Strawberry hit the suburbs.

Strawberry is one of the guys we’ve been hanging out with at Transitional Youth. It’s not his real name but it’s the one that’s stuck. It has nothing to do with jam but everything to do with the Beatles.

Christina has been the one who has been able to connect the most with Strawberry. They come from opposite ends of life’s spectrum but both have found a friend in the other. It’s one of the coolest things that has happened during this trip.

She invited Strawberry to go to the Starfield concert with the group. The crowd was made up of strutting preps, jocks, little emo children in their tight jeans, cool twenty-somethings and everyone in between. A swirling mish-mash of cliques, genres and styles from the suburbs collided in the room. Strawberry was one of a kind with his thick black boots, fedora and dark eyeliner.

It was obvious that Strawberry was a little skeptical about the concert when he walked in. He didn’t fit into any of the sub-groups but Christina stayed by him, coaxing him into enjoying the concert and joining in the worship. He even bought a band shirt at the end of the night.

Strawberry’s story isn’t over yet. It’s going to be amazing to see where he is in a year or two. Pray that God would keep putting dynamic Christians into his life to love him and show him Jesus.





Image Copyright Christina Dickson, 2008.

Today, I sewed.

You have to understand, this is not a normal occurrence for me. Past sewing exercises have left me with bleeding thumbs and tangled threads. I can do buttons and other basic things…kind of. That’s why it was a good thing all I was asked to do was sew on a patch.

We were back at Sisters of the Road and had run into our friend Zimm. He’s a young street teen with beautiful skin and an affinity for eyeliner. He’s going to be a looker when he’s older. At the time, he was sitting across the table from me, poking his fork into whatever looked good from the assortment of plates and bowls in front of him. There were separate bowls of beans and rice; steaming plates of sloppy joes, vegetarian or otherwise. His appetite was just like that of any other teenage boy: super-sized.

Zimm had just gotten a headband from Hot Topic. He wanted to look older, so he had obtained a skull patch to put on it. That’s where I came in. For all his skills, Zimm can’t sew. He handed me a sewing kit from one of the local hotels. I didn’t know if it was stolen or bartered for or what. It didn’t really matter in the long run anyway.

I worked on the patch during lunch. Whitney, Taylor, Zimm and Josh chatted, debating over which superhero they would be. Every once in awhile Zimm would check on my progress, hoping that it was almost finished. What he didn’t know was that I was praying over his patch; asking each stitch to bring some sort of a blessing in his life or bring him closer to finding Jesus.

That’s what everyone needs. The drug addict. The business man. The bum. The high school math teacher. The prostitute. The barista. The pimp. The Sunday School teacher. They all need Jesus. They need his love. They need strong arms to hold them up and comfort them during the darkest hours in their souls. They need a well-spring of joy to bubble in their heart, spilling out into their lives. They need Jesus.

If I can show Jesus to Zimm by sewing on an ugly patch; I’ll do it. But the question is: how can you show Jesus to someone?

We discovered a new place to eat. Sisters of the Road Café. There should be one in every town. Check it out. It’s a pretty amazing concept.

On Monday, March 24th, our whole team minus Caitlin (who hitched a ride with her cousins) piled into a Suburban and headed off for Cannon Beach. From our meeting point, the beach was about two hours away. We all figured out, rather quickly, that road trips were a shared love, so the prospect of us sharing sharing two hours in a car together was rather exciting. For one member of the team, Laura Clawson, the destination of the trip held even greater curious excitement. Laura, who is native to Minnesota, had never been to the beach or even seen one at a distance. As we drew close to the beach, she suddenly exclaimed, “ There it is! Did you see it? I saw it!”

We pulled into the quaint, tourist town of Cannon Beach with eager anticipation .Beaches are beautiful, awesome, and relaxing places to go when you have a lot on your mind, and, after working and toiling in the streets, our minds were rather weary and completely full. This was the moment to unwind, to be still, and to think.

Everyone pulled their stuff out of the car and made for the beach. Laura’s excitement grew intense as she skipped over the last hill to gaze out at the beautiful gray/blue water and the crisp white crests of breaking waves. Laura, Whitney, and I ran the long stretch of the beach to wade in the literally ice cold water for several seconds as the tide started back in. Although the water was painfully cold, it was still irresistible and, somehow, extremely refreshing. Some of the team members foolishly stayed back on the sand. Hmm... to their shame.

