet and sure enough he was in socks. I could see his wet sock prints in the dry entryway that he left when he arrived at his current place of refuge. He had nothing. He was shivering and wet. He had no blanket. He had no home. It was 3:35am, freezing, raining and nothing to do but stand in the entry of a men’s bathroom to keep from getting wetter.
“Ok, you can stay here until the rain slows down but then you have to move off.” I told him and walked back to my police car. He said thank you. I cleared my call on the police radio with a warning.
I drove off and felt like I had to do something for the guy. I was really troubled that the guy had his shoes stolen. In a community where the price of a condominium was $500,000, how could a homeless guy get jumped for his shoes? I can’t remember if I prayed but I thought I would take a shot and drive to the Salvation Army shelter five blocks away. The shelter was not open at night but there was a night watchman. Maybe I could get the guy a blanket, a bed or even a pair of shoes. I knocked on front door and woke up a man sleeping on a cot in an office near the front door. I asked the watchman if I could get a pair of shoes. The watchman said, “I don’t have access to anything but let me look around the office.” Two minutes later he came back to the door and said, “I can’t find anything, but someone dropped off a pair of shoes when I came on duty and you can have them if you want.”
I took the shoes and climbed back in my police car and drove back to the bathroom. I was wondering if the guy would still be there when I got back and how I would find him if he was gone. I was not very confident that a pair of shoes dropped off at a Salvation Army would even help the guy.
The guy was still standing in the entryway when I pulled up. I did not call in my location on the radio, I did not park a safe distance away and I did not turn on my spotlight. I got out of the car with the shoes in my hand. Judging by the look on his face, he probably figured at first that a different cop was going to run him off. His expression changed to confusion and surprise when he saw I had returned a second time. He was even more surprised when I handed him a pair of shoes. “Will these fit?” I could see his mind worked to understand why a cop that wrote him tickets and put him in jail would take the time at 3:40AM to bring him shoes.
The shoes fit.
I think we were both a little surprised at this and all he could say was, “Thanks man.” The rain was slowing down and I told him he should leave. He walked off down the beach and I drove away. I said a prayer of thanks as God once again proved He was bigger than me.
On one particular night it was 3:30 in the morning, the middle of a graveyard shift. The weather was freezing cold and it was raining non-stop. The storm was rolling in from the north Pacific and it didn’t help that I had the police car heater running on high with the dashboard lever pushed to where the red bar was the thickest. Not even drinking hot coffee helped. Instead of warming me up, I was wired on caffeine and had to find a bathroom every half hour. My boots were damp and were like ice cubes after every traffic stop or call for service that required me to get out to the car.
I was driving on what was a normally busy Santa Barbara street that parallels the beach. At one particular intersection is Sterns Wharf. This is a popular tourist destination with a trademark, three dolphin fountain at the base of the wharf. Just to the east of the fountain is a public bathroom that is locked at night. Only a partially covered entrance provides any sort of shelter in the middle of a rain storm.
As I drove past the bathroom, I saw a figure standing at the entrance to the bathroom. I could see through the rain that the figure was a homeless man. City buildings were closed from 10:00PM to 6:00AM and that gave me “probable cause” to stop and contact the man. I pulled up in front of the bathroom leaving enough room to ensure a safe distance between my police car and the “suspect”. I used my radio to give my location and watched to be sure he made no quick movements to hide an open bottle of alcohol or run away to avoid arrest for a possible outstanding warrant. I turned on my police car spot light and shined it in his direction.
I made my approach and recognized the guy as someone I had written many citations to for possessing open containers alcohol or small amounts of marijuana. I had also arrested him for being drunk in public a number of times. This would have been a good night to find a reason to arrest him. The county jail facility would at least give him a dry place to stay and something to eat until the weather passed.
He had no warrants for his arrest and he was not drunk so I told him that he could not stand at the bathroom and that he had to move on. It was pouring at that point and he was soaked through. I felt bad that I was going to make him walk off the beach without any way of keeping the rain off.
“I got rolled tonight and they took my shoes.”
I looked at his feet and sure enough he was in socks. I could see his wet sock prints in the dry entryway that he left when he arrived at his current place of refuge. He had nothing. He was shivering and wet. He had no blanket. He had no home. It was 3:35am, freezing, raining and nothing to do but stand in the entry of a men’s bathroom to keep from getting wetter.
