Jackson Street Ministry

At one moment Wednesday night almost every facet of what we know as church was happening at 10pm on Farrish Street.

Fellowship:I was speaking with David (Gerry Varner’s buddy) and he was telling me all about his life and how he ended up on the street. He allowed me to be another “fellow” in his “ship”. I know as much if not more about David as I do any single person at my home church of Broadmoor.

Preaching:A man named Otha was preaching as though we were having a tent revival. He did this for some time, just spilling his soul through a sermon that struck me as one you might hear on any given Sunday morning or late night radio show. He wasn’t really preaching at any one - words were just flowing filling the air with his message, or maybe His message.

Song:A man named Fredrick from the street in which I had never met before asked for permission to sing and broke into song. Without any accompaniment he sang through a beautiful hymn seemingly on every note. When he finished there was applause (and preaching continuing to go on).

Then Charlie from Southside felt led by the Spirit to join the man and many of the rest of us in a rendition of Amazing Grace with Gerry Varner on harmonia, of course. It was Amazing Grace.

Prayer:Several were praying and the night wrapped up with prayer among those who had been singing.

Somewhere along the line the preaching stopped, but so much else was going on, I didn’t notice.

Food:There was breaking of bread as always. Sandwiches, hot dogs, Spaghetti, chips, cookies and water.

Worship:There was worship morphed into many different forms and found throughout most all these activities.

His presence:I sensed it. I felt it. He was there… in a smile from someone hungry now filled, in a laugh of joy in a desperate place, in a heart filled with passion for Him and erupting in song, in the touch of a caring hand or hug of compassion, in the story of a man wanting to share his life with you, in the response to all of this………

It was church, perhaps more like the first church of Acts chapter 2 than any other. …and great grace was on all of them. Acts 4:33b Holman CSB

Great grace indeed.-m

Just a few days ago, I was notified that J.W. Sims, our inner city street missionary, who had recently accepted a call to First Christian Church in Long Beach California, has stage four liver cancer.

He is currently making his way back to Houston Texas to be close to family during this time. I would implore everyone to pray for JW. I spoke with him at length on Thursday morning (6/26/2008) and in no time he was talking about working again in Houston. Truly, his heart never stops thinking about how to serve the Lord.

In Luke chapter 18:1-8, Luke tells of a parable Jesus taught that had two clear objectives as parlayed in verse 1:

1) Jesus wanted to teach us that we should always be praying

2) Jesus wanted to teach us to never give up

In the story, one character is a most disruptable judge, who didn’t have any reverence for God nor respect for man. The other character is a widow. Now, in 1st century Palestine widows had little or zero influence in society. She had no value as a child bearer and was totally dependent on others for her needs. In spite of this low social standing, Jesus purposely selects her to be the heroine in the story.

She goes to the unrighteous judge and repeatedly asks for justice concerning her adversary. The judge says she is wearing him out, which in the Greek, the word literally means to continually strike someone below the eye in the face. She wouldn’t leave the judge alone until he relented and gave her the justice she desired.

Jesus goes on to say that our Father has nothing in common with this unrighteous judge and eagerly awaits to grant His elect justice. Sounds good, right? Then Jesus, finishes the parable the way only He can, as he turns loose the elephant in the room that everyone would wish to ignore but can’t. He asks a question: “Nevertheless, when the Son of Man comes, will He find that faith on the earth?” Do we have the faith of the persistent widow? In reference to the two point message of the teaching, she asked again and again and she never gave up.

Join us in praying that way in faith for “Rev”.

-m

It is summer in Mississippi.

The heat rises in waves from the city and appears more like fumes rushing from a fire than anything else.  The rising fume-like heat shelters a landscape of urban tundra all seemingly starved for green.  Lower, down on his level, the heat is even more amplified by the onslaught of internal combustion engines, AC units, fans and vents.  Everything all around him is exhausting itself out into the air.  He draws that air in and precious little of it is refreshing.  The air feels borrowed.  Used. 

He ambles up and down the streets never staying in one place too long.  Occasionally a person walks up to him and gives him five dollars.  Sometimes this comes after a request he has made and sometimes the request isn’t necessary.  The person gives the money and they depart.  If only they would stay for a spell and maybe talk a while.  He finds he craves conversation with someone from the “outside”.  People who daily get to escape the umbrella of the heat fumes and go to green rich subdivisions where there are trees and bushes with flowers.  