After Aaron Dodson, an East-Coast surfer, and I changed into our makeshift swimsuits, we left out team on the sand and sprinted headlong into the biting water. We both had to laugh as we watched all of the Oregonians look on us as if we were mental cases. Almost every native of Oregon who Aaron and I had talked to had cautioned us that the water was entirely too cold to swim in, but every one of those comments only strengthened our resolve that we had to dive in and go for it. We stood waist deep in the water for about ten minutes, diving head long into the waves. After those ten minutes, we walked back up the beach and stood there freezing. When we started turning shades of blue and purple, we decided that doing jumping jacks and throwing the football around wasn’t enough to keep us warm, so we changed back into our dry clothes.

At around 2pm, after walking up and down the beach looking for shells and just resting, Caitlin, Whitney, and I walked to a store to get some food and fire wood for a campfire and discussion time. I think, out of all the quiet times and worship times on this trip, not any other time was as encouraging as that campfire time.

The wood burned smoky, but gave off plenty of much needed warmth. We sat around in the soft sand, eating chips and bread, seagulls flying around and seeking handouts. After a few minutes of eating and laughing, Christina softly stated that the time around the campfire would be spent with each team member receiving a word of encouragement from every other team member. As we started, I realized what an amazing thing we were actually doing. We were edifying and uplifting each other in every way that we could, building a wall of truth and encouragement to guard against the coming discouragement of a hard battle. We were preparing and equipping each other to fight the spiritual battle that loomed over us. We were the church. We were disciples. We were truly brothers and sisters, bonded for battle, bound by love, and surrounded by the hands of the mighty Father.

I will remember that day at the beach for a long time. Sometime in the future, I know the words that my team gave will come into my head, and, as God speaks, I will be emboldened once again.

-- Taylor Lindsey, Assistant Journalist

Boy Bonding Time at the Beach.

Awestruck bythe ocean.

Cannon Beach.

Picture with me a cracked, empty, and dry clay pitcher. It hasn’t been to the river to be filled in quite a while, and has nothing with which to quench the thirst of the passerby. Only by being constantly filled with the refreshing waters from the river will the pitcher constantly be able to refresh those that come to it thirsty and in need.

Over the course of the pasts few weeks, I have come to see myself as that pitcher - a vessel to be used for my King. The constancy of ministering to my team and the street people through a smile, a hug, a word of encouragement, and especially through prayer keeps me continually pouring out the life giving refreshment I receive from my Savior. I would be cracked and dry by now if not for the places He puts me in to be filled up yet again.

These places come at various times and in various ways. There are the times to steal away on my own and just talk to and listen to Him; there are also the times when the guitar is pulled out and the team is filled up as an unit. Then there are those times that God decides to surprise me with random people and events to encourage me and make me smile.

Easter Sunday was one of those times for me. Our team was invited to join Caitlin Muir and her family for the Easter service at their church. Together we crowded into the stadium seats of the foot ball field, wrapped ourselves in coats and blankets, and attempted to stay out of the drizzle that poured from the Portland sky, as we waited for the worship to begin. It wasn’t more than ten minutes before Kutless, a popular Christian band, was welcomed onto the platform and had begun leading worship. Did I expect to attend Kutless’s home church on Easter morning? Could I have arranged to have them lead worship in a setting that I didn’t have to pay to hear them? The answer to both questions is no. No, I couldn’t have arranged that, but my King decided that he wanted to surprise me, to refresh me.

Later that afternoon, the Knopp family welcomed us into their home to enjoy a home cooked and delicious Easter dinner, to eat more than our fill of sugar, to enjoy fellowship, and to rest after a long week of constant going. Once again, could I have asked to be welcomed into the home of someone who I just recently met? Could I have asked to spend Easter with such amazing people when I am so many miles from home? The answer, again , is no; but , again, my Savior decided to refresh me, to give me boost for the week ahead.

The truth is that God will never put me in a place of ministry where He won’t be able to refresh me, and He will never allow me to be so spent that I have nothing left to give. It’s up to me if I will recognize and take advantage of those times and places, but my Jesus will always provide them. Are you being filled up? Are you letting Him fill you up?

-- Whitney Lindsey, Assistant Production Manager

Today was our escape to the countryside. We went up to Royal Ridges (hyperlink) in Battle Ground, Washington to spend the day with people from the drop-in center. The usuals were there along with a few new faces.

The crisp country air was a nice break from the marijuana fumes that we had grown accustomed to. The paved bricks of Pioneer Courthouse Square were replaced with good, honest, clean dirt. We didn’t have to worry about needles or powders. The most we had to worry about was stepping in horse poop.