“Ok, you can stay here until the rain slows down but then you have to move off.” I told him and walked back to my police car. He said thank you. I cleared my call on the police radio with a warning.
I drove off and felt like I had to do something for the guy. I was really troubled that the guy had his shoes stolen. In a community where the price of a condominium was $500,000, how could a homeless guy get jumped for his shoes? I can’t remember if I prayed but I thought I would take a shot and drive to the Salvation Army shelter five blocks away. The shelter was not open at night but there was a night watchman. Maybe I could get the guy a blanket, a bed or even a pair of shoes. I knocked on front door and woke up a man sleeping on a cot in an office near the front door. I asked the watchman if I could get a pair of shoes. The watchman said, “I don’t have access to anything but let me look around the office.” Two minutes later he came back to the door and said, “I can’t find anything, but someone dropped off a pair of shoes when I came on duty and you can have them if you want.”
I took the shoes and climbed back in my police car and drove back to the bathroom. I was wondering if the guy would still be there when I got back and how I would find him if he was gone. I was not very confident that a pair of shoes dropped off at a Salvation Army would even help the guy.
The guy was still standing in the entryway when I pulled up. I did not call in my location on the radio, I did not park a safe distance away and I did not turn on my spotlight. I got out of the car with the shoes in my hand. Judging by the look on his face, he probably figured at first that a different cop was going to run him off. His expression changed to confusion and surprise when he saw I had returned a second time. He was even more surprised when I handed him a pair of shoes. “Will these fit?” I could see his mind worked to understand why a cop that wrote him tickets and put him in jail would take the time at 3:40AM to bring him shoes.
The shoes fit.
I think we were both a little surprised at this and all he could say was, “Thanks man.” The rain was slowing down and I told him he should leave. He walked off down the beach and I drove away. I said a prayer of thanks as God once again proved He was bigger than me.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Reflection of a Sacrifice
The following is the reflection I shared at Monterey County Peace Officers Fallen Officer Memorial Service on Wednesday, May 7, 2008.
__________________________________________
I begin by reading from The Gospel of Matthew Chapter 4, Verses 18-22
The Calling of the First Disciples
“As Jesus was walking beside the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon called Peter and his brother Andrew. They were casting a net into the lake, for they were fishermen. ‘Come, follow me,’ Jesus said, ‘and I will make you fishers of men.’ At once they left their nets and followed him.
Going on from there, he saw two other brothers, James son of Zebedee and his brother John. They were in a boat with their father Zebedee, preparing their nets. Jesus called them, and immediately they left the boat and their father and followed him."
As I thought about the call if these men, it occurred to me that although Peter, Andrew, James and John immediately left to go with Jesus, they did not do so simply because a man they had never met walked up to them and said “Follow me.” These were men of faith who had read scripture and were watching for the opportunity to serve.
The call to become a peace officer is not made in a moment, in response to a job flyer or commercial on television. It is a process that begins with a heart to serve others. The call means making a commitment of time, effort and sacrifice. We endure the testing process and background examinations, police academies and Field Training Officers.
We commit to work weekends, holidays and shifts. We stand at an intersection in the freezing rain with a flare pattern and our patrol car blocking a roadway with all the lights on and still have the patience to answer the question, “Is this road closed?”
We commit to stand firm in the face of every profanity and stop fighting when the other guy quits even if he got in more shots in than you. We commit to put our own life at risk to save another human being no matter who they are.
We also accept that what we do means that we may be called to lose our lives so that others will be safe. And it is not a decision we make for our selves but a sacrifice that our families live with as well.
For the ten men we remember this evening it means their wives, children, parents, brothers and sisters a will not see them again in this world. The men and women that served with them will carry the pain of the loss of a friend and a partner. Those that follow behind now live to honor a fellow peace officer who died in the line of duty.
The Book of Romans, Chapter 13, Verse 4 says of those that are called to keep the peace:
“For he is God's servant to do you good. But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword for nothing. He is God's servant, an agent of wrath to bring punishment on the wrongdoer.”
Our call to police service means that we commit to protect the weak and hold evil at bay. We do this with the sword.
This is why our call is for very few. We must decide and act in a moment. We must understand the seriousness of our mission and what lies in the balance. We are fair yet firm, strong yet compassionate, we are brave in the face of danger when others will freeze or run away. We do this knowing that the cost might be our own lives for the benefit of our fellow man.
