I stared through the darkness at the apartments across the street, my .357 Magnum beside me in the pickup bed. It was nine o'clock, and I was keeping watch outside my plant while employees finished an order due the next day.

"Lord, what am I going to do?" I muttered to myself.

My business had prospered to the point my 40-man staff needed more space to produce the quality cabinets for which Mid-Lane was well known. We found an ideal location in northwest Jacksonville and in 1985 built a 25,000 square foot state-of-the-art plant that was soon humming with activity. Life was good. But my peace and comfort were short lived.

Battered by 'The Rock'
Almost immediately, problems erupted. Every night the burglar alarm sounded, and I was summoned to the plant by police officers. Broken windows, shots fired, bullet holes in the walls, stolen equipment, vandalism—even incinerated cars in the parking lot.

One night an officer asked me, "What possessed you to build a plant this close to 'The Rock'?"

"What do you mean, 'The Rock'?" I asked.

"The Cleveland Arms apartments," he responded. "More crack cocaine is sold here than anywhere in Jacksonville, so we call it 'The Rock.'" And he proceeded to enlighten me about my new neighborhood. The 200-unit subsidized housing complex was occupied by drug dealers, prostitutes, and felons, a place considered so dangerous police were hesitant to go there.

I had no idea such a place existed in my city. I wouldn't have built there had I known. But God knew, and His hand was steering me toward an experience I would've never dreamed of.

As I sat mulling over the situation, from out of nowhere came a thought so clear it was almost audible: If you'll love those who despitefully use you, I'll take care of it. Stunned and shaken by God's admonition, I wondered how I'd obey this gentle command. Then I sensed Him say, "Forget about all the shooting and all the garbage. Look at the children."

I'd been a Christian since age 11, but receiving a direct word from God was a new experience. I wondered how I was supposed to love these people. Finally, I went home and put my gun away.

Breaching the comfort zone
Days went by as I prayed for my neighbors and tried to figure out how to connect with this community. I bought several basketballs, wrote "Jesus loves you" and "Mr. Lane loves you" on them, and threw them over the fence into the complex. There was no immediate reaction, but at least they didn't throw them back.

Then one Saturday while working alone I stepped outside for a break. I heard the noise of children playing beneath a tractor trailer parked on the property. When they saw me, one said, "There's the man," and they started running.

"Wait," I called. "Would you like something cold to drink?" Four or five little kids followed me into the plant where I opened the soft drink machine and gave them a cold soda pop. They went home, and I thought no more about it. Until Monday afternoon when I heard a commotion in the lobby and the receptionist ask, "Can I help you?"

As I walked down the hallway, I heard one little kid ask, "Where's the big man with the beard?" Turning the corner, I saw 16 kids in the lobby looking for me—well, for the man with the key to the drink machine.

That was the beginning. Suddenly, 35 children adopted me, coming to my office every afternoon after school instead of going home. There was nothing for them to go home to. Day after day, while I worked at my drafting table, I was surrounded by kids on the floor busily coloring or doing other crafts I had brought.

One Saturday little 6-year-old Carla asked if I went to church. When I answered "yes," she asked if she could come, so I took her with my family the next Sunday. Then the same thing happened as with the drinks—all the kids wanted to go.

When you have one scruffy little child sitting on your lap at church, everyone thinks it's cute. But take 16 inner-city kids who haven't bathed or been taught how to sit quietly, and you begin to seriously breach folks' comfort zones. So I took the kids back to my office and taught them there.

Thus began the journey that would change my world and that of many kids whose addicted parents left them to fend for themselves. Often hungry, unkempt, undisciplined, with no structure in their lives or motivation to attend school or church, these children would be the next lost generation. I felt compelled to do what I could. Years flew by, and the kids I mentored became a part of my life.

'Feed My lambs'
Ten years after I'd tossed those basketballs over the fence, I read Jesus Doesn't Live in Brooklyn by Bill Wilson, known worldwide for his sidewalk Sunday school ministry to thousands of inner city New York kids. We have something in common, I thought. We have kids that nobody loves.

In June of 1996 I received an invitation to go to New York and work with Wilson's Metro Ministry for a month. On the fourth floor of a warehouse, I shared accommodations with 25 other interns from all over the world. Everyone was 25 or younger. Everyone but me—the 46-year-old businessman from Jacksonville, Florida, thinking, What am I doing here?