Royal Ridges is an amazing place. Campers can get away from their dealers, johns and customers to enjoy nature in its beautiful simplicity. The activities are just the same as at any other camp; there’s a choice between wood burning, horseback riding, rock climbing or archery. A big swing is attached precariously above a ravine and stream. A bonfire is burning brightly, the result of logs piled high in the center of the fire pit. Roasting sticks lie close at hand, ready for an eager hand and a marshmallow.

Everyone was relaxed. The cares of the city had been dropped off miles down the gravel road, left to be picked up after the weekend was over. The wide meadows were ripe for a game of football, tag or Frisbee. The volleyball court was riddled with fresh mounds of dirt, compliments of an overactive family of moles.

The interns (Laura, Jake, Taylor and Whitney) and I stayed late at Royal Ridges. The others had headed back to Portland earlier in the day, eager to catch the spring break crowd in the Square. My team played with the homeless. The afternoon was a lovely lark with our new friends. We tackled the big swing, played on the rock wall and had impromptu photo shoots with the campers.


One of the highlights of the day was praying around the campfire with Robert. Robert is one of the most noticeable street people that we have come across. He’s noticeable because he’s a schizophrenic. He talks in two different voices and not always aware of what he is saying. It can get him in trouble. Robert approached us and asked us to pray. Our small group soon grew and a huddle was soon formed around him. Hands were laid on him and fervent prayers were sent up to heaven. It was one of the most beautiful moments of this trip.

As we headed back to the city, it was strange. It felt like every mile back into the city was another mile away from our oasis. The clean forest air and the gentle stream had soothed our souls and now it was time to get back to the dirt and the grime; the sin and the shame, the lost and the weary.

Everyone has a story. None of them are exactly the same but there’s usually a gross amount of pain involved in each of them. People find refuge on the street; refuge in some of the worst conditions imaginable.

I met two young women at the drop-in center. They are both pregnant. It’s not the first baby for either of them. They sit on the floor together, eating from their bowls of ice cream and swapping jokes between the two of them. They’ve been through a lot together; fights, breakups, good times and bad. The bond is almost visible in its strength.

Both women are young. They are at the age where they should be worried about prom season, the dramas of high-school and where they’ll be headed to college in the fall. Instead, they juggle complicated street relationships, morning sickness and other issues while trying to figure out how long they can couch surf with their friends.

One of them grew up in church, going to youth group and Sunday School. She placed her first daughter in an adoptive home instead of letting her parents raise her. It caused a split in her family and drove her down to Portland. She visits her daughter but is practically alienated from the rest of her family. She’s the girl you hear whispered about in church. The girl that needs a big hug and open arms. She’s hurting and she needs love.

The women are going to keep their babies. They are determined to carve out a future for their children. They don't want repeats.

There are some fascinating people on the street. Pictures to come.

Rain jackets are essential to survival in Portland.

We had another interview with Sam today. This one was for the video camera and we shot it outside—Portland style. Caleb, Sam, and I all climbed out on a small balcony overlooking Pioneer Place, one of downtown’s premier shopping centers. The camera angle caught the beauty of the street bustling below us while still maintaining enough focus on Sam to be relevant.

Halfway through the interview, the gentle drizzle of rain quickly turned into a deluge. Up went Caleb’s umbrella to protect his camera. Jake scrambled out the window and up a ladder to hold an umbrella aloft to keep Sam from getting soaked. I was snug in my Columbia Sportswear jacket. I can now see why the newsrooms in the area stock up on the jackets. They work wonders. I feel like I could volunteer to be a spokesperson for the company. I love my jacket that much. Really.

I am convinced that there is mighty power in prayer.

The video interview team was bone tired when we started yesterday. Each of us had gotten roughly four hours of sleep the night before and looked like it. It didn’t look like it was going to be a good morning—especially for those of us who didn’t get our coffee.

During the car ride down to the industrial district, Aaron and Christina started sharing what they had read in their Bible’s that morning. It amounted to abiding and trusting in God, because without him, we can’t do anything. The thought was humbling in its simplicity. When did we get so complicated that we had forgotten to just pray and trust God?

Our interview with Daniel, the head of Transitional Youth was beautiful. It wasn’t because of Christina’s artistic capabilities, my interviewing skills, or the other’s videography talents. The interns and Jocelyn were back at our base, praying that God would bless our time and keep us far from distractions and detours. That’s where the peace and blessing came from; it was God.