They rarely talk with him.  It is all just as well, he thinks.  Those that do stop and talk with him focus more on how they can fix him than talk with him.  How do you go about fixing someone you know nothing about?  He never misses church each Sunday at one of the homeless missions.  He does struggle with addictions, but he has been drug-free now for six months.  No one knows how easy that five dollar bill could become a crack score.  The mere thought is a trigger and the lopping ghastly head of the addiction dragon raises from the ashes to strike a familiar victim.  But, not today, he buys a burger and a coke and savors the flavors from a bench on Capital Street.

“Hey, buddy!  Move along now”, says a well meaning officer as he walks up to him.  Lots of people call him buddy.  He mutters, “Yes sir”, and grabs his small pack that houses everything he has including his treasure - The Word of God.  As he picks up his pack his weathered bible falls out and the tissue thin pages lay open on the ground.  The Officer looks down and to his amazement sees the worn bible with countless notes and scribblings penciled on the pages.  The Officer looks at the homeless man with an inquisitive look.  He quickly snatches his bible up and carefully places it back in his pack.  The confused Officer watches as he makes his way down the street.  He gets more real estate on the sidewalk than any other passerby. 

As the heat bears down upon him he sweats profusely.  He has gotten use to the smell, but is sensitive to others.  He takes a shower almost every other day at various places where they allow him, but showers do little good to fight the stench of sweat in the Mississippi heat.  Finally he makes it to Poindexter Park, a spot of green or at least a light shade of green advancing to brown in the urban landscape.  It is decidedly cooler here under a tree.  He watches as folks pass by going to important appointments, doing what they do, living a life of significance.

Those who try to fix him seem to long for him to find significance.  He opens his bible and it speaks to him contrarily.  It tells him he is already significant.  It tells him how much he is loved.  It unveils a hope beyond telling and he clings to the hope with strands of cable tied to his heart.  A smile washes over his face.  Paul thunders to him from a letter to the Romans:

Therefore, no condemnation now exists for those in Christ Jesus, because the Spirit’s law of life in Christ Jesus has set you free from the law of sin and of death.

Oh, if only those who profess to be believers could somehow see him as free and not a result of sin and death.  They seem to have more in common with those blind Pharisees in Matthew 23 than anyone else he can find in his bible.  A tear streaks down his weathered and sun scarred cheek.

He begins to pray for faces.  People he doesn’t know that tell him about the One he already knows each week.  He prays for those who give him small pieces of literature intended to scare him to Jesus.  He prays for those who pray over him and ask God to deliver him like he is trapped or a prisoner.

Deliver him from what?  

He returns to the small abandoned house that continues to evade destruction from the city.  His mind goes back to a night, the last time he got high just before Christmas, and just after listening to Christmas songs through the walls of a church.  He remembered the pull to those songs and later the desperate high in his old house.  But that has changed now. 

His church is a little different, but each Sunday you will find him there.  Whatever money he has on Sunday morning is given in offering and each Monday he starts over again. 

…give us this day our daily bread.

He lives it.  Everyday.         

We met on a foundation.

 The roof was gone.  The walls were gone.  All that was left was the cold hard concrete sub floor.  It was the only sign that once there was a building.  It was once a fully functioning entity.  Now it is a naked, empty and stark lake of concrete.

His name was Mosiah, and I hope I spelled it correctly.  His striped shirt, baggy blue jeans and almost new shoes made him stand out in the mass of people on the street.  No one was around him.  He looked as though he didn’t belong. 

Many people look at the homeless and see them as a sign of what used to be a human being.  How seldom we get to see the foundation.  Mosiah shared his foundation.

Mosiah was addicted to crack cocaine for seven long desperate years.  However, since October 2007, he has been clean or claimed to be.  In his past there are three stints in rehab centers and he was very candid with me concerning his addiction. 

Mosiah described his addiction as a possession.  I have never heard an addiction described that way and I was intrigued by his analogy.  He poignantly told me how he once would drive his trash truck and literally grip the wheel with all his might crying because he knew where his weekly pay check was going to go and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. 

“The high must be an incredible thing?”, I asked.