Please follow along as I read from the Gospel of John Chapter 15:9-19
"As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Now remain in my love. If you obey my commands, you will remain in my love, just as I have obeyed my Father's commands and remain in his love. I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete. My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. You are my friends if you do what I command. I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master's business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you. You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you to go and bear fruit—fruit that will last. Then the Father will give you whatever you ask in my name. This is my command: Love each other.
If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first. If you belonged to the world, it would love you as its own. As it is, you do not belong to the world, but I have chosen you out of the world. That is why the world hates you.”
On September 26, 1929, two men entered a Rodeo bank near the Town of Pinole, armed with guns. They intended to rob the $27,000 payroll delivered that morning. Constable Arthur Mac Donald was also in the bank and confronted the robbers. A gun battle erupted. Although he managed to shoot one of the suspects, a third man driving a get away car fired into the bank from outside. Constable MacDonald was shot and mortally wounded. He was taken to the hospital in an attempt to save his life.
Although his wife managed to get to the hospital before he died, she was not allowed to be with her husband even though he called to her from the treatment room.
Constable Arthur Mac Donald was my great-grandfather. My grandmother received a telegram in New York at 5:40PM that evening that read,
“YOUR FATHER KILLED THIS MORNING HOLD UP RODEO BANK”
Although I never met my great grandfather, my grandmother told me about him and how he was a committed father and husband. A great aunt told me that she was proud that a member of the family was following in his footsteps. He served as a constable for 11 years. A man later told reporters that, “Jerry was a great man and popular, but if you got out of line he’d kick you in the butt and tell you to get off the street and go home. And you would do it too.”
If it was only still that easy.
When a member of our profession is killed in the line of duty, it has a profound impact on us as we live our lives by honoring their memory through our service in law enforcement. The impact becomes even more significant when we knew that the person behind the badge and realize they were committed to family, to the community and to their faith.
__________________________________________
I begin by reading from The Gospel of Matthew Chapter 4, Verses 18-22
The Calling of the First Disciples
“As Jesus was walking beside the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon called Peter and his brother Andrew. They were casting a net into the lake, for they were fishermen. ‘Come, follow me,’ Jesus said, ‘and I will make you fishers of men.’ At once they left their nets and followed him.
Going on from there, he saw two other brothers, James son of Zebedee and his brother John. They were in a boat with their father Zebedee, preparing their nets. Jesus called them, and immediately they left the boat and their father and followed him."
As I thought about the call if these men, it occurred to me that although Peter, Andrew, James and John immediately left to go with Jesus, they did not do so simply because a man they had never met walked up to them and said “Follow me.” These were men of faith who had read scripture and were watching for the opportunity to serve.
The call to become a peace officer is not made in a moment, in response to a job flyer or commercial on television. It is a process that begins with a heart to serve others. The call means making a commitment of time, effort and sacrifice. We endure the testing process and background examinations, police academies and Field Training Officers.
We commit to work weekends, holidays and shifts. We stand at an intersection in the freezing rain with a flare pattern and our patrol car blocking a roadway with all the lights on and still have the patience to answer the question, “Is this road closed?”
We commit to stand firm in the face of every profanity and stop fighting when the other guy quits even if he got in more shots in than you. We commit to put our own life at risk to save another human being no matter who they are.
We also accept that what we do means that we may be called to lose our lives so that others will be safe. And it is not a decision we make for our selves but a sacrifice that our families live with as well.
For the ten men we remember this evening it means their wives, children, parents, brothers and sisters a will not see them again in this world. The men and women that served with them will carry the pain of the loss of a friend and a partner. Those that follow behind now live to honor a fellow peace officer who died in the line of duty.
The Book of Romans, Chapter 13, Verse 4 says of those that are called to keep the peace:
“For he is God's servant to do you good. But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword for nothing. He is God's servant, an agent of wrath to bring punishment on the wrongdoer.”
Our call to police service means that we commit to protect the weak and hold evil at bay. We do this with the sword.
This is why our call is for very few. We must decide and act in a moment. We must understand the seriousness of our mission and what lies in the balance. We are fair yet firm, strong yet compassionate, we are brave in the face of danger when others will freeze or run away. We do this knowing that the cost might be our own lives for the benefit of our fellow man.
