Don’t ask me names, or ages, or where they’ve come from. I’ll have no answer for you. But as we walk these streets with a heart to break Jericho walls like we grew up knowing and loving these little boys and girls in adult bodies, my hands pounds on my chest, His love pulsates warm through my hands. My feet full of stride and humility as I realize that we, WE have been chosen, to join him.

And two hearts went out there on Monday to check out the scene; we’d heard from men of honor not to go without police. And so we put on hats and pressed out the wrinkles in our skirts, condemnation from our hearts and hid there across the block from Hell. The corner store looking for a cornerstone with the blind leading the blind. And so false hopes and false joy screams through the saloon, through the Inn, through the parking lot and reaches though our hearts and we connect. Bone to bone and marrow to marrow, we recognize and agonized the humanness crawling on its belly, the Savior reaching out His arms. It’s so easy to recall where we all once were without Him and His love. Because we’re finding that people are pushing and kicking for change, and slapping the name of Jesus across their face and walking away but I heard the first descriptor of love was patient. And the second one was kind

And there’s nothing like knowing the 13-year-old boy roaming these streets is simply working, pushing drugs on the old and dying souls of the generation before him. And he passes by the fifteen year old with false eyelashes and Pretty Woman Mentality and we break. And our car breaks, and we set foot on the pavement and towards her anxious heart. And who, at fifteen wouldn’t be anxious, standing on that busy intersection looking for money and finding lust, finding false acceptance, drinking in the horrors of men looking for the blood of momentary pleasure. As though, somehow children are to bring that at 9.30pm on a street corner or pick up truck, rather than sleeping safe and secured in an comforting bed just for her. Simply trying to find papa daddy, a warm hug, a gentle and selfless kiss on her forehead. And she accepts us, but only for a moment before her headphones are back in and she’s striding adults steps away from us so we pray. And we really just want to be friends.

And when we went out again last night and walked strong around the walls of this crumbled concrete, the walls of broken hearts, we prayed gently for the people and bolded against the enemy. So when we felt the vision of Jericho walls, breaking the falsities and replacing them with God’s truth, it sent chills up our spine to remember Rahab.

And when we left at the end of the night, we wrote and  gave back to God what only He can accomplish, grateful He’d allow us to be part of Kingdom change. But as I listen to the quiet of this morning, the winds of something grow, and I can’t help myself to grateful tears. And they, the tears, are grateful because I see the hands of God moving through my knuckles, and through the twenty of us out last night. And they’re grateful because sometimes we see people in perpetrators and victims, and I just seen them as children. With big longing eyes, and of loss, pain, hurt, and regret as though they themselves can’t even comprehend. I don’t even know their names, but man, I think I love them.