it was unseasonably cold in baton rouge, louisiana, last thursday night.? when i arrived wednesday, it was 75 and muggy.? by the same time thursday, it was 32 degrees and windy – a cold, damp, biting wind that messed up all of our hair and left us shivering in the shuttle which drove us around the most dangerous areas of town.
after making the rounds at several adult establishments to hand out roses to the ladies who worked at them, we visisted the almost condemned alamo motel, home to pimps, drug lords and prostitutes.
the cold air kept the prostitutes indoors, but we managed to stop by one motel room where we knew we’d find a lady the team i was with had gotten to know over the last few months.
she answered the door in a house robe and hair net.
we’ll call her miss ella.
miss ella lives in a motel room no larger than 300 sqaure feet.? some of the surrounding rooms still have boarded up windows and are missing pieces of the roof, but miss ella’s room managed to weather the rounds of hurricanes that hit baton rouge over the summer.
the thing that surprised me about miss ella wasn’t the fact that she’s a grandma.? but that she is a grandma with six (usually seven) kids (and a dog) living with her in her small, god-only-knows-what’s-happened-here motel room.? as i peered in a crooked door frame, mattresses covered the floor and baskets of clothes were scattered around.
this was miss ella’s home.
we gave miss ella a rose and some candy to her grandchildren. a lady i was with asked why one of miss ella’s granddaughters stayed covered up under some blankets, and why she wasn’t coming to the door for her candy.
“is she sick?”
“she doesn’t have no clothes,” miss ella said.
as we talked more with miss ella, what appeared to be her eldest grandson came to the door wearing a light purple windbreaker (circa 1984) and matching running pants.? evidently he had recently returned to miss ella’s care after getting into some kind of trouble.? we asked him if he’d go back to school soon.? he said no, hiding behind his grandmother.
“he don’t have no clothes to wear to school,” miss ella replied, matter of factly, her arm pulling him close.
alliece, the brilliant and beautiful woman who heads up the baton rouge dream center, as well as this midnight outreach we were on, told miss ella to come by the center for some clothes on sunday.? they would take care of him, and make sure miss ella had anything else she needed.
after we prayed with her, i climbed back in the shuttle, headed back to my own hotel room, which was probably the same size as miss ella’s, if not a tad bigger.? but i had my room all to myself.? perched high up on the 18th floor, i was far removed from any pimps or prostitutes or drug deals or rats or roaches or mold.? i didn’t consider latching the door behind me because subconsciously i knew i was completely safe.
it was a contrast i’m far from forgetting.
a quick bit of shut eye and five hours later, i was sitting on an airplane reflecting on miss ella and her grandbabies.? i was left with a feeling very similar to the way i felt when i first visted annette, a mother with five children who lived in one room in an african slum in uganda.
how? how does this happen?
it’s easy to try and rationalize a slum in uganda. it’s not easy to forget, or easy to accept, but it’s easy to put it in a third-world point of view.? it hasn’t been easy for me to process miss ella and her motel room.? her six (or seven) kids (and a dog).? her lack of basic needs.? the danger that surrounds her day in and day out.
from a completely american context, it just doesn’t make sense.
i know there are motels like the alamo in every town.? i know there are mothers and fathers and grandmothers and aunts who are going without food or heat or clothing today.? and it’s moments like thursday night and people like miss ella which are divine in nature, giving me far more in perspective and hope and faith than i could possibly ever offer in return.
