I’d never heard of a single one of them! Except Madge, of course. But the other four, like her, were fairly recent arrivals in our town. Not a one, except Madge, had lived in Abbotsville longer than five years and a couple were so new that they’d probably not yet unpacked all their boxes.
From the brief biographies I found, they all appeared well educated and recently retired, which meant, I supposed, that they were eager to give our little backwater town the benefit of their vast experience and exceptional talents. Coming from large cities, not a one of them would know the pleasures of small-town life, where neighbors knew one another and helped one another and, indeed, prayed for one another. They would not think twice about disrupting a quiet, well-established area of homes with a house full of teenage boys—because that would be a good deed and would merit stars in their crowns, as well as local prominence.
Then I realized something that absolutely enraged me—every last one of the board members, including Madge Taylor, lived in one or another of the two gated communities on the edge of town. And when I say gated, I mean gated, with a gatekeeper, special stickers on homeowners’ cars, and everything else needed to keep out the riffraff. One did not enter those areas without advance notice of one’s visit. And each of those gated communities had a list of rules and regulations that you had to sign and swear you’d uphold before you were allowed to buy into the area. Why, you even had to get approval of the paint color you selected for your own home. And I knew for a fact that at least one of those communities gave their homeowners a choice of three exterior colors, and three only.
So why hadn’t those Homes for Teens board members bought a house for homeless teenagers in one of their own communities? Think of the amenities those young boys could enjoy—swimming pools, tennis courts, golf courses—all designed for good, clean fun that might deter them from continuing a life of crime.
Well, of course I knew why they hadn’t. First of all, the homeowners’ associations would not have permitted such a home in their midst. And second of all, those strict rules that regulated and protected the communities were the very reason that the Homes for Teens board members had bought their own homes there. They wanted to live where nothing was allowed that would detract from the uniformity of the community, but above all they wanted to live where nothing was allowed that would reduce the value of their homes.
So what did they do? They bought a house in a neighborhood far from their own—where it didn’t matter to them if it didn’t fit into the neighborhood, and where it didn’t matter to them if it reduced the value of the surrounding homes.
No wonder they were so excited, as Madge Taylor had said, about the purchase on Jackson Street. It fit all their criteria, particularly the one she hadn’t mentioned—it was located far from the homes of the board members.
I was livid as all these thoughts bounced around in my head. Livid also because I knew—I just knew—that not only would we be labeled immoral far and wide, we’d also be accused of selfishness and antihumanitarianism, and, worst of all, of not being Christians. And all because we, who did not live in gated communities, wanted the same things that those in gated communities already had—assurance that their investments were safe and peace of mind from knowing that their neighbors would be screened and vetted. No nasty surprises on the front page of the newspaper for them.
Then another thought hit me—did the fact that homes, as in Homes for Teens, was plural mean that they were planning for more than one group home? Was the Cochran house just the beginning?
That’s what Hazel Marie and I should emphasize—watch out, your neighborhood could be next, and they’ll be asking you to finance another such incursion while they sit back, pleased with themselves, in their own protected areas.
Chapter 6
I wished I had Sam to talk to. His analytical mind and great good sense would keep me on track, especially as I tended to expect the worst outcome of any problem that arose. Not only did I simply miss his company, I missed having his reassurance that I was seeing clearly and choosing the correct course of action.
Because, to tell the truth, I had some doubts about my stance on that group home, and they almost overwhelmed me that evening. Maybe, it occurred to me, a true Christian would not only accept what was being done but also pitch in to help get it done. Maybe I was being purely selfish to worry about the little Pickens twins and the pretty Osborne girl and Lloyd living next door to a houseful of potential delinquents. Maybe I should stop worrying about my own and have a little sympathy for those boys who’d not had the privilege of a good upbringing. There was no telling what those boys had seen, experienced, and been exposed to in their young lives, so it was no wonder that they were already halfway off the rails—they probably knew nothing else.
As I thought of what some of those experiences might have been, my heart was moved for the abused and misused among us. Every life was worth saving—I firmly believed that. The question was, though, could every life be saved? And, in this instance, I meant saved in the sense that Madge and Pastor Rucker meant it—that is, could mistreated, abandoned boys who had already stepped onto the path of crime be turned into hardworking, self-supporting, law-abiding citizens
