Last Friday, I found myself walking through the doors of the Youth Development Center (the YDC), which sits just behind York Prison. Me and a friend had braved the chilly winds in the parking lot, holding some signs for the event we were about to serve at. The wind outside had almost blown them away.
This is a story that’s not really about me, so I’m not going to pretend like it is. All the same, this is a story that I want to tell and that I want to figure out. Because I think it’s significant. I think there’s a lesson here.
I didn’t know what to expect at the YDC. But I wasn’t expecting to have to show my ID, and I wasn’t expecting to have to sign a visitor’s log before following the event coordinator back into the halls of the center, and I wasn’t expecting the event coordinator to tell me and the others who were serving:
“The two wings aren’t allowed to talk to each other. And one of the kids just received some really bad news, so don’t be surprised if they have to escort him out and he doesn’t go willingly.”
This is a statement from the YDC’s website:
“YDC serves both males and females between the ages of 10-21, who are referred to us by either Juvenile Probation or the Office of Children, Youth, & Families.”
I was told that these are the kids in foster care who don’t have placements, who maybe don’t have families—or worse, have families that don’t want them.
We walked to the gym, where the event would be held, and we passed artwork on the walls and a giant industrial kitchen. Everything was empty, but, soon, it would be filled with people. In the gym, there were tables and a makeshift stage set up. It was going to be a coffee house. Our first task was to set out desserts, and as we were putting out tantalizingly huge M&M cookies, blueberry scones, and other treats, we asked: “Who made these?”
“The residents did.”
I hadn’t been expecting that.
The dessert table before the event.
My job for the rest of the evening became to serve various coffee beverages. Some of the kids were quiet as they ordered their drinks; others willingly engaged in banter. I hadn’t been expecting this. Maybe I should have. Some of the kids’ families were there, as well, and they often seemed unsure of how to interact with us. I’m certain they wondered who we were, why we were here. I was beginning to ask those questions myself.
The rest of the evening played out like this: There were a bunch of door prizes. Fellow volunteers played music and sang—including a fantastic rendition of “Forever” by Kari Jobe, among others—and gave the gospel message. As I busily mixed syrups and steamed milk and espresso and drizzled caramel, I found myself caught up in the music, in the message, in wonderment.
The door prizes before they were given out.
It was something so simple. A coffee house. But it felt like it meant a lot. It felt like God was trying to teach me something. I had walked into the event with so many assumptions that were wrong, and I left with even more questions than I had come with.
How often do I take time out of my schedule to do things like this? Should I even consider this kind of service a “side note?” Shouldn’t this be the center of my activities? James 1:27 says this:
Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this: to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world. (ESV)
My life is easy. But there are those who don’t have easy lives, who need to know that there is someone who loves them. There is a whole world out there beyond my little bubble, a whole wide world of hurting and abandoned kids who may never have the opportunity, security, and contentment that every human being deserves. As Christians, I think we need to ask ourselves: Is my religion pure? Is it undefiled?
Or have we been stained by the world?
Songs of Ascent 