“No”, he instructed.  The high was nothing more than a passing fancy disguising the deep and dark pull of the drug.  It cost him his home.  It appeared to cost him everything.  He pointed to the surrounding area of Poindexter Park and stated that “they” are out there.  People who peddle the drug, people who know he is now sober, but come at him anyway with the temptation.  Why?  Does the darkness miss him as he struggles to find a job and a place to live?  It persistently calls him back.  He describes the temptation as his daily test or trial.  It is a reminder of where he has been and where he could be once again.  Mosiah’s foundation is not in his own power.  He fought the addiction, in his own power, for seven years and never won a battle.  Until his own will was broken, until he was broken, he could not overcome the darkness.  He doesn’t live day by day, no, Mosiah exists day by day.  Living is what he aspires to one day be able to do again. 

I encouraged Mosiah to keep up the good fight dependant on the only power that can overcome the darkness and he blessed me with his story.  It tells me to fight my own battles with that same power void of my will.  Strangely, I needed to hear that last night, and God chose to reveal that truth through the struggle of another.  What are my battles compared to his? 

We prayed.  I sense the road for Mosiah will continue to be rough.  I pray he can continue to live a life dependent on God.  It is a foundation that can rebuild any life.  What else could possibly explain his eight months of sobriety?

Soldier on, Mosiah.  You inspire us at the Jackson Street Ministry and we commit to pray for you.

This poem, by Emily Dickenson, makes me think of Mosiah. 

God gave a loaf to every bird,
But just a crumb to me;
I dare not eat it, though I starve,–
My poignant luxury
To own it, touch it, prove the feat
That made the pellet mine,–
Too happy in my sparrow chance
For ampler coveting.

It might be famine all around,
I could not miss an ear,
Such plenty smiles upon my board,
My garner shows so fair.
I wonder how the rich may feel,–
An Indiaman–an Earl?
I deem that I with but a crumb
Am sovereign of them all.

___________________________________

 Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?   

      Matthew 6:26 

I think Mosiah understands this verse better than all of us.  I’ve thought much of his solitude.  His “out-of-place” look.    I look forward to a continued dialog with him on ensuing Wednesday nights.

-m   

Acts 16:26

Suddenly there was such a violent earthquake that the foundations of the prison were shaken. At once all the prison doors flew open, and everybody’s chains came loose.

I met a young man named John last night. When he was 19 years old, he stood in front of a judge waiting for the gavel to come down and sentence to be passed. He was confronted with the very real possibility of losing 15 years of his life. He could miss the ages of 20 through 35, incarcerated for drug possession and distribution.

He described the moment as other worldly. It never even crossed his mind when he committed the crimes. He was living large. He had loads of money. He was important. All that had vanished, and now he stood before the legal system of Mississippi and awaited his fate. The reality of what was about to happen was overwhelming. He was rescued by a plea bargain.

Now, John is 22 years old and living on the street. Those chains that bound him are gone now, but they still call from a far away distant place. They hearken back to the easy money, lifestyle and comfort that he once had. Even now they bequest him to consider; that life can be as it once was.

He has a job roofing and has shelter at Gateway (sometimes). He carries a tattered letter from a publishing sweepstakes of some kind that is “guaranteeing” him a million dollars, “if he acts now”. He asked me if I thought it could be real. What do you say? I read the letter and suggested he place his faith somewhere else. “But, my lawyer has looked at and he says it is the real thing!”, John exclaimed to me. I told him I would pray that it was real. Even so, I can’t help but think that a million dollars is the last thing on earth that John needs right now.

Also in his pocket, within his wallet, are the beautiful pictures of a 15 month old baby boy, his son. John described growing up without his own dad, who died when he was four. He describes that absence as “something missing”. He is determined to make sure that “something missing” is not the case for his son. The cold hard truth is, however, John is missing most of the time from the life of his son.

New chains continue to bind.

A couple of weeks ago Skip met Roger, who had been in prison for 31 years. The reality of the world he knew as a prisoner was colliding in dramatic fashion with his new existence on the street. Where can he go? Who would hire him? The chains tighten.

He confessed to Skip, that his first night out he walked about with a knife in his pocket looking for someone to hurt, so he could go back to his life in prison. Thank God, he didn’t act on that confession for his sake and the sake of others on the street.

In truth, Roger is scared to death. All that he knew, the world he was in, was now gone completely. Even creation echoes this notion, when captive animals are returned to the wild, they must be eased back into the wild. Some never survive. While not physically there, the chains are still on their legs. Roger’s chains, much like John’s, call out to him to return.

Fact is, we all have chains. Mine are different than yours. John’s are different than Roger’s. But, in reality, they are there. They may not bind us currently, but they long to bind us. So they summon us back to bondage or show up in new places with different faces smiling all the way.

