Blood and Dirt

“You don’t mess with this nigga!”

Twenty-foot archaic ceilings and colorfully painted walls echoed curses and expletives as fists flew and blood dripped. Rough-hewn floorboards rattled and announced the chaos to the frightened volunteers in the basement below as bodies hit the floor, hands and fists reaching to bloody his face again. Furniture was violently displaced as the brawl moved across the floor.

He screamed as he fought to free himself from the grip of eight furious teenagers. Sweat, dirt, and blood were smeared across the floor and passed from person to person as fists and teeth made contact with already bruised and battered skin.

No one knew his name, but we all knew that he had changed the history of this place forever.

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It was my first official day as an intern at Sox Place, a drop-in center for street youth located in the heart of Denver. It’s a safe haven for the abused, neglected, rejected, and abandoned youth of the city – a place for a meal, clothing, rest, friendship, or a fresh pair of socks. I had visited twice before to chat with the directors and get a feel for the place before beginning my work there. Both days were uneventful. Teens watched a movie on a flat-screen television in one corner while others enjoyed a game of pool or played video games in another corner. The continual buzz of conversation and movement often disarmed me, and I liked watching them interact with each other; sharing stories, telling jokes, and simply enjoying each other’s company.

*          *          *          *          *          *

Before moving to the neighborhood of Whittier near downtown Denver, I had been working two jobs, volunteering on a continual basis at my church and a local homeless shelter, while also taking a full load of classes at the University of Colorado. During Young Life Beyond on campus one night, I heard about an internship program that involved working with the homeless in a city nearby. Over the course of the next month, I could not get the idea out of my head. I continually thought and prayed about what all this opportunity involved, hoping that God would give me a sense of direction with what I should do after graduating from college. I was eventually able to get more information about the program and immediately contacted the director of the program. It soon became extremely clear that this is where God wanted me – living and intentionally serving the homeless of Denver, Colorado.

I eagerly anticipated the day that I could quit my fast food job and move into the city, even though it was still three months away. The last few days finally approached, and I happily quit my job, packed my few belongings into a ’99 sedan, signed over the lease to my apartment, and drove the short distance from Boulder to Denver to start a new chapter of my life.

It has already been over a week since I first stepped foot into Issachar, a modest collection of white-bricked, dorm-style apartments near downtown Denver, which I share with seven other interns that work with different organizations throughout the city. The first week has been a busy week of meeting new people, familiarizing ourselves with the city, receiving training on how to truly serve the poor and grow in our relationship with Him, and enjoying everything that Denver has to offer. I have quickly fallen in love with the city, and often imagine making it my home for the next year, but I need to wait patiently for His direction while being faithful with what He has given me to do for the immediate future.

*          *          *          *          *          *

The worn rubber of my Continental tires hummed against the pavement as I worked my way north through the city for my first day of work at Sox Place. Red, deep-V rims glistened in the sunlight and the custom, hand-painted black matte finish of my track frame proudly displayed the dust of its recent urban travels. I silently weaved in and out of traffic, my pedals spinning continuously, only pausing to skid intermittently to avoid encountering the unforgiving back end of the two-thousand-pound vehicles that I shared the road with. I turned off a four-lane thoroughfare and ducked under an overpass onto a tree-lined creek-side bike path that sat below the city roads. I soon resurfaced downtown and made my way toward Sox Place, moving from sidewalks to one-way streets.

I was greeted by several of the staff members as I walked through the worn painted door and parked my newly bought fixed-gear bike at the back of the building. It was just another day at Sox. I made myself comfortable as I sat and enjoyed a conversation while listening to the monotonous hum of the occupants inside.

Not much later, heads began turning toward commotion brewing outside of the entrance. Fingers were being pointed and tempers began to rise. It was difficult to make out what was being said, but I simply ignored it, dismissing the noise as a passing argument. The stout young black teen outside the door became evidently more angered and began shouting. I continued my conversation, but was becoming more and more distracted by what was happening outside. Before I was able to react, the round-bellied boy sprinted through the door and wound up for a violent blow to the back of a co-worker’s head. Luckily, he ended up being pushed aside by another staff member, which prevented him from making contact. It took less than a second for chaos to ensue.

The teen was quickly seized by a group of teens nearby. I had already leapt up from my chair, grabbing the back of his shirt and hoping to bring him down. He was surprisingly strong despite his appearance, and I was quickly pushed aside by the small mob that had formed around him. A table was knocked aside, causing a bowl of stale pasta to spill to the ground. Several staff members were struck by the sporadically flying fists of the teen, which only caused many of the teens to become more angered.

“You disrespect Sox Place, and you disrespect all of us!”

Expletives became the vocabulary of choice as the teen was brought to the ground several different times. He was difficult to keep under control, and the fight only became more chaotic and disordered. It is still difficult to recall all that happened, but I clearly remember fists making contact with the teen’s face, splitting his lip as he bit deep into the head and hand of his attacker. Blood sprayed and clothing ripped. Chairs were picked up and a large vintage gumball machine was knocked from its place near the door. The police were called in and everyone was told to leave the building as soon as it became clear that the teen had no intention of stopping his rampage. A horde of Sox teenagers were eventually able to get him onto the floor and prevent him from moving until the police could arrive. I stepped outside and sat with a few others while the police handcuffed the teen and questioned those involved. Sometime later, a small team of paramedics exited the building with the teen in tow, his arms and legs strapped tightly to the stretcher on which he lay. Weary curses still left his bloody lips as he was rolled across the sidewalk and lifted into the ambulance. As the ambulance doors were being closed I overheard someone say that the teen had to be sedated to put an end to his unsuccessful tirade.

“Welcome to your first day at Sox Place,” one of the staff members joked as I stood outside, sipping on a lukewarm Mountain Dew.

“This is the worst it has ever been since Sox opened nine years ago,” I heard another say.

We all sat and chatted nervously as we recounted the violence in the moments that preceded. It was hard to truly comprehend all that had happened in the previous hour. Our confidence was rattled and our comfort was gone. People exchanged glances as they discussed the fact that Sox would be closed for the rest of the week.

After locking the front door and doing a half-hearted job of cleanup, the staff and I sat and talked about plans for the rest of the week. Sox would be closed until the following week, allowing us the regroup and truly consider why Sox Place exists and how we would continue to show grace to the teenagers who called Sox their home.

My internship was off to an interesting start, to say the least, but I was able to see the heart of those who truly loved Sox Place and the people within it. I left for home slightly rattled, but truly encouraged by the hearts of those who loved the teens. It was clear that they were angered and frustrated, but the love for the kids they served shone brightly through feelings of bitterness and betrayal, revealing the unblemished love and grace of the Father who gave himself up for every single one of us, even those who choose to reject Him.