Brother.

Church of the Harbor began in the living room of our first Baltimore rowhome, and in time, as things grew in ways we did not fully plan, but slowly and happily received, we found ourselves beginning the early work of planting a third congregation, this one in Curtis Bay. The mention of this neighborhood is associated with intimations of brokenness—deep expressions of poverty, addiction, and violence—and in a way that is much more assumed than spoken out loud. 

On Sunday mornings, our church’s primary congregation gathered as usual, and then in the evenings, a group of us would head down into Curtis Bay to meet in the space we had acquired there. Because Kelly was in nursing school at the time and needed the quiet of home to study, after an afternoon break, I would load up our six kids into the van, and we would make our way to the neighborhood for evening worship. It was a routine that, over time, took on a kind of rhythm, not just in the logistics of it, but even in the way we entered the neighborhood together.

We have always been a family that sings, not only in a formal sense, but in the way that comes from long car rides and where songs are just as much invented as performed. We Belchers have been known to shape songs in the moment, and somewhere as we made that same drive week after week, we began singing, to the tune of Take Me Home Country Roads, laughing all the while, a song about our new neighborhood:

Bumpy roads, take me to church, help us to serve the ones who hurt, Curtis Bay, what a crazy place, take me to church, bumpy roads.

The roads really were terrible. They’d been neglected in ways that forced you slow down whether you intended to or not. On more than one occasion, those roads, or a foreign object they contained, relieved my tires of their air, and as we crossed into the neighborhood each week, something in the air changed. It wasn’t something we could easily point to, but it was something we felt.  A sense that we’d entered into a place that held more than we saw on the surface.

Curtis Bay sits along the water, shaped by its history as an industrial hub, with shipping terminals and rail lines and the kind of infrastructure that remains long after its original purpose has faded, and the main road in is always occupied by a steady movement of big trucks. Curtis Bay streets were not built with ease and efficiency in mind. The main thoroughfare is two narrow lanes moving in opposite directions, cars pressed tightly along both sides. The margin for error, in places like this, is always smaller than is optimal.

On one particular Sunday evening, as we made our way south into the neighborhood, still singing, a maroon van directly in front of us began to move in a way that didn’t fit the natural flow of traffic. At first, it drifted slightly, which turned into swerving erratically back and forth. This lasted for only a moment, when all of a sudden the van lurched sharply to the left, and, with no sign of braking, slammed headfirst into the line of parked cars along the side of the street. The impact was loud and immediate, and the collision was violent. From the front of the vehicle, smoke began to rise, and fluids began spilling onto the pavement. Without thinking through all that might follow, I pulled our van over at a distance that felt safe, and also close enough to respond, put the car in park, and turned back toward my kids.

They were all looking forward, eyes wide, and whereas only moments earlier, we’d all been singing, now the kids were quiet. The loud crash had called a stop to it all. I spoke to them with a seriousness that I didn’t often use, telling them to stay in the van, to lock the doors, to not get out under any circumstances. I repeated myself to make sure they were clear. Then I opened the door and stepped out into the street.

As I approached the van, the smell of gas and something burning began to mix with the air. When I reached the driver’s side and pulled the door open, I was met with a scene that did not fully register all at once, but instead came into focus in pieces. A woman was slumped forward over the steering wheel, her body almost still, but with signs that she was struggling bodily. As I spoke to her, telling her that she needed to get out of the vehicle, that it was not safe to stay where she was, there was no response, not even the kind of small acknowledgment that indicates someone has heard you.

I said it again, more directly this time, with more urgency and slower, as articulately as possible. With a kind of effort that suggested she was moving through something thick and resistant, she lifted her head and turned toward me. Her face was marked by the collision. From her mouth and nose were spit, and snot, and blood, and for a moment she stared at me with empty eyes. Perhaps, to her, I was not someone who had just opened her door, but simply another figure appearing within whatever space she now occupied. I told her again that she needed to get out of the car. There was a pause, and then, with a voice that struggled to form even slurred, jumbled words, she spoke. My brother. I love you. Kiss me. I just stood there.