How many God-things do we miss out on just because we haven’t prayed?

Day 10

Jalina saved my life. Kind of.

I met her a few days ago in the Square. Our group was handing out soup, socks, hot cocoa and red licorice sticks to the youth who were hanging out in Portland’s “living room” downtown.

It was a fun. Jocelyn and Christina headed up the photographers, taking portraits of the people, coaxing them into smiling and posing in front of the camera. It didn’t take them much work. People were more than happy to oblige.

Laura and Jake spent a lot of time working in some of the more “unglamorous” jobs; handing out the soup and socks while making sure that garbage wasn’t left to collect on the ground. They kept going, talking with people as they worked but never neglecting the duties that they had been given.

My assignment was to talk to people and get them to share their stories and thoughts. I was mingling through the crowd, trying to get people to write open letters down on my pad of paper. People are usually more than willing to share their perspective on life and I found myself flipping through the sheets of papers.

I got a paper cut. It bled. A lot.

It got past the ignoring stage when blood spilled on the paper. Who knew that such a tiny cut could be such a gusher? Whitney and Jalina sprang into action trying to find a Band-Aid for me. The local Starbucks didn’t have one; however, they were able to supply us with gauze and a latex glove.

Jalina knew just what to do. It turned out that she was going to school to become a phlebotomist. As she created a tiny tourniquet on my finger, we started talking. It wasn’t long before she was sharing her story with me.

Her mother had died recently. Jalina had been her “wild child” that she had loved right up to her dying day. Jalina has been couch hopping recently, trying to stay off the street by living on the hospitality of her friends. It hasn’t been easy. She’s working as hard as she can to make her mother proud. She didn’t want handouts to help her off the street, she wanted to work. The American dream still thrives, even on the street.

When I left, we gave each other a big hug. We had bonded over Band-Aids and stories of our mothers. We parted as friends not strangers. I can’t wait to run into her again.

______

Day 9

Dignity: the quality or state of being worthy, honored, or esteemed. (Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary)

Taylor and I were combing the waterfront trying to find people to give us their opinion on the homeless population of Portland. Some people gave their opinions freely while others guarded them fiercely. We were asking members of the homeless community to write letters to the world, telling them of their thoughts and lives. When we approached the homeless couple on the waterfront, both of us were slightly nervous. How would they receive us?

She sat cross-legged on the park lawn, carefully filing her nails with a white emery board. Her snowy long hair hung freely, contrasting with her dark jacket and navy cotton trousers. A rucksack sat on the wet grass halfway between her and her male friend.

He was a stark contrast to her. He was still obviously homeless but while she concentrated on maintaining her hands, his were stained with grime. A freshly rolled cigarette hung loosely between his fingers. When he smiled, it was echoed in his sky-blue eyes that were framed by deep lines etched in his leather face. She never bothered to make eye contact with us. He was missing a few teeth but his gummy smile was more genuine than the ones on tooth paste commercials.

“I just wish that people wouldn’t look down on us just because we’re homeless,” the man said as he scribbled out a letter in the notebook. He had seemed surprised that we had stopped to talk to him in the first place.

The woman refused to write. “I’m not interested in writing a letter,” she said, carefully pronouncing each word with a generous mixture of aloofness and iciness. She never stopped filing her fingernails, always checking to make sure that she was shaping them in the peculiar way she wanted.

As we walked away, I was struck by the dignity the woman had possessed. It could have been pride but it seemed to deeply ingrained for that. It hadn’t been a personal thing. She had been almost regal in the way that she had turned us down. While she hadn’t exactly been anywhere near friendly, I couldn’t blame her. How many other young idealists just like us had she met over the years?

The other thing that struck me was the amount of personal care that she had for herself. While we tend to stereotype homeless people as dirty and grimy (and many of them are), she had been taking great lengths to ensure that she didn’t fit that stereotype. She looked like she would have been right at home in the front room of a beauty parlor, filing her nails while gossiping with her friends. She knew that she was made for better stuff than wearing castaway clothes. Living under the open sky quickly looses it’s glamour in a city that rains most of the year.

I wish the woman would have written a letter. She could have helped us restore dignity to the rest of the people.

We rested.

Day 7

"Every choice has a consequence," Satan told me this afternoon during a sit-down chat at a coffee shop.