Please follow along as I read from the Gospel of John Chapter 15:9-19
"As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Now remain in my love. If you obey my commands, you will remain in my love, just as I have obeyed my Father's commands and remain in his love. I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete. My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. You are my friends if you do what I command. I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master's business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you. You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you to go and bear fruit—fruit that will last. Then the Father will give you whatever you ask in my name. This is my command: Love each other.
If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first. If you belonged to the world, it would love you as its own. As it is, you do not belong to the world, but I have chosen you out of the world. That is why the world hates you.”
On September 26, 1929, two men entered a Rodeo bank near the Town of Pinole, armed with guns. They intended to rob the $27,000 payroll delivered that morning. Constable Arthur Mac Donald was also in the bank and confronted the robbers. A gun battle erupted. Although he managed to shoot one of the suspects, a third man driving a get away car fired into the bank from outside. Constable MacDonald was shot and mortally wounded. He was taken to the hospital in an attempt to save his life.
Although his wife managed to get to the hospital before he died, she was not allowed to be with her husband even though he called to her from the treatment room.
Constable Arthur Mac Donald was my great-grandfather. My grandmother received a telegram in New York at 5:40PM that evening that read,
“YOUR FATHER KILLED THIS MORNING HOLD UP RODEO BANK”
Although I never met my great grandfather, my grandmother told me about him and how he was a committed father and husband. A great aunt told me that she was proud that a member of the family was following in his footsteps. He served as a constable for 11 years. A man later told reporters that, “Jerry was a great man and popular, but if you got out of line he’d kick you in the butt and tell you to get off the street and go home. And you would do it too.”
If it was only still that easy.
When a member of our profession is killed in the line of duty, it has a profound impact on us as we live our lives by honoring their memory through our service in law enforcement. The impact becomes even more significant when we knew that the person behind the badge and realize they were committed to family, to the community and to their faith.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Common Ground
It is possible to make friends with anyone. The key is to find common ground. As a police officer, that common ground might be the fact that I catch someone breaking the law and arrest them. After 21 years in law enforcement I know that connecting with another person at any level can have a significant impact on their life.
Things don’t get much worse when the police show up. We are the last hope for some. We are available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Call 911 and we will show up. Yet it is in these moments of pain and fear where forgiveness, redemption and new beginnings can happen. A common phrase in our culture today is that everyone gets their five minutes of fame. As a police officer, I believe that I have five minutes of opportunity in the lives of everyone I encounter.
I was promoted to police sergeant in 1996. Promotion in my profession means shift work, nights and weekends. One of my early assignments was to work 6:30AM to 4:30PM with Wednesday, Thursday and Friday off. I was the only sergeant assigned the day watch shift and I was expected to be at work, especially during my probationary year.
There was a Promise Keepers conference that year at the Los Angeles Coliseum and it was free to everyone. My work schedule allowed me to attend only the Friday night part of the event. This was my third Promise Keepers conference and I looked forward to going alone. My plan was to sit in the front row, be surrounded by music and singing and let God meet me that evening. God had other plans.
I got to the stadium when the gates opened hours before the event began. I walked out onto the field and felt very small looking up at the stadium seats where I sat for sports events in the past. I had the pick of places to sit and settled into the third row from the front on the aisle. God was good!
The stadium filled over the next few hours and taped music played over the loud speakers. It sounded great. I was excited to hear the worship band live from the front. People were moving about getting things ready for the event. Ushers gave directions, prayer partners took seats designated for them in anticipation of an alter call, lights, microphones and sound equipment were checked and readied. I even had the seat next to me open with 10 minutes to the start of the evening service. God was great!
And then it happened.
Out of the corner of my right eye, I caught a glimpse of orange and black. Years of being a cop meant that I was always aware of out of the ordinary movement and my attention went toward a guy walking along the front row of chairs in a bouncy, trouncy, pouncy sort of way.
Curious.
He made the turn down the aisle I was sitting on and I remembered the empty seat next to me.
Concern.
This brother in Christ is wearing a Tigger t-shirt of the Disney variety. He has a day pack slung over his shoulder with 25 Tigger key rings hanging off of it and he was moving steadily toward the empty seat next to me.
Panic.
He moves in and proclaimed with energy and enthusiasm, “Is anyone sitting there?”
