The place I call Deliverance Alley is a vacant lot of grass and dirt in a neglected south Dallas neighborhood. Drive by and you won’t see much. A sign on a deli across the street reads: “No trespassing, prostitution, drug dealing, loitering, weapons or criminal activity will be tolerated.”
Why do I call this seemingly god-forsaken slice of scarred urban ground Deliverance Alley? What if I said it’s where God delivered me one afternoon almost two decades ago?
When I landed in Deliverance Alley, I wasn’t just homeless. I was far from home in every possible way. I’d been born into a military family in Kansas City, Missouri. My dad, Wendell Gene Parker, was a lieutenant colonel in the Army. My mother, Mary Ann Parker, raised me and three younger brothers.
My dad served in Korea and Vietnam. I was five when he was transferred to a base in Europe. It was the 1960s. Dad was upfront with me and my siblings about the advantages of moving to Europe. “We are a Black family,” he said. “There is a lot less racism over there than in America. Sad but true.”
The military was one of the nation’s first major institutions to desegregate. On our base in Europe, I played with kids regardless of skin color. We traveled to European cities on vacations, visited art museums and learned German. Teachers at school taught us about the realities of slavery and the many contributions made by Black people to American life.
Everything changed when we returned stateside in the early 1970s. Just off the plane in South Carolina, I noticed “White” and “Colored” signs on the restrooms. That was illegal, but the airport didn’t seem to care.
My father always spoke his mind, and I am every inch his daughter.
“Excuse me,” I said to a passerby, pointing at the whites-only bathroom. “What color do I have to be to go in there?”
The woman regarded me with an expression of utter disdain. How dare you? she seemed to say before stalking off. Dad yanked me right out of that airport. “You have no idea what you’re doing,” he hissed. “You could get us all killed.”
We settled in Texas, where my dad was promoted to assistant commanding officer at Fort Hood and bought a house in Dallas for Mom and us kids. My brothers were good kids and had jobs after school, but they were still harassed by police almost every day.
Living in a constant state of fear wears you down. I told Dad I wanted to join the Army, but he said it was no place for a woman. I turned my back and moved to New York. I worked as a customer service manager for telecom companies. I made good money.
There was one problem. Remember how I said I was my father’s daughter? That had a downside.
Dad parented my brothers and me with military discipline. We followed a schedule, did chores and never talked back. Every weekend, he made us straighten up our rooms like little soldiers. We had to clean, fold and put everything away. When I say clean, I mean even the baseboards.
I chafed under Dad’s rules and told him I wasn’t in the Army. I even wrote him a letter when I was little telling him I was glad he’d been sent to Vietnam because now I didn’t have to clean my room. Imagine receiving such a letter from your child.
On my own for the first time in New York, I gave free rein to my contrarian side. I partied on weekends and enjoyed the nightlife. I met and married a man who’d seen combat in the military, but his PTSD contributed to him abusing me physically. I had to leave that marriage for fear of my life.
I returned to Dallas and met another man. I fell hard. They say love is blind. Tell me about it. I didn’t even realize at first that he sold drugs. He was good-looking and seemed to do well financially, and he treated me like a queen. Turned out, he was riding the 1980s cocaine wave by cooking and selling crack.
I can’t explain why, but at some point, I decided to join him. Maybe it was that misguided love, more desperation than devotion. I started doing drugs myself and dealing.
I had been raised in church, and I believed in God. I knew I was violating every moral principle Mom and Dad had tried to instill in me. I was aware that I had crossed a line and might never be able to turn back. So many addicts can’t. That is what addiction does to you. It takes over your life. Totally. Eventually even the drugs couldn’t dull my shame and self-loathing.
To this day, I am haunted by the time a little girl, just a wisp of a thing, came to the door of a crack house I ran. “Is my momma here?” she asked. “We’re hungry, and she took our food stamps.”
The woman had tried to sell the food stamps for drug money. “Go take care of your kids!” I screamed at her, surprised by my rage. But I went right back to selling drugs. It was as if I had lost my soul.