This afternoon, I interviewed Satan. It was unexpected but still fun. He wasn't the devil incarnate but a man who had been on the street for eleven years. He used to be a Satanist street preacher even thought he had grown up in the Mormon faith. His story was different from the other people I have interviewed. His real name is Sam but to be honest, Satan is just a lot catchier. You kept reading, didn't you? He had lead a pretty nice life; bouncing around the world with his military family, experiencing things that other men twice his age still dream about. Boredom had driven him to the street. Boredom let him to drugs and fights, a violent cycle that would take him years to recover from.

People are driven to the streets for various reasons; abuse, abandonment, boredom, economic issues. Each story is unique to the person telling it. The sheer amount of people on the street is saddening. Broken lives are becoming even more shattered as lives take turns for the worse with every bad choice that is made.

This isn't going to end with another "save the homeless" plea. Instead, I want you to think about the choices that you are making. They will have consequences. Are you willing to live with them? Where will they lead you? The chances are that you won't end up on the street but you will end up miles away from where you once dreamed you would be. So please, think before you act.

Day 6

I'll be honest. Today was rough for the team. Things happened that
threw us off guard. Some things made us laugh while others made us
cry. But all of it has brought us to our knees.
As I write, I'm sitting in a warm cafe just shy of the Willamette
River. The sky is the same marbled gray as the concrete floor
underneath my feet. The handsome barista behind the counter is staying
warm as he delivers drinks to people that come in to find shelter from
the cold. It's March in Portland and the world is just as it should
be.

A few blocks away sit a married couple. They are sitting in a
cardboard box underneath a freeway overpass, swaddling themselves in
blankets, smoking a joint to keep them warm. They are part of a small
community on this side of the river. They are like any other dedicated
couple. They bicker. They kiss and make up. The simple domesticity of
the situation seems ironic at first. After all, they are homeless.
Where's the house? Where's the yard? They have the dog. They have the
tender glances, the soft looks and the stolen kisses that symbolize
happy Americana.

They were married by the fountains in Waterfront Park. Their third
anniversary has already past--they are doing much better than many
newlyweds in the rest of society. Instead of wedding bands, they
exchanged barbells. Both of them proudly stuck out their tongues to me
and showed me the shiny silver bars. You could tell that it meant more
to the wife than any diamond ring would.

The couple was seperated for a year. He had to serve time in a county
jail. She stayed in Portland. Both of them have been helped by
Transition Project in downtown Portland. They have been given help
finding clothes, showers and meals. They told me that Transition was
the best service that the city had to offer to the homeless. The
husband dug into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, pulling out two
checks for $29 that he had been given earlier that morning. He was so
proud to have some money for him and his wife.

They are humans like you and I. All they ask is that they are treated
as such. Please. Show them love. Show them care. Show them that they
actually do matter.

Welcome to Portland.

This was the first day that the crew really got to hit the streets of
Portland. The weather was dismal. The sky was a steady gray, an
endless blanket without any hue of blue to be seen. It was a bad day
to be homeless. The constant drizzle was depressing; even those of us
who were fully prepared for the weather didn't want to be out in the
elements. Rain jackets weren't an effective barrier to stop the bleak
nature of the day. Even the MAX was sad, silently gliding down the
streets, passing the huddled crowds seeking shelter under the
overhangs outside the shop doors.

A trip to Powell's was in order for the day. The interviewing team sat
in the Global Cafe downstairs while the rest of the team tried to
navigate their way through the maze-like shelves, rooms and buildings
that help make up the largest bookstore in the world. They soon
discovered that there was more to the store than books.

While walking down one of the aisles, Taylor Lindsey, one of the
interns from Texas, saw a woman collapse in a heap on the floor. When
the rest of the witnesses stood blinking dumbly, he ran to her side to
see if she was alright or in need of assistance. She assured him that
she was fine although she didn't know what had happened. She didn't
feel that it was necessary to call 9-11; instead, Taylor found himself
searching the massive building for her nearest relatives. It was like
searching for a needle in a haystack. Ultimately, Taylor found the
husband and son and was able to help get the woman back to the ground
floor.

While this took place, I was busy sipping on a cup of Rice Green Tea.
That's right. Rice tea. It tastes better iced. I don't know if I will
ever try it hot again. Summer please come quickly. My companions were
less adventurous in their beverage choices; English Breakfast tea and
a decaf short Vanilla non-fat latte. I was there to interview the
other tea drinker. Over the course of the consumption of our drinks,
she shared with me what her life on the streets of Portland had been
like. It hadn't been easy.