She said it without variation, without hesitation, again and again. The same words, the same tone, as though this phrase had become the only expression available to her. I repeated my instruction, trying to bring her attention to the situation she was in, but each attempt was met with the same response, My brother…, her eyes fixed in a way that suggested both presence and absence at the same time.

Eventually, after several attempts, she began to move, but as she tried to stand, something held her in place. She struggled against it, and it became clear that her seatbelt remained fastened. It was an obstacle she did not seem to understand. I told her to unbuckle it, demonstrating the motion with my hand, slowing my words. She didn’t comprehend my instructions, so I broke them into smaller parts, simple directions, the way we might speak to a toddler. I didn’t mean to address her in that spirit.

In another place, another life, I would have spoken to her in a different tone. Not slowed down, not broken into fragments, not reduced to gestures and repetition, but addressed as someone who could answer. Someone who could respond rationally and coherently. There was a person there, even now, though whatever had hold of her made that person difficult to reach.

None of my direction translated into action, and after a few attempts that went nowhere, she stopped trying to engage the mechanism, and instead tried to remove herself from the seat, now through the seatbelt, with increasing force. In the process, as she pressed against the strap, the little awareness she possessed in the moment failed to recognize that the situation was becoming more exposed. She was focused only on the effort to be free of what was holding her, and on the refrain that continued to pour almost unknowingly from her mouth. My brother. I love you. Kiss me.

Eventually, she managed to free herself from the seat, and as she stepped onto the pavement, the belt still engaged behind her, for a brief moment, there was a sense of relief. The immediate danger was passing. But the situation had become more complicated in another way, and as she pulled loose, I realized that the seatbelt had claimed the clothing below Cindy’s waist, with the exception of one shoe and both socks. I noticed the shoe lying on the ground. A popular soccer shoe, red with three white stripes.

There is something in us that knows when we are exposed, something that reaches immediately for covering, as though that awareness was somehow woven into the fabric of our person. And yet, over time, that sense can erode, worn down by repetition or circumstance, until what once would have been unbearable becomes almost unnoticeable. In this exposed state, now with her attention shifted fully toward me, with arms extended she began to move in my direction, repeating her refrain. As she closed the distance between us, I stepped back. Please sit down, I said, gesturing toward the sidewalk. She continued forward. Please, have a seat, I said again. There was no change.

As she moved toward me, I found myself backpedaling, weaving around parked cars, making sure to keep some space between Cindy and myself. As I passed our van, I was reminded that my kids were still inside, watching, witness to all that was happening. I was struck with the realization that I’d become so caught up in the scene that I’d forgotten my children. Church planting in hard places is often spoken about in ways that make it sound noble, and in many ways it is. But there are moments when what is required is not vision or strategy, but simply being present in what you would not have chosen to see, and not turning away. It is a work that often involves layered exposure. As I passed by, I repeated what I’d said before to my kids. Stay inside. Do NOT open the doors.

Cindy continued pursuing me, repeating the only line she knew. She called me brother. She said she loved me. She asked for affection. Something in her, though confused, cried out for what she needed but lacked. This lasted for what felt like hours. It was more likely about two minutes, and then, without warning, another figure entered the scene.

An older woman, weathered and sinewy, came screaming out the front door of her house, and with the force of a Ravens linebacker making a form tackle, took Cindy to the ground. Kneeling over her, the woman spoke with a clarity and authority that cut through the chaos. With her finger in Cindy’s face, the woman declared, Leave this man alone. He asked you to leave him alone. The words landed, not as a suggestion, but as a command that changed the moment in a way I myself hadn’t been able to accomplish.

I stood there for a second, taking in what had just happened. The scene was now contained in a way it hadn’t been to this point. I looked at the woman who had intervened, asking if she had things under control. She nodded. I encouraged her to call the police, an encouragement, upon later thought, I realized she didn’t need. At all. She’d seen these kinds of things before. Aware of the time and that there were people gathering in a space only blocks away and who were expecting me, I turned, walked back to my wife’s van—and the kids inside—climbed in, and drove to church. 

In a matter of minutes, I stood in front of the room and welcomed the congregation to our service.