Eventually I left that bad boyfriend behind—but not the drug trade. I discovered I was pregnant with my boyfriend’s child. I vowed to go straight but was soon back selling drugs to support myself. Arrested for drug possession, I was forced to ask my parents to take temporary custody of my son.
They went ballistic at first, but I was their daughter and they did what they could to support me and my child.
I begged God so many times to help me get sober, but my contrarian spirit was too strong. Deep inside I refused to give my life to God the way I had given my life to drugs and addiction.
That’s when I wound up at Deliverance Alley. I was homeless, just released from another stint behind bars and ready to forget my troubles by getting righteously high. Night was falling, and I figured I was out of last chances.
It was 2007. Deliverance Alley was a popular spot for addicts. There was an old sofa on the grass and a bucket for a bathroom. A bunch of my drug-using friends were there, and they welcomed me back.
I sat on the couch, prepped my crack pipe, raised it to my lips. Out of nowhere, a voice spoke in my mind: “Say goodbye to all this, Rhonda.”
I jumped up, looked around. Was someone playing a trick on me? The voice spoke again, same words, even louder, clearer.
I freaked out. I ran across the street. I looked back at the vacant lot, and I didn’t recognize it. As if I’d been transported to another place.
Some kind of powerful presence seemed to come down and root my feet to the sidewalk. I heard people speaking. “Queen, you all right?” That was my street name. Everything seemed far away.
I took the drugs out of my pocket and handed them to someone. It was as if I had let go of something more than just the drugs. I felt a warmth enfold me. I broke down weeping.
The presence freed my feet and directed my steps to a place called Dallas International Street Church. They run a one-year residential discipleship program that includes counseling and addiction recovery. I laid down my contrarian spirit, admitted I was powerless and surrendered myself to that life-giving program. To this day, I can’t explain how it all happened, only that I felt as if my soul had been freed.
Fast forward 17 years. I am sober, married and the founder of an organization called Making It Count, Inc., which offers housing and street support services to people like I once was: lost, homeless and wondering if there’s any hope left for them. I help them see there is.
I reconciled with my child and my parents. Before my dad died in 2015, I made amends for the ways I had hurt him. Including that mean letter I’d sent him in Vietnam. I came to accept that for a man like him, strict discipline was the way he best knew to show love. I forgave him for that.
I am also grateful to him. I believe it was the military discipline he’d instilled in me that enabled me to form the daily responsibilities that helped me stick with recovery. God guided me, but I had to do the work.
I run Making It Count, Inc., the same way. Guests in my sober living house do chores, keep their rooms spotless and stick to a schedule. As an active addict, the only structure in your life is getting the next fix. Recovering addicts need new structures. Being contrarian and questioning the status quo are necessary sometimes. Addiction recovery is not one of those times. My guests sometimes chafe at my discipline. In the long run, they are grateful, just as I am. In recovery, surrender equals freedom.
Since Making It Count, Inc., was founded in 2010, we have distributed more than 100,000 meals, 75,000 hygiene kits and 12,500 coats to people who need them. We partner with churches and other regional service providers. Every Wednesday, we launder people’s clothes for free. We have been recognized by numerous Dallas civic organizations, and I recently received a community service award from the Greater North Dallas Business and Professional Women’s Club.
I give all the credit to God and my tireless volunteers.
Making It Count, Inc., is now in the process of designing and getting permits for our new headquarters. I envision a full-service resource center for homeless people struggling with substance use. A place of love, acceptance and pathways to recovery. I’m sometimes asked if it is possible to get sober without bringing God into your life. I suppose it might be, but that hasn’t been my experience. It was God who spoke to me that day at Deliverance Alley and moved my feet and soul in the right direction. There’s no other explanation.
Guess where I plan to locate that headquarters? That’s right. Deliverance Alley. My husband and I recently bought that vacant lot. We do street ministry there now. I can’t wait until the building goes up and we can begin offering deliverance on a major scale.
Like I said, there is always hope. There is always another chance. That’s God’s promise. And God always delivers on his promises.
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