In the popular Christian song by Jonny Lang, Only A Man, we see a dialog between a man and (Jesus) concerning this topic.

I’ll give you my burdens (I’ll give you peace)
All of my desires (I’ll give you what you need)
Oh, what about these chains, Lord? (I’ll set you free)
But they’re so heavy (Lay them at my feet)
I’ll lay them at your feet
Just promise you won’t leave (I’ll never leave)
So where do I go from here, Lord? (Just follow me)
(Just follow me)
I’ll follow you (Just follow me) wherever you lead
Wherever you lead, wherever you lead

I pray that John and Roger (whose names have been changed in this story– but God knows who they are) and the rest of us leave all our chains at His feet and truly be set free.

-m

Every Wednesday night, I carry all of my undelivered pictures. Some go back to when I first started taking pictures last September. I keep hoping that Kevin or Roosevelt or Ruby will return.

In a way, that is selfish. I really hope they don’t. I hope they have found a job, cured their addiction or repaired their situation at home. I hope they are off of the streets if that is their desire. More than likely, most have simply moved on.

It has been nice to see some old faces these last couple of weeks.

On April 23, a man came up to me and said hello. He asked me if I had the pictures of him. He looked familiar, but I could not place the face. He kept telling me his name, but it did not ring a bell. Finally, he told me his first name, instead of his last name. Otha had not been with us since January 16. That night, he was bundled up from the cold and grateful for our food and warm drinks. Otha did not share much about where he has been these three months, nor did I ask many questions. I was just glad to see that he is well. He was happy to get his pictures and have some new ones taken.

I first met Reginald on March 12. After taking some pictures of him and talking for a while, I told him I would see him next week. The next several weeks came and went without a sign of Reginald. Then I missed a couple of weeks. Once I returned, still no Reginald.

One of my favorite pictures from the prayer circle highlighted a lady who was deep in prayer on March 19. Before I could ask for her permission to use the picture of her, she was gone. I did not even know her name. I would look for her every week in order to give her the picture I had taken, and selfishly, to get permission to share that picture with everyone.

I had not seen “Big Mike” (New Jersey to some) since just before Christmas. He was leaving Jackson to go down to New Orleans for some work. His pictures from Halloween night were not with me that day we spoke at the OC. Mike was not a happy man in these pictures. Addiction was still his companion. His wife had medical problems and a daughter was killed in a car accident. Times were tough. He probably would not have wanted his pictures any way, as the pain of his life was evident in them. Big Mike was optimistic as he had been winning his war against drugs since that Halloween evening. His family would be ok. He would come back to Jackson eventually.

On April 30, Reginald, Gussie and Big Mike returned.

Reginald immediately recognized me, and was glad to get his pictures. He showed them to Stephanie. I heard him tell her “See, my hair was always this way”.

Jennifer was surprised and pleased that there was a picture of her. She let me take some new pictures.

We went to Farish Street and there, I saw a familiar, but smiling face. It was not the hard glare of last year, but a big smiling face. Big Mike was back for a visit. He laughed at the Halloween picture, telling me that was the face of drug addiction. His job is going well and his family is well. Life is good now, and it is written all over his face. Big Mike is headed back to New Orleans, and will return again. I will have his latest pictures waiting for him, along with Kevin’s and Roosevelt’s and Ruby’s and ……

– GP

I marvel at Gerry’s pictures of the street. They are mesmerizing in their detail and elusive in their passage of light. The darkest of night within the photos lets go to the brightness of light and a plethora of grays hang in between the two. There is a not so subtle harshness to them that does not betray the streets for which they represent, nor can I ignore the basic grace that lies captured around the edges immersed in the gray. It is there, in the gray, that I find hope. Everyone was once someone’s new little baby boy or girl. Hope springs eternal from those beginnings, but somewhere for our street friends it all goes astray from the hope intended.

