Like Sheep Gone Astray by Lesile J. Sherrod Page B

equipment—the two computers, the telephones, and the patch of beige berber carpet on the floor—had been gifts from various residents of Shepherd Hills. Through strong political backing, the office space itself had been leased at sixty percent below its already low market value.
    “And this is just the beginning,” Eric smiled to himself, already seeing in his mind the office teeming with workers, staff who would be committed to the cause, prayer warriors who would see this thing through. Eric could already hear the phones ringing off the hook, financial and spiritual support flooding the office to the point that they would have to move into one of those fancy office buildings downtown to administer everything, instead of working out of this forgotten warehouse sitting next to old railroad tracks. Tracks that were being reclaimed as part of the Stonymill project.
    Eric refused to be bitter. He was too grateful for the small successes that seemed to be piling up every day. At least here he was near the plot of land Bethany Village was trying to claim. The vision was clear in his mind. This was just the beginning of a ministry that would reach into the gutters and dark corners of Shepherd Hills and bring hope and life to those who felt neglected and forgotten.
    He stared down at his arms. They looked like an old man's limbs on a young man's body. Rows of old track marks scarred his cinnamon-brown skin. Scars from dirty needles that had poured heroin into his veins the way sewage pipes chug waste into clean water covered his lanky forearms and legs.
    Eric remembered the day when he'd had enough. He remembered the exact moment when he'd cried out to an unseen God from the dark basement of an abandoned crack house. He promised the Jesus he'd learned about in Sunday school that if he could just be free, he would help bring freedom to someone else with scarred arms and legs. And he would bring hope to someone else's mother who was on the verge of abandoning her children, for it was too late for his mother. And he would give support to some young father so that a child somewhere would know a real daddy's love.
    He had cried out to his Heavenly Father from the steps of that broken-down basement and he knew in that moment what it meant to be re-fathered and renewed. And then came the vision of Bethany Village.
    Once he was clean inside and out, he'd presented the vision to the Citizens' Alliance of Shepherd Hills. At first the board, made up of several prominent businessmen and community do-gooders, eagerly took on the project, voicing their support to city leaders, pastors, and anyone else who would listen.
    But as support from city hall dissipated, so did the fuel for the fire that had at one time kept the small civic group determined to complete the project. After several key businessmen pulled complete funding and support from Bethany Village, Eric was sure that only cold ashes remained where the living vision once stood.
    Devastated at CASH's dissolution, he had almost returned to the high that brought him low in the first place. Then he remembered the One who was higher than the politicians and the corporations, and the dying flicker within him sparked into a bold, confident flame.
    With the help of the few remaining members of CASH, Eric had obtained the new office space to fan the single flame inside of him. This time he would keep the vision free from political influence. This time he would
start
with the support of the local churches. This time Bethany Village would win.
    “First things first,” Eric mumbled as he flipped through the long list of names and phone numbers to be contacted, “I need a secretary.”
    Gloria Randall was typing, letting her skillful fingers run rampantly over the computer keyboard, when Anthony entered the tidy office. She was so absorbed in her work that she did not notice him until he was standing right in front of her desk.
    “Sister Randall! Good afternoon! I didn't know you worked