Whoever thinks that life on the street means freedom is woefully
misinformed. Life on the street means that people will look at you
differently; mothers will warn their children about you, people will
lock their doors and no matter what you do, the stigma remains like a
tattoo. Trust is a word that is deleted from your working vocabulary;
it's a fond memory or an often wished for element. It doesn't grow on
the streets. It died the moment the first time an angry word was
spoken or a fist struck the skin. Street people are people. Period.
They laugh. They cry. They feel both pain and happiness. They want to
be noticed. They want to be treated like the humans that they are.

It was another day of planning for the team.

The amount of planning that goes into a docudrama is surprising. Even for someone who took film studies, it's easy to forget that someone has to plan out camera angles and scripts. Drama's do not naturally unfold before a camera. Story elements are not always in logical places. It's only through interviews, time and some serious planning that a film begins to take shape.

I spent almost two hours interviewing Sarah M. today. We chatted quietly in the coffee shop, interns and crew members buzzed around us quietly. Some were transcribing the interview while others were capturing it on video. I became painfully aware of every scrape of a chair or crash of coffee beans, hoping beyond hope that the video would somehow pick up the audio of Sarah's voice while leaving the background noise out. Again, I became more aware of what goes into news video. It's easy to script a five minute segment but it is far harder to splice down a two hour interview into a small segment to be packaged for television. And yet, that's what happens all the time on the network news shows.

It's amazing to me how much editing God does. That sounds like a funny thing to say but it's true. He carefully splices things, composing two separate elements back to back with a beautiful segue between them. Things might seem long, disjointed and drawn out but when the story is finally unfolded, you can see how events were carefully crafted. It's a beautiful thing.

Stay tuned for some pictures from the week. There might even be some video clips coming soon.

Written by Revolutionary Media Team Journalist, Caitlin Muir

Day 3:

Today was one giant meeting.

We met with three contacts over the course of the day. Two of them ministered to people on the street and will be highlighted in our documentary. The other person we met with was different. He was my old Sunday School teacher.

He sat in the coffee shop, the light from the garage window filtering into the room beautifully behind him. He looks so innocent. So wholesome and so nice. You would never have guessed that he had been a drug dealer. That he had lived on the street for over a year. That he had been addicted to meth.

Just after high school, he was kicked out of the house and onto the cold streets. He found sanctuary in a meth house in Portland. Dealing drugs wasn't a new activity--just a familiar lifestyle that he found himself settling into. It wasn't a nice life. He stayed awake for days on a meth high, only to have his body collapse from exhaustion once he was down and try to make up for it by sleeping for three days straight. There were only a few drugs that he didn't try. He had a deep hurt that he was desperately trying to fill.

Then he met her.

She didn't make him change. Instead, she was the unknowing catalyst. They went over to dinner one night at her grandparents house and they offered to let him live with them. He accepted and moved in, more than happy to be off the street and have a real bed to sleep in. It wasn't long until the young couple split up; she moved out and he stayed living in the basement of her grandparent's house. They never got back together.

He was given a Bible by her grandmother. One night, driven to distraction, he finally opened it up. Sobs tore through his body as he read through Psalm 51, identifying with the heart cry of King David. That's when he finally surrendered to Jesus.

His life still wasn't picture perfect. He still had addictions to take care of. While reading through the book of Romans, he became convicted about the life he was leading. He quit his drugs cold-turkey, deciding to clean once and for all.

It wasn't long until he got his GED and started to take college classes. An interest in science turned into pursing a degree in Nursing. His love for chemistry soon changed his major and his life plan. Now that he's eleven years away from his conversion, he's close to finishing his doctorate degree in Pharmacy. The irony isn't lost on him. The man that used to run a street pharmacy will soon be dispensing legal ones.

His story is full of extremes. He is a man that has felt the width and depth of God's grace. Jesus was introduced to him by some people who saw "something" in him; something that wanted to change and do better. All they did was open up their home to him and love on him.

How many people just like him are we ignoring? How many doctors, lawyers and teachers are we keeping on the streets?

- Written by Caitlin Muir, Revolutionary Media team Journalist

Day 2:

Personalities are crazy things.

I don't know who invented the personality quiz. It almost seems inherently wrong to be able to diagram a personality--to chart out the whims and intricacies of a person on paper--it just shouldn't be able to happen. Yet there we were, assigning numbers to our "happy" and "negative" traits, plotting out our results on tiny colored graph paper.

The results weren't exactly shocking. The official readings tended to just be an affirmation of first impressions, expounding on personality tendencies and showing the potentials of the person. It felt like reading the paper from a giant Chinese fortune cookie.