My brain was screaming, “Yes, this seat it taken.” My mouth said, “No one is sitting there.”
He moved past me, plopped into the seat, turned, extended his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Tigger!”
I expected him to break out in a theme song.
Tigger then starts jumping up and down, high fiving and hugging everyone within reach and yells continually how excited he is about the Lord.
I scream inside to God, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME?!”
The worship band begins as a guy walks up to Tigger and I and says he is a pastor and is supposed to sit on the end of the row for prayer requests. I am a nice guy and give up my seat.
Now what do I do?
All the field seats are gone.
Any hope of a “good” seat has evaporated.
Worship is in progress.
I am alone.
I climb the stadium stairs leaving behind my plan of communing with God in the front row at Promise Keepers resigned to sitting on the stands looking sideways at the stage for the evening. I actually find a seat ten rows off the field and try to refocus on worship and the message offered by the first speaker. Toward the end of worship, I look down on the field to see how Tigger is doing. I can see that he still has bounce and it looks like the guy I gave my seat up to is standing in the aisle to put some distance between himself and the visitor from the Hundred Acre Woods.
Then God met me.
I happen to glance five rows behind the seat I fled from and I see a guy that looks familiar to me. This man stands at six foot, nine inches tall, he is African American and has jeri curls past his shoulders. He is in desperate need of dental work as his teeth stick out in ten different directions. You can’t possibly miss this guy in a crowd. The man’s nickname is Foots. I know Foots because I have arrested him in Santa Barbara for a variety of drug and alcohol crimes over the nine years I was a police officer before my promotion to sergeant.
Foots hung with a crowd of transient men that did nothing more than panhandle, drink and smoke marijuana whenever they could get it. I ran across them almost every day I worked and kept them in line by telling them to move on, writing them tickets or putting them in jail. There was really no other way to manage them and the problems they caused for business owners, residents and visitors to the beach areas of Santa Barbara. I did get to know these guys pretty well over the years. They were generally harmless and I tried to treat them with dignity no matter how drunk or belligerent they were.
I was surprised to see Foots in the crowd. As soon as the alter call ended, I made the decision to go down to where Foots sat and say hello. How he got there, I had no idea but I was encouraged to see a guy I had arrested hanging out at a PK conference. Expecting to say hi and return to the stands, I left my bible and jacket at my seat and made my way back onto the field. As I walked along the front row of the section Foots was in I saw that he was also in the company of another man that I had arrested many times. Johnny was a handsome man that choose drinking and pot smoking as his life’s ambition. He was also street wise and like a cop, was aware of his surroundings.
Johnny saw me before Foots. He clearly does not immediately recognized me because the last thing he expected was to see Sergeant Mike Aspland walking towards him out of uniform. His expressions reveal a thought process that followed the pattern of: “That guy is looking at me.” “Why is that guy staring at me?!” “That guy better stop mad dogging me!” “That guy look’s familiar.” “Hey! That’s Sergeant Aspland!”
A moment later, Johnny elbows Foots and they both watch me turn the corner and approach. It was like I was a long, lost cousin. Handshakes and greetings were exchanged and I asked how they got here from Santa Barbara.
“We came down with the guys from the recovery house we live at in Santa Barbara.” Foots says proudly with a very toothy grin.
I look down the row of ten seats and every one of the chairs is occupied by a man that I know. The common ground was that I had arrested all of them at one time another. Some of the guys I had to wrestle or pepper spray in the course of doing my job. This was becoming a very dysfunctional family reunion. I explain that I am there by myself for the evening event because I have to go to work the next day.
“Mike, would you sit with us?” Foots asked.
What do I do? I begin to piece together the events of the last few hours and can’t help but conclude that this is where God wants to meet me.
“Ok,” I agree, “Let me go get my stuff and I will be right back.”
As I made my way back to my stadium seat to collect my things, I figured that I would still get an aisle seat on the field. Ok, I would have to sit next to guys I work with in one respect or another but hey, it will only be for an hour and a half.
I arrive to take my third seat of the night expecting an aisle seat only to find that Foots and Johnny made a guy move out from the center of the row and expect me to sit in the middle! So there I am. I have Foots to my right, Johnny to my left and the rest of the seats are filled with law breakers!
I tell Johnny and Foots, “Look here, if you start beating me with fists and tell everyone you are laying hands on me, I will be very upset!”
