One Heart at a Time

by Delilah

  Even if you have not reached a place where you can say “Heavenly Father” with true conviction that some power greater than yourself is listening, try praying anyway. If you have no faith, ask God to give it to you. If you don’t believe, ask Him to reveal Himself to you. You can’t get in trouble with God the way I used to think. When I heard people talking about prayer, I thought of it in the abstract, like an incantation or holy rite that had to be performed to perfection. I had seen paintings and artifacts that were religious in nature—the Virgin Mary kneeling in prayer with a halo of light above her head, saints in long robes with pious faces, eyes closed in prayer. Faith, before I really had any, was shrouded in symbols and a language I could not understand. And prayer was even more of a secret language, like the absurd passwords and handshakes of a secret society.

  Matthew 18:2–5 says, “He called a little child to him, and placed the child among them. And he said: ‘Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. And whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me.’”

  God wants us to forget the dogma, the religious hoops people have been jumping through for decades, and come with the open heart of a child. If you don’t have the ability to conjure up enough faith to open your heart to God, then simply pray that He will reveal Himself in a very real way, with signs that won’t make sense to anyone else but you.

  My friend Lillian whispered such a prayer when her life was falling apart and she needed proof that a higher power could be called upon. She asked God to show her that He was real. A day later she came home to find her landlord had done some simple repairs to her small apartment kitchen and replaced some parts that were broken on her stove. When she walked in, she noticed a subtle change in the room and started crying. It wasn’t the repairs on the stove. She noticed the plain metal knobs on the cupboards were also gone, replaced with antique ceramic knobs, festooned with pink-painted roses—the same knobs she had admired in her grandma’s kitchen cupboards years before. The grandma who had taken Lillian in as a child when her alcoholic father came home in a drunken rage and beat her and her mother. The same grandma who taught her to cook and sew, and who shared her deep faith in Christ over hot tea and cakes. As Lillian grew older, she rejected her grandmother’s faith and sought to find peace and self-worth in academics. She was working on her doctorate and writing her thesis when she took my challenge and asked God to show her He had heard her prayers.

  Antique rose-painted knobs probably over a hundred years old warming up her tiny kitchen. A simple change, nothing earthshaking like a burning bush or a parted sea. She hadn’t asked the landlord to change them, nor had he asked her if she was dissatisfied with the old ones. God answered her in a way that she instantly recognized, a sign that would have meant absolutely nothing to anyone else, but it transported Lillian’s highly educated mind back to a simpler time sipping tea with her grandma.

  Before my son Sammy passed away, he put his hands in the shape of a heart and pointed to me, then to my husband Paul. After the doctors worked frantically to save Sammy’s life but could not stop his heart from failing, he left his sick, pain-filled body and walked into the arms of God.

  When the doctors let us into the operating room to say goodbye, his hands were on his belly, still in the shape of a heart. Now when I am struggling or missing him, I whisper a prayer to let Sammy know he is loved. Sometimes, even within the hour, I am led to something heart-shaped in nature, a seashell on the beach or a sandstone on the path. Signs from God that my son’s spirit lives on. I’ve taken hundreds of photos of these heart-shaped love letters from God. Heart-shaped clouds, heart-shaped stones on the beach—one day I might publish all of the little hidden signs that I’ve noticed from above.

  Prayer is one of the most precious and yet powerful gifts bestowed to all of us on this planet. Anyone can do it, anytime, anywhere, anyhow. It’s our direct line to heaven, a cordless communication with God Almighty, and He always answers the call! Perhaps not in the way we expect or think, but He hears us—every time, all the time. So why not take advantage of it more often? God has directed us to pray without ceasing, and I think that means He wants us to get chatty and include Him in our daily activities.