Some photos penetrate virtually revealing the soul while others seem only to offer a view of the surface across a horizon that is twisted with mystery. Occasionally you get these glimpses. Eyes for which I can not fathom the suffering and want. A blank stare void of feeling, brazened and hardened by the rough edges of broken concrete. A glazed over look that portrays a tormented soul struggling with an addiction that wins over personal will power. And then, amid these deep and dark haunting windows to the soul, emerges a strange happiness and contentment. A measure of faith and an assurance of the true meaning of “daily bread”. Prayers that call out to God in such personal closeness, I am envious. There. Bursting through against seemingly all odds, you find a dandelion flower sprouting and growing through a crack in the urban landscape. I love the flower moments. I crave them. I come back each week and search for them. Sometimes in vain. Sometimes in need. Always in hope. But they do not appear at my command. A guy on his way to California playing his guitar on the street. Gerry Varner playing a century old hymn on his harmonica with his legs folded up under him, eyes tightly closed shut, his heart devoted to the song, his mind sailing in the melody. Buddy quoting scripture that is written across is heart. Charlie talking about how slow things are at the cab service and asking how my family is doing. Michael’s paintings leaping with imagination and exploding with color buried in diverse abstract poetic imagery. Gratitude for getting a pair of socks. Ron praying in our circle. David playing chess. Big John asking where is Elmer and what he’s going to do to him next time he sees him. Daniel giving Skip a kiss on the cheek. All these things I find highly improbable, yet they are there. Along with the darkness there is light and yes; shades of gray.

I mostly wonder what to make of it all. Where is God leading with this thing called “The Jackson Street Ministry?” Why has He chosen to show me these things and spur a passion for street people? Why me? A boy from the mountains of western North Carolina where street people couldn’t even be found. How do I direct this passion? For now it is enough just to go and show up and see what happens. A new face. An old face. A new story. An old story. We continue to learn more and more about our friends. Helplessness mixed with hope. Frustration mixed with faith. Entrapment mixed with pure liberation.

We pray seeking direction and answers and God calls us to deeper dependence and endurance.

Gerry’s pictures paint the emotion in bits and pieces for which my words are hollow in comparison. If you regularly check this web-site, I would like to challenge you to find a picture to pray for on occasion. I will assert that as you look through the faces of our friends on the street you will be drawn to someone. When you find that someone, please say a daily prayer for them. They live in a black and white world as Gerry’s pictures show. But there in the contrast and transition you find the gray. And these shades of gray are alive with all the possibility, hope and grace that comes not from human origin. While you walk in the street, look up…

-m

The blue jean jacket was covered in patches.  The hair was long and pulled back.  Everything he had was pretty much in a pack that lay beside him on the sidewalk.  There was a guitar with stickers adorning the back.  Within that vehicle of the guitar, Aaron places all his hopes and dreams for a future.

For some reason, David from Broadmoor, brought his guitar this night of 4/3/2008.  For months now we have made the OC our destination, but a low volunteer turnout and the reality of over 50 people at Farish Street Park the previous week, changed things.  We made haste at the OC and met up with our other brothers and sisters in the street to go to Farish Street.  Southside Assembly of God was already there when we arrived.  It was good to see and visit with them again.

David, as he had just done at the OC, got out his guitar and began playing.  He was soon joined by Aaron.  The two played old hymns together in the street and others sang along.  It was a church service in many ways. 

I was handing out sandwiches, so I didn’t get to attend the service, but showed up later with some extras to give.  That is when I met Aaron.

 I had no idea that Aaron and David had played together, for I wasn’t paying attention.  A man named Charlie from Southside AOG, came up and stated that he had never seen anyone bring a guitar to the street ministry and the fact that tonight we had two was nothing more than a divine appointment scheduled by a Higher Power.  I sensed Aaron felt the impact of those words. 

Aaron was traveling from Maryland to California.  He had grown up in New England (Aaron professed to be a Yankee fan - for a second I thought I had found a natural citizen of the Red Sox Nation, but to no avail).  He had just gotten to Jackson that day and was amazed at what he discovered was happening on the street.  Aaron had been through many towns and had seen nothing that resembled what he saw.  Church people in the street giving food, clothing, hygiene kits, water and most importantly love.  He told me he was amazed.  I asked him what was in California.

I could smell his drunkenness and hear his slightly slurred speech, but that seemed to clear up as he described playing music.  His dream was to make it in the music business in California.  It was his land of promise.  I wondered what the odds were.

Charlie returned and presented Aaron with an opportunity.  If Aaron was willing, Charlie and Southside offered an enrollment into a Mercy House and on to Teen Challenge.  Here, in this program for 12-18 months (of which Charlie was a graduate), Aaron could receive daily the love and support of Christians as he battled whatever issue keeps him on the street.  Maybe, even provide a place for him to play his music.  I thank God for people like Charlie, who step out in faith and offer another option to someone like Aaron. 