It's going to be interesting to see how these personalities play out with each other. Will they react in a volatile manner? Create a stinky odor? Make something delicious like chocolate chip cookies. It's all coming down to chemistry.

Stay tuned.

Written by Caitlin Muir, Team Journalist

One by one they trickled into Portland, weary from their journey but excited about what was to come. Caleb was the first to arrive, bring with him his sense of humor, high energy level and of course, his video cameras. Aaron was the next to arrive, nearly 24 hours after his original estimated time of arrival. He happily bounced around airports, waiting for the golden plane that would transport him to the gritty streets of Oregon.

As I write, I sit in a stiff wooden pew in a Methodist church just shy of Powell Boulevard. The interns from Texas are sitting beside me as the melodic strands of Bach's Brandenburg Concerto dance in the otherwise still air of the sanctuary. The Dickson String quartet is in good form, their fingers flitting over the instruments, never resting, always roving to find the next dulcet note.

Caleb and Aaron are filming the concert. It's interesting to finally see them in action, standing behind the cameras, eyes watching, gauging the action in front of them through the lens of the camera. This is also their first chance to try syncing two cameras together. It was a mad rush to set the cameras up for the concert.

For a moment, it's easy to forget that they don't have an "easy" medium to work with. Photographers can point and shoot with their cameras, showing up minutes before and leaving after the action. All a journalist needs to survive is a pencil and scraps of paper. But for a videographer, it's a different story. They must strive to keep the delicate balance of audio and visual—capturing the faces and the voices of the stories unfolding before their cameras.

As the music fills the background of my thoughts, I can't help but draw comparisons between the quartet and the documentary project. The quartet is made up of dedicated musicians. They didn't just come off the street. Before trying to play with another musician, they first had to learn how to play their instrument, master it, caress it and draw the sweet melodies from within. Hours were spent alone; playing scales, finger exercises and solos while their friends were playing outside in the sunshine. During the summer months, practicing was not always what they wanted to do. But yet they persisted.

In the same way, each artist coming to this project is like the quartet members. Members spent hours, months and years fine-tuning their chosen craft until it reached a level that was pleasing not only to themselves but to the public as well. Each one has thrived individually in their field. Some of us have worked on big media projects before while for others, its uncharted territory.

There is one question that lingers in my mind as the music plays. What will our music sound like?

It's only a few days before the documentary project begins and already there's a noticeable high level of excitement within Revolutionary Media. Crew members are scattered across the country and are ready for their rendezvous in Portland.

Some of them are nervous. It's understandable. They've never done anything like this. Creating a documentary is hard work; full of long nights, empty coffee pots, brain power, prayer, sweat, and a little bit of luck. They haven't entered the crazy world of media yet. They stand at the doorway, looking in and wondering what their experience will be like. Wondering what they'll be like once post-production has wrapped up.

Others feel the familiar pulse of adrenaline rushing in their veins. They have worked with crews before, are comfortable with their media form, and know that whatever happens, God will take care of them. There is no question with that. Theirs is a tried and true path. But the excitement still lingers, a feeling akin to stepping onto a favorite roller coaster, knowing you'll be scared but still come through safely.

There is no such thing as an unaffected person working with media, the arts, or the written word. When your work is to tell the stories of other people, to capture the micro-expressions of their soul, a little piece of them is given to you. In turn, a little piece of yourself is given to them. Each of you shapes the other; giving and receiving information and lives, sharing and listening. You can't walk away from something like that without being impacted. It's just not possible.

The Interns are coming to learn; they dream of working with the visual and written arts, telling stories and exposing truth. For those of us who are experienced in our field, the burden is ours to help train them in those chosen fields. It feels different to be on the other side of an internship.

In the days that come, please remember the team in your prayers. Pray for strength, encouragement, and the sweet unity that comes from Christ.

- Written by Caitlin Muir, Revolutionary Media Team Journalist

Portland is gray and drizzling today. I'm safe inside a house, sipping warm tea from my favorite mug. Happy little 'isms line the outside of the mug, encouraging sippers to live in harmony and love. Drinking tea often causes me to sit and contemplate things and this mug only further fuels the process.

What does it really mean to love someone?

Love isn't always sunshine and warm days at the beach. It has to endure through the dark days, the stormy days, and the days where we just want to curl up and let it die. Love is the gentle breeze that brings refreshment to a stagnant heart. It's a sweet melody that lingers on our lips even after the musicians have gone home. Love is being there for a sick friend. It's being there for someone even in the event that it won't be returned.