  You should note, however, there is a counterpart to the praying life, and it’s called the obedient response. Sometimes I go for months without any specific directive, urge, or feeling from God. And sometimes the urge is so strong, I can’t deny what I should do. Take the trip back to an African refugee camp after dark and pray over a tiny baby on the brink of death. Why? Because someone that night needed to witness a miracle. Because that baby boy has a bigger purpose than I know. Because the story would plant a seed of faith in another villager who heard it. Because… there could be a hundred trickle-effect reasons why our prayers were answered that night. All I know for a fact is God told me to go back, and that’s the only justification I need. What else I know is this: when you start talking to God, be ready when He starts talking back.

  CHAPTER 5:

  A HEART THAT SERVES

  The day I was inspired to start Point Hope, in the early 1990s, is burned into my memory like the record-high temperature that day seared into my skin.

  It was a hot, sticky July day, the kind that causes your hair to mat and stick to your neck and forehead. It was easily ninety-eight degrees. I was in the Inner Harbor area of Baltimore, walking back to the hotel room my friend Donna had rented for a real estate conference she was attending. She invited my young son Sonny and I to come along. My husband at the time, Doug, had elected to stay home. The temperature that day was an anomaly. There was a record heat wave on the East Coast. People actually fried eggs on the hoods of their cars or the sidewalks just to watch it happen.

  As Sonny and I headed back to our room after a trip to the aquarium, watching tourists ride paddle boats on the harbor, I noticed a young woman. She was around my age, thirty-two at the time, and sitting on the curb in the direct sun, her bleached hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She was begging for money. She didn’t look stoned or drunk, nor did she appear to be mentally ill. She just looked hot and hungry.

  I wasn’t used to homeless people. I hadn’t had a lot of experience with them. In the tiny town in Oregon where I grew up, we didn’t have homeless people—if somebody was homeless, they went and stayed with their mother, brother, sister, or friend. There were a few folks who might stay at the campsite in their trailers when they were down on their luck, but we did not have what is known as a homelessness problem. We had a few town bums and drunks that everyone knew and watched out for, but no one was living on the streets.

  After I left Reedsport, I lived in middle-class neighborhoods in apartments or fixer-upper houses I could afford. I always lived outside cities in quiet neighborhoods with small dogs in fenced yards or in apartment buildings with lots of kids and noise and the smells of barbecue wafting up from the neighbors’ small decks on a hot summer day. When I lived in Eugene and then Seattle, I was aware that some people were homeless. I would see them, mostly older men who were clearly alcoholics or disabled veterans, who would beg for money on the street corners. I would give them whatever loose change I had, smile, wish them well, and walk on without giving them another thought. Like many, I assumed they were homeless by choice—that they had chosen drugs or alcohol or other addictions over having a place to live. But this woman didn’t fit any of those descriptions. I needed to know more.

  I engaged my gift of gab and I sat down next to her. I started asking her questions. It’s what I do—not just on the air, but always. People fascinate me, and the more complex their situations seem, the more intrigued I become. Here sat an attractive, articulate woman, begging for money. As her story unfolded, so did my heart.

  This particular woman, whose name, I learned, was Cheryl, piqued my interest on this particularly hot summer day. Af
ter some time sweating with her in the hot sun, I learned she was a single mom who had fled an abusive marriage and ended up homeless as a result. I invited her and her two kids to join us for dinner. That afternoon, that conversation, changed me and set the course for the rest of my life.

  When I invited her to dinner, I forgot it wasn’t my hotel room, my credit card, or my event (I tend to do this). It was Donna’s weekend and I probably should have consulted with her first… Instead I brought a homeless woman and her dirty-faced children back for dinner, and we ordered pizza and salads.

  I knew from that point on I wanted to help the hopeless, and I started to talking to friends back home in Philadelphia, including Donna, about how we could share God’s love with people like Cheryl. That was when I decided to start a nonprofit organization to help people, in tandem with my radio career.

  After a record week of hundred-plus-degree temps, I went to the public library (which had the air-conditioning I couldn’t afford) and researched the coolest spot in America. The result: Point Hope, Alaska. While the asphalt was melting in Philly, it was a cool fifty-two degrees in Point Hope that day.