Laughter.
“Where are you staying?” I ask Foots.
“Oh Mike, we are staying at the Radisson. I aint never stayed at a place like that before.”
“Well if we get home and I find you brought any towels back with you,” I responded with my best authoritarian tone, “I will arrest you for possession of stolen property!”
More laughter.
Consider for a moment the experience of those sitting around us. The men in Johnny and Foots’ row were clearly from the wrong side of the tracks. They were substance abusers, gang members, probationers, parolees and homeless. If you ran into any of these guys outside of the Coliseum that night, you would avoid them at all costs. Imagine watching a young, clean cut guy of the wonder bread mentality settle in with these guys and survive the experience!
The evening turned out well. We worshipped the Lord, listened to a message and then held hands and prayed together. In the end, Foots turned to me and said, “No wonder you were always so nice to us.”
I left for the night and considered what Foots told me. I was not vocal with these guys about my faith but I did try to meet them where they were at with every encounter. It was in those moments a foundation was put in place for us to find common ground and worship the Lord together.
Things don’t get much worse when the police show up. We are the last hope for some. We are available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Call 911 and we will show up. Yet it is in these moments of pain and fear where forgiveness, redemption and new beginnings can happen. A common phrase in our culture today is that everyone gets their five minutes of fame. As a police officer, I believe that I have five minutes of opportunity in the lives of everyone I encounter.
I was promoted to police sergeant in 1996. Promotion in my profession means shift work, nights and weekends. One of my early assignments was to work 6:30AM to 4:30PM with Wednesday, Thursday and Friday off. I was the only sergeant assigned the day watch shift and I was expected to be at work, especially during my probationary year.
There was a Promise Keepers conference that year at the Los Angeles Coliseum and it was free to everyone. My work schedule allowed me to attend only the Friday night part of the event. This was my third Promise Keepers conference and I looked forward to going alone. My plan was to sit in the front row, be surrounded by music and singing and let God meet me that evening. God had other plans.
I got to the stadium when the gates opened hours before the event began. I walked out onto the field and felt very small looking up at the stadium seats where I sat for sports events in the past. I had the pick of places to sit and settled into the third row from the front on the aisle. God was good!
The stadium filled over the next few hours and taped music played over the loud speakers. It sounded great. I was excited to hear the worship band live from the front. People were moving about getting things ready for the event. Ushers gave directions, prayer partners took seats designated for them in anticipation of an alter call, lights, microphones and sound equipment were checked and readied. I even had the seat next to me open with 10 minutes to the start of the evening service. God was great!
And then it happened.
Out of the corner of my right eye, I caught a glimpse of orange and black. Years of being a cop meant that I was always aware of out of the ordinary movement and my attention went toward a guy walking along the front row of chairs in a bouncy, trouncy, pouncy sort of way.
Curious.
He made the turn down the aisle I was sitting on and I remembered the empty seat next to me.
Concern.
This brother in Christ is wearing a Tigger t-shirt of the Disney variety. He has a day pack slung over his shoulder with 25 Tigger key rings hanging off of it and he was moving steadily toward the empty seat next to me.
Panic.
He moves in and proclaimed with energy and enthusiasm, “Is anyone sitting there?”
My brain was screaming, “Yes, this seat it taken.” My mouth said, “No one is sitting there.”
He moved past me, plopped into the seat, turned, extended his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Tigger!”
I expected him to break out in a theme song.
Tigger then starts jumping up and down, high fiving and hugging everyone within reach and yells continually how excited he is about the Lord.
I scream inside to God, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME?!”
The worship band begins as a guy walks up to Tigger and I and says he is a pastor and is supposed to sit on the end of the row for prayer requests. I am a nice guy and give up my seat.
Now what do I do?
All the field seats are gone.
Any hope of a “good” seat has evaporated.
Worship is in progress.
I am alone.
I climb the stadium stairs leaving behind my plan of communing with God in the front row at Promise Keepers resigned to sitting on the stands looking sideways at the stage for the evening. I actually find a seat ten rows off the field and try to refocus on worship and the message offered by the first speaker. Toward the end of worship, I look down on the field to see how Tigger is doing. I can see that he still has bounce and it looks like the guy I gave my seat up to is standing in the aisle to put some distance between himself and the visitor from the Hundred Acre Woods.