Love is many things.

As I look outside my window, I can't see any blue sky. I wonder what life would be without hope. Without love.

What does life look like when there aren't any blue skies to brighten the dismal days? I think about the Burnside Underground project. It would be foolish to assume that street teens only experience fear and abandonment. They don't own a monopoly on those emotions. They know ecstasy, they know jealousy, they know what it is like to fall in love. They humans just like you and me. Your address doesn't dictate the emotions you experience. The range of emotions is experienced in the life of every human being.

Bad choices have brought them to the streets. Some of them have run away from abusive pasts. Others have fled good homes, trying to prove their independence. In every story, they fell through the cracks. They have become invisible to society; noticed only by their fellow street citizen and police officers on patrol. Imagine how your life would be if you were in those shoes. Imagine how desperately you'd want to be noticed.

So think about it. What's keeping you back from showing love to someone you see on the street?

- Written by Caitlin Muir, Revolutionary Media Team Journalist

Handing out chocolate chip cookies wasn’t enough, Sarah finally decided. The need of the street kids was great, and she had come to love them enough to do whatever it took to help them. So Sarah started a dinner bible study at her home. Several days a week, she would arrive at the square and invite the street kids to come home with her. At first, there were only a few who came, but those who did got hot showers, a home made meal, and a heartfelt devotional about Jesus. Not so long after the time started, many street people wanted to come. Sarah would take several 20 minute shifts to shuttle the homeless people from the square to her house. Somehow, 40 to 50 street people would pack into Sarah’s house, welcoming the time to be loved by this selfless woman.

By this time it wasn’t enough for Sarah to bake cookies and do Bible studies. She wanted to do more. What the street kids needed most was a home, a shelter, a place to be protected from the cold, the rain, the wet, and the predators of the street. So Sarah took a risk. She opened her home to be a shelter for street kids. Sarah prayed that Jesus would send her the hardened kids first. She decided that when He got through to the tough kids, their witness would bring others to Him. So Jesus answered her prayer. Sarah gained the trust of the hardest street kids on the scene. Hardened drug addicts. Prostitutes. Broken runaways. Men. Women. Children. All were accepted in Sarah’s home, so long as they observed the respectful ground rules she set up.

Years went by. Sarah continued to love the street people just as Jesus loved. And she began to see miracles. The same God who did wondrous things in the Bible came alive to Sarah as she saw Him work the same for her. He softened the hearts of the street kids. He gently called them to Himself. And they changed.

Somehow, a banker heard about Sarah’s work. He was taken by her love for the street people. “I want to fund your work” he said. He bought two additional houses to operate as shelters for the street kids. Then he rented out another building so that more people could come to Sarah’s bible study.

“I know that I wasn’t born to this earth just to live” Sarah said. “What is the point of living if you are not going to give as Jesus did?”

Sarah is just another ordinary person who walked downtown and stopped passing the square that was full of needy people. Sarah is simply a servant of the living God who wanted to be His hands and feet to those who need Him most.

Sarah is changing the world.

All her work began with a call of Christ -

- And a few bags of lovingly homemade chocolate chip cookies.

In the book of Acts Peter and John went to the temple to pray. There, sitting at the gates of the temple was a lame beggar seeking alms. Peter didn’t walk past him. He didn’t avert his gaze. Rather, Peter stopped and fixed his eyes on the man. Then he quoted one of the most familiar lines in the New Testament: “Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have give I thee; in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise up, and walk.”

And the beggar was lame no longer.

You see, Peter was a poor, uneducated, fisherman turned Jesus follower. Like many of us, he had nothing special or significant to give that would help someone in such desperate need.

But this is the part of the story that should warm and inspire and motivate each of our souls; this is the part of the story that should tear down all our defenses and belittle our excuses and challenge us to do what Peter did:

He gave what He had.

He gave Jesus.

For every believer, we have the same.

We don’t have to be rich. We don’t have to be significant. We don’t have to offer extraordinary talents and abilities. We simply have to have Jesus. And if Jesus is who we say He is, if Jesus is Life, and Love, and Joy, and everything Good, then giving Jesus is enough to fulfill the greatest needs and touch the most needy of hearts.

For every believer, we can change the world if all we give is the most basic of what we have:

Jesus.

And then, the lame and wounded are healed. The street kids are redeemed. The lost are saved. The prisoners are set free.

So, when will you say, “But such as I have, give I thee…"?

written by Christina N Dickson
Director of Revolutionary Media
www.therevmediaproject.com