On the Road

This family sold everything they owned in order to help others.

By Jay Loecken, On the road

In this article:

I steered our RV out of the campground in Rancho Cucamonga, California—home for the last two months for me, my wife, Beth, and our four kids. We’d had a great stay, delivering care packages to the homeless and painting a church on Skid Row in downtown LA.

Four years ago, living in our big house in the Atlanta suburbs, I could never have imagined this being our life. But then so much had changed since that fall afternoon we ventured under a bridge below I-75…

I gripped my son Noah’s hand tight as we made our way down the steep embankment that day, the roar of traffic above us. What was I doing bringing a five-year-old down here? Or the rest of my family, for that matter?

Behind me, Beth held on to nine-year-old Abigail. Bekah, 11, and Ben, 13, followed close behind. We’d come to work with a nonprofit called 7 Bridges to Recovery to distribute care packages to the homeless. I was hoping it might connect us as a family. But this was more than I’d signed up for. I could barely breathe from the smell. How could anyone live like this?

We reached the bottom and my eyes adjusted to the gloom. Bare mattresses were scattered on the ground. Some were unoccupied, but others held ragged men, sleeping or sitting, staring into space.

I took one of the sack lunches we’d brought and Noah and I approached one of the men. His hair was greasy, his T-shirt stained, his pants torn. “Hello,” I said. “We brought you some food. We want you to know there are people who care about you and that God loves you.” He nodded and mumbled, “Thanks,” but didn’t make eye contact.

“Could I pray for you?” I asked. Another nod. “Dear God,” I prayed, “please help this man know you’re with him. Give him comfort and strength. Amen.” Noah clung to my leg. I looked around and saw Beth and the kids handing out lunches. Would this make a difference?

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Lately nothing in my life seemed fulfilling. I was making a ton of money in my job as a mortgage broker. Beth and I had turned our house into a showcase, with a fountain in the entryway, wall sconces and oil paintings. My favorite spot was the front room with the sofa big enough for all of us, the 50-inch flat-screen TV and surround sound. When we wanted something, we bought it. Except I didn’t know what I was looking for anymore.

I was putting in 12-hour days at the office, even some weekends. We needed the money. Besides, the kids were busy with their own activities. We didn’t have many close friends. Going to church was the one thing we did as a family, but even there something was missing. I had this nagging sense God wanted me to do something else. But what?

We’d gone on a two-week mission trip to Africa, but we came back more restless, more acutely aware of the needs of the poor, more dissatisfied with our comfortable suburban life. That’s how we had ended up here under the bridge.

Noah and I moved from one man to the next. I gave each a sack lunch and offered to take him to a shelter for the night. No takers. There seemed to be no way for me to connect with these guys.

I looked down to check on Noah and realized he was no longer holding my hand. He was marching up to a man sitting on a mattress. The man had scraggly hair, a matching beard and missing teeth. Before I could say anything Noah hugged the man’s leg. The man flung a bony arm around Noah. Then they smiled at each other, completely unguarded. I ran up to them. “Good kid,” the man said. “We don’t see kids down here.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You definitely seem to have made a friend.”