Aaron graciously did not accept the offer.  He owed people money.  And, without saying it, I felt he thought he owed himself this dream that drives him and has driven him to where he is now.  Who knows, maybe Aaron will make it big in L.A.  Regardless, I bet he doesn’t forget his night in Mississippi.  

I believe Charlie was right, it was a divine appointment.  We prayed with Aaron for his saftey, his heart toward God, and the road ahead.

-m 

Stephanie Reeves just gave me a very thought provoking book. 

Plunge 2 Poverty:  An Intensive Poverty Simulation Experience

This book is about a weekend experience designed for the youth, where they understand and experience poverty.  Many times our youth have no point of reference to real need as our material world blinds them from the reality of living in the street.  The same could be said for those of us classified as non-youth.

 JW Sims and Anthony Underwood had their own simulation experience on Friday night, 2/29/2008.  In an effort to both raise awareness for the homeless plight and raise money for the purchase of the future Healing Touch property, JW and Anthony, hit the street, literally.  Joined by others who wanted to share in the experience they gathered in downtown Magee for the night.  It rained.  Some learned that cardboard boxes don’t really hold up in the rain.  Some learned that the ground is much harder than your bed.  What would happen if we did the same thing in Jackson?

Jackson makes more sense, after all there are really no homeless in Magee, the local law enforcement will escort “their types” out of the city, “That way to Jackson”, pointing north on highway 49.  What excuses could we come up with to NOT have this experience and perhaps share in our own modified “Plunge 2 Poverty”? 

It is too dangerous. 

True.  However, is it any less dangerous for our friends who sleep out every night?  “Well, that’s different?”, you say, “I have a family.”  Didn’t they once?  Yes, and many still have families.  Are we saying in some twisted way that when they face danger somehow they are expendable since they have no family.  I don’t believe we “mean it that way”, but how do we mean it?

What could we really learn from one night?

Good point, but we must start somewhere.  I’ve always thought that if everyone could experience at least a day, or in this case a night, in someone else’s shoes much could be accomplished.  Perhaps sympathy could be transformed to empathy and we could avoid my least favorite ”pathy” word:  Apathy.

Homeless people would not have a good attitude about this effort.

This statement, I must just disagree with completely.  There may be a very few, but one of the main comments I have heard from the homeless is that we just don’t know what it is like to be down here in the streets.  This would be an effort toward understanding and a great reach out gesture.  It would also build awareness of homelessness, never a bad thing.  I am still motivated by the thought of thousands of Christians with hearts full of God, seeing and acting to help the homeless.  What would that look like?  I have no clue, but a night in their shoes would bring us closer to what it really could look like. 

So, could we do this?  Is anyone interested? 

Pray about it… Think about it…

Let me know - Malcolm

601-983-0408  

mwoody@havertys.com 

Hello everybody!!I will not take much of your time with writing much. I wanted to share with you what happened to me Sunday. I went with J.W. Sims to the Opportunity Center in downtown Jackson where he preaches for Sunday service. J.W. goes every week along with others and has a worship time with the homeless of Jackson. I went along and God showed me his heart as I was sitting in this building in downtown Jackson. There were about 50 or more men and women gathered in this small building. They started singing Amazing Grace and it was beautiful!! I have never heard that song sound so beautiful in all my life. God said, you are hearing those who know what is truly amazing about my grace! The broken is where His heart is, let’s join him!!God Bless!!Anthony Underwood

Special Note:  Anthony Underwood is the Director for the upcoming and soon to be open Healing Touch Ministries.  He is in the process of acquiring funds to secure a 42 acre farm in Braxton, Ms.  This farm will serve as a rehab center (at zero cost for the patient) where for 32 weeks the Healing Touch of God will serve to rehab the homeless and incarcerated breaking the chains of addiction, liberated by the love and grace of God.  Here is another note from Anthony.  If you would like to make a donation or sponsor the upcoming Homeless awareness event in Magee please follow the instructions below.  God will richly use your dollars to help Those Who Know Amazing Grace.  Furthermore, they will see the outpouring of that grace from the Body of Christ!  This is an answer to our “First Step” prayers!           -M

Hello everyone! I need everyone praying for an up coming fund-raiser for Healing Touch. February 29th 6:00 p.m. until 6:00 a.m. there will be a fund-raiser for homelessness awareness at the park in Magee, MS hosted by Overflow Church. All proceeds will go to Healing Touch Ministries. We will be taking donations by the hour or if someone would like to just send a donation for the event that will be fine too. All checks can be made out to:  Healing Touch Ministries