  I had a burst of inspiration. I sketched out a script, then called my program director, Leigh Jacobs, to get permission to do a mock-remote broadcast. That evening, using sound effects and a good producer, I “flew” to Point Hope, Alaska, while on the air!

  On this mock trip, I described for listeners the windswept tundra, the herds of wild caribou and flocks of terns that I could see beneath the wings of the Cessna seaplane I was pretending to be flying in. The sound of sea birds screeching and sea lions barking were broadcast “live,” as my producer had access to a great sound-effects library. I described the cool wind on my face when we landed and got out of the plane. The chunks of blue ice floating off the shoreline. The amazing breeze that called for a light windbreaker.

  Sitting in that cramped radio studio in Bala Cynwyd, Pennsylvania, with three books about Alaska I had just checked out of the Radnor public library, I created a cool oasis for five hours on the air. Almost all of what I broadcast was made up on the spot, with the exception of a few facts woven in. It was fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants radio, and it was so much fun! It wasn’t just me having a great time. My phone lines lit up even more than usual. Even my friends Judy and Donna called the hotline demanding to know when I had flown to Alaska!

  That was one of the most creative and energizing shows I’ve ever done. With it, I not only elevated my BS skills to a new level, I landed the name for the nonprofit organization I was going to create to help the homeless. Point Hope.

  The concept of Point Hope was simple: meet homeless people in their environment and talk to them. We didn’t set out to evangelize or hand out religious tracts. We took to the streets of downtown Philadelphia in search of pockets of homeless people to whom we’d serve a humble meal of tuna fish sandwiches (after all, Jesus fed the masses with fishes and loaves) and ice-cold lemonade.

  My garage, dining room, and living room soon turned into collection sites for shoes, shirts, coats, and blankets. In addition to handing out sandwiches and lemonade, we began handing out bags full of clothes, shampoo, soaps, and, in the harsh winter months, blankets, coats, and boots.

  After my experience with Cheryl, I wanted to meet these vagabonds. I wanted to learn what led them to the streets, and why they had no family to take them in. Why they didn’t have Section 8 housing or a best friend who could take them in, especially if they had young children. I wanted to share a sandwich, but also let each person know they had great value. That regardless of the circumstances that led them to sleeping in a cardboard box beneath a freeway, they had worth and that God loved them.

  Donna, my roomie/bestie/producer Janey, and I and a handful of others met every Wednesday morning in my kitchen and made hundreds of sandwiches. We started our day at the art museum and walked the exact same route each week. After the second or third trip, we noticed a handful of the folks from the previous week would be expecting us. By the end of September, we had dozens of friends waiting for us. They laughed, joked, and teased us each week. We knew them by name and over time got to know their stories and personalities.

  I would sort the piles of clothes in my living room during the week and think, “Clarence would love this topcoat,” or “Angeline would look pretty in this pink sweater.” I’d set aside the things I thought each person would enjoy, and soon they came to anticipate the individual gifts.

  At first I tried to enlist the help of a few local churches and organizations, but because we were not an official 501(c)(3) and did not have tax-exempt status, many refused. Some who did want to join us had their own specific agendas and wanted to proselytize and evangelize. That was not a part of our goal or mission. I wanted to share the love of God, to pass on the blessings I had been given, and to share my faith in deeds.

  To some of my non-Christian, free-spirited friends I invited to help (okay, begged and harangued), I seemed too religious. Because I’m a Christian and believed it was the love of Christ that called me to share my time and resources, many of my nonbelieving friends shied away. But because I’m not your typical evangelist and my language is often peppered with words that any churchgoing grandma would find offensive (along with my tattoos), most church leadership also passed on the opportunity to join us. I wasn’t religious enough for them.

  I’ll admit, I had a pretty fairy-tale notion about those who were homeless back then. I thought if someone respected them, gave them a hand up as opposed to a handout, they would be able to plug back into society and change their situation. After two years and thousands of tuna fish sandwiches, I realized the problem of homelessness was far beyond my understanding, and I certainly had no tools or power to fix it. But I did meet some amazing, colorful people who had talent, insights, survival skills, and, mostly, laughter.