I believe the folks in New York thought the same thing. One by one they invited those young people to come work with Metro Ministry. But they never had that conversation with me.

One night shortly after I arrived, I was alone while the others were downstairs playing basketball. There was no radio or television, so I began reading the New Testament, starting in Matthew.

As I read about Jesus telling Peter to "feed my sheep," I felt He was speaking to me too. "Feed my lambs." Overwhelmed by the impact of those words, I was moved to tears.

"Lord, I've been a cabinetmaker since I was 16 years old; that's all I know." Then I felt the Lord saying that for ten years He had been preparing me. I thought of my business and how hard I'd worked to build it. I thought of my employees and my family, and I fought against what I knew God was asking of me.

Finally, one night near the end of the month, I gave in. "Lord, I don't know what this is all about, but I surrender to do whatever you want me to do." I didn't have the foggiest idea what lay ahead, but the pressure lifted, and I felt peace.

Bankrupt for God
I asked my partner to buy me out, expecting my share of the proceeds to finance the ministry and provide a living for my wife and me, but a series of events left me bankrupt within three months. Though we were left with nothing, I told my wife, "I still have to do what God called me to do."

So we started Metro Inner City Sunday School and began a daily round of sidewalk classes. Every week, for the next seven years, we went to six different apartment complexes similar to Cleveland Arms. When kids got home from school each day, we were there with music, prize tables, and tarps spread on the ground. Before long we had 100 kids a day sitting in front of us, playing games, singing songs, absorbed in the lessons we presented. As the kids got older, we started youth groups and teen programs.

Then we learned our autistic grandson needed a structured learning environment that the public school system was unable to provide. My wife assumed that responsibility, and I lost my teaching partner.

Still trying to cope with the change, I felt God clearly telling me to stop doing the traveling sidewalk Sunday school. Just like when I'd felt led to sell my business, I struggled. I can't do that, Lord, I thought. What will happen to all the little kids who look forward to our coming every week?

Then I recalled something Bill Wilson had said: "The way we deal with children is like going into the wild once a week, capturing a tiger, training him for an hour, then turning him loose. The next week you find him and repeat the process." I realized I needed to focus on one group of kids in one apartment complex and provide daily training and structure for their lives.

A better reward
I asked the owner of Cleveland Arms to give me an apartment — I needed to work there and build relationships — and he did. From that apartment in the middle of "The Rock" I could see 20 to 40 drug deals a day, right outside the window, but my doors were open to everyone.

In the past five years we have grown from one small apartment to occupying the entire community center. Now called Metro Kids Konnection, we have eight staff members, five full-time, and 145 children registered in our after-school program. We have a computer lab equipped with 30 online computers where the kids work and adults learn new skills and job training.

We feed nutritious snacks to roughly 100 kids a day, help them with homework, provide tutoring, and involve them in sports activities directed by our staff coach. Recently the University of North Florida agreed to provide nursing students, who teach and mentor young girls and work with mothers to obtain their geds.

We have a young woman, Molly, who volunteers every day in the nearby elementary school to mentor about 40 of our kids. With permission slips from every parent, she is their appointed "mother." She knows their assignments, gets a copy of their report cards, and if something is wrong with a child, the teachers go to her instead of calling Family Services.

There is so much to do, but I'm excited and grateful for the direction God chose for me. My wife and I have gone from enjoying a six-figure annual income to subsisting on $12,000 a year, but God faithfully meets every need. And the rewards are incomparable.

I think of 19-year-old Johnella, an 18-year resident of Cleveland Arms and the first person in her family to graduate from high school. She's now attending college, thanks to a generous donation from one of our board members. And there's the principal who saw such improvement in our students in his school that he came to meet and thank me for what we do.

Nothing can replace the joy of having a little child crawl into my lap with a hug for "Pastor Terry," or for a young man who has been rescued from a potential life of dealing drugs to look me in the eye, shake my hand with a firm grip, and say, "Thanks, P.T."

That's my reward for "looking at the children."

Shirley Shaw is a freelance writer and editor of the Victims' Advocate who lives in Jacksonville, Florida. For more information on Terry Lane and Metro Kids Konnection, go to www.metrokids-jax.org.

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