Then God met me.
I happen to glance five rows behind the seat I fled from and I see a guy that looks familiar to me. This man stands at six foot, nine inches tall, he is African American and has jeri curls past his shoulders. He is in desperate need of dental work as his teeth stick out in ten different directions. You can’t possibly miss this guy in a crowd. The man’s nickname is Foots. I know Foots because I have arrested him in Santa Barbara for a variety of drug and alcohol crimes over the nine years I was a police officer before my promotion to sergeant.
Foots hung with a crowd of transient men that did nothing more than panhandle, drink and smoke marijuana whenever they could get it. I ran across them almost every day I worked and kept them in line by telling them to move on, writing them tickets or putting them in jail. There was really no other way to manage them and the problems they caused for business owners, residents and visitors to the beach areas of Santa Barbara. I did get to know these guys pretty well over the years. They were generally harmless and I tried to treat them with dignity no matter how drunk or belligerent they were.
I was surprised to see Foots in the crowd. As soon as the alter call ended, I made the decision to go down to where Foots sat and say hello. How he got there, I had no idea but I was encouraged to see a guy I had arrested hanging out at a PK conference. Expecting to say hi and return to the stands, I left my bible and jacket at my seat and made my way back onto the field. As I walked along the front row of the section Foots was in I saw that he was also in the company of another man that I had arrested many times. Johnny was a handsome man that choose drinking and pot smoking as his life’s ambition. He was also street wise and like a cop, was aware of his surroundings.
Johnny saw me before Foots. He clearly does not immediately recognized me because the last thing he expected was to see Sergeant Mike Aspland walking towards him out of uniform. His expressions reveal a thought process that followed the pattern of: “That guy is looking at me.” “Why is that guy staring at me?!” “That guy better stop mad dogging me!” “That guy look’s familiar.” “Hey! That’s Sergeant Aspland!”
A moment later, Johnny elbows Foots and they both watch me turn the corner and approach. It was like I was a long, lost cousin. Handshakes and greetings were exchanged and I asked how they got here from Santa Barbara.
“We came down with the guys from the recovery house we live at in Santa Barbara.” Foots says proudly with a very toothy grin.
I look down the row of ten seats and every one of the chairs is occupied by a man that I know. The common ground was that I had arrested all of them at one time another. Some of the guys I had to wrestle or pepper spray in the course of doing my job. This was becoming a very dysfunctional family reunion. I explain that I am there by myself for the evening event because I have to go to work the next day.
“Mike, would you sit with us?” Foots asked.
What do I do? I begin to piece together the events of the last few hours and can’t help but conclude that this is where God wants to meet me.
“Ok,” I agree, “Let me go get my stuff and I will be right back.”
As I made my way back to my stadium seat to collect my things, I figured that I would still get an aisle seat on the field. Ok, I would have to sit next to guys I work with in one respect or another but hey, it will only be for an hour and a half.
I arrive to take my third seat of the night expecting an aisle seat only to find that Foots and Johnny made a guy move out from the center of the row and expect me to sit in the middle! So there I am. I have Foots to my right, Johnny to my left and the rest of the seats are filled with law breakers!
I tell Johnny and Foots, “Look here, if you start beating me with fists and tell everyone you are laying hands on me, I will be very upset!”
Laughter.
“Where are you staying?” I ask Foots.
“Oh Mike, we are staying at the Radisson. I aint never stayed at a place like that before.”
“Well if we get home and I find you brought any towels back with you,” I responded with my best authoritarian tone, “I will arrest you for possession of stolen property!”
More laughter.
Consider for a moment the experience of those sitting around us. The men in Johnny and Foots’ row were clearly from the wrong side of the tracks. They were substance abusers, gang members, probationers, parolees and homeless. If you ran into any of these guys outside of the Coliseum that night, you would avoid them at all costs. Imagine watching a young, clean cut guy of the wonder bread mentality settle in with these guys and survive the experience!
The evening turned out well. We worshipped the Lord, listened to a message and then held hands and prayed together. In the end, Foots turned to me and said, “No wonder you were always so nice to us.”
I left for the night and considered what Foots told me. I was not vocal with these guys about my faith but I did try to meet them where they were at with every encounter. It was in those moments a foundation was put in place for us to find common ground and worship the Lord together.
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