  I met old folks with faces more lined than a map of Philly, and young men and women; prostitutes and heroin addicts; drunks and druggies; and children with hollow eyes and sunken cheeks. Many of the homeless were mentally ill, and as we became friends, I got to know each person, their fears, and their passions, and in extending myself and my gifts to them, I, and my friends, even if only temporarily, made a difference in their lives.

  I have to brag on my friend Donna a little bit. We call her our fairy god-Donna. A small-framed woman in her forties when we met, she had never married nor had children of her own, so she spent a considerable amount of time and energy spoiling my son and other kids that she loved.

  Donna is from a large family of Philadelphia Italians who lived, laughed, ate, and fought together. Her father and uncles lived in houses they’d built next to or across the street from their mother. One lived next door, the other a few yards behind Donna’s house. When she was young, at least twenty cousins lived in the same neighborhood, and played stickball and roller-skated together.

  Their family meals were epic, and, as she explained, Donna had inherited the Italian “need-to-feed-you gene.” Donna plied us with crown roasts and crab feasts when all my budget could support was Top Ramen with scrambled eggs. Lucky for me and Sonny, we were adopted into this wonderful family when we moved to Philly in 1992.

  Donna worked in title insurance and had a very successful business. A petite woman with huge doe-brown eyes, she has one of the best senses of humor of anyone I know. She had a perfectly decorated house at the Jersey Shore and drove a new, dark-green Mercedes. Every six weeks, she had her hair done by Mina, another feisty Italian, and she wore smart Italian leather shoes. Her hair was neat, her car was spotless, her house was clean and comfortable, and her life was tidy. That is, until she decided to reach out to the crazy lady on the radio (yours truly) to play a practical joke on a friend.

  Donna was a listener who heard me talking over the air about the not-so-practical jokes I loved to pull on family and friends. We get insane when it comes to jokes. Insane. From hiding someone’s car in another town to climbing on a girlfriend’s roof and
shouting down the chimney that God is watching them to filling a friend’s thermos with overcooked pasta and telling them it was worms to delivering hillbillies on horses to a five-star art gallery during opening night of my first art gallery showing, my friends and I love to prank one another.

  One night Donna called the request line wanting to get involved with our pranks. She had a pretty fun story to share about someone she knew showing up at the airport wearing nothing but a raincoat and high heels to meet a boyfriend who was part of the military brass—only to have security pull her aside and demand that she remove the coat!

  A few days later I met Donna in person for the first time. We met in the parking lot so I could take possession of two live turkeys, which she had gotten as a gag gift for her birthday just days before. We arranged to deliver the birds on Thanksgiving Day to an unsuspecting friend of mine named Judy. The box was labeled “Vermont Teddy Bear.” The Vermont Teddy Bear Company makes awesome teddy bears. They’re handmade, adorable, customized teddy bears, and the company had advertised them on my show. As a gift bonus, they sent a handmade bear to my son. I used the big box, filled it with paper and straw, and gently tucked the gobblers inside. When my messenger arrived at Judy’s town house, the top was closed and the box was handed off to a woman who was shocked to feel it move as she took possession of it…

  The birds were safely released to a sanctuary, but that evening set the tone for many years of hilarity that followed. Over the past twenty-four years, Donna and I have pulled pranks on one another and pretty much everyone in our circle of friends. Judy retaliated for the birds by filling my tub, bathroom, and bedroom waist-deep with balloons while I was visiting family on the West Coast. Another time I returned home to find all my furniture gone; my living room and dining room had been emptied of furniture and in its place was a ton of beach sand and a boom box playing the Beach Boys tune “Surfin’ USA.” Instead of my thrift store couch, cobbled-together antiques, and self-upholstered love seat, I found a Delilah dummy made of a stuffed T-shirt and leggings with a blond wig lying next to a kiddie pool filled with water, and on the ceiling overhead there was a kite suspended in midair trailing a sign that read “Welcome to Gotcha-Back Beach”!