I went on a mission trip to Los Angeles, California the summer of my junior year of high school. Yes, I said Los Angeles. It was a two-week trip. Over the span of those two weeks, we did a variety of different community outreaches, primarily focused on the homeless population. So many parts of that trip were beyond fulfilling, in all honesty, it was eye-opening. Some might even say "life changing." I cherish my memories from my short time there. Thinking back, there is one experience in particular, that I still hold very near and dear to my heart.

The outreach for the day was scheduled in a beautiful section of LA, known as Skid Row. Those who are familiar with Skid Row will immediately pick up on my implied sarcasm when I refer to it as "beautiful." In fact, it is the exact opposite. Skid Row is an area spanning over 54 blocks of downtown LA. Roughly 13,000 of LA's homeless population calls this area their home. In all honesty, it is a living hell.

The minute you enter a block radius of this place, your eyes begin to water from the overwhelming aroma of human urine and feces. Your nose burns from the hot smell, and usually, a nauseous feeling is close behind. You see bodies everywhere, sitting, standing, lying on the street. Some resemble humans, others look like piles of dirty laundry, left, forgotten in the streets. You never wear open-toed shoes when visiting this dreadful place, there is far too great of a risk of stepping on a used needle, or slicing a toe on dirty, broken glass. An occasional fight can be heard nearby, followed by children crying, or dogs barking. Although, police sirens are rarely heard, the police avoid Skid Row. I don't blame them. The buildings look abandoned, resembling many pictures you see of old war zones. Broken windows are boarded up, and doors are chained tightly.

Man, Skid Row is a beautiful place.

Our outreach team had prepared hygiene packs to pass out, filled with the basics: toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant, socks, snacks and hand sanitizer (I'm sure it was effective.) I do not recall the amount of packs we brought, but I do remember thinking that there were not nearly enough. Within five minutes, we were out. The thankful attitudes of the recipients quickly changed when we stood there empty -handed.

Our team dispersed around a few blocks, we were told to go "converse" with the people. I was still feeling the sting of the harsh words that had been directed at me when I stood blank-faced, and empty-handed. I was surrounded by a group of people fighting to survive in their own hell, and I couldn't do a thing to change it. I kept thinking:

"Sure, go 'converse' with these people. I'm sure they want to hear all of your 'privileged, high school' encouragement."

"I'm sure that you can relate to someone who has gone days without food, while you complain about being hungry and say you have 'nothing to eat' while staring at a full refrigerator."

I begrudgingly wandered around for what seemed to be forever, when suddenly I was summoned by two men sitting on the sidewalk under what shade they could find. They were both black and covered from head to toe in tattoos. Both were wearing dirty, torn clothes, and small gold chains (ballers?) They had summoned me over to ask for some cash. I was very accustomed to this by now. I began to exchange words with them, they introduced themselves as; "Big-J" and "Black Dog." They followed their names up with:

"What in the hell is a girl such yourself doing in a place like this?"

I introduced myself and explained my reasoning. We actually talked for a while. They told me about their days involved in gangs, about their drug use, and multiple children. They told me more than I ever needed or wanted to know. But that is the thing about a lot of these people, they are open books, just waiting to be read. Our conversation dwindled to and end, and "Big-J" asked me again to spare some cash. I declined, again. I told him that I knew he was just going to go spend it on booze, he didn't deny it.

My eyes spotted a pair of women's sneakers next to him. They were obviously stolen, the tags and security device were still attached. I asked him about them, and he just smiled. So I proposed a deal, I offered him $5 for the shoes. He instantly asked if there was some sort of a "catch"? I assured him there wasn't one, I would rather buy the shoes and have him earn (sort of) the cash, rather than just give it to him. He immediately swiped the $5 from my hand and tossed the shoes my way. As he ran to the liquor store he yelled;

"God bless you, child!"

I gazed upon my newly purchased shoes, there weren't even my size. The van had called and told us to meet them for pick up. I started towards the meeting place when suddenly I became distracted by a strange sound. I turned around to identify it, the sound was coming from a woman walking across the street. She had strapped two pieces of cardboard to her feet using old cloth, and I was hearing them skid across the asphalt of Skid Row. I stopped and stared, I had never seen anything like that. After my shock wore off I realized I was still holding the shoes. I made my way towards the woman and introduced myself. I could tell she was skeptical at first. I then did what most people do during a first introduction, I asked for her shoe size? Confused, she told me a "size six and a half."

To this very day, I have yet to experience the feeling I did when those words left her mouth. The shoes I was holding were a size six and a half. I hardly could formulate words, all that came out was;

"Ma'am, I have shoes for you!"

She looked at me with eyes full of questions and remarked;

"For me?"

I shook my head, yes and then asked her if I could help her put them on. Still shocked she agreed and I helped her sit on an old crate. I kneeled on the ground, the smell and eye burning sensation fled me all at once. I gently removed the cardboard from her tired feet, replacing them with the new shoes. They fit perfectly. I gazed up at her, both of us began to cry. She embraced me tightly while repeating;

"Thank you, thank you, thank you."

She released me, and we eventually parted in our separate directions. I never even caught her name, but I did manage to snap a picture of her with her new shoes.

I still find myself getting choked up when I share this story. I do not become emotional because I grow sad thinking about what a terrible place Skid Row is, or because I feel "bad" for the people there. While both of those things are in fact true, I cry for a different reason. I cry because I experienced pure beauty in an ugly place. I cry because even though there are so many horrible things we cannot control in this world, there are moments like these. I walked into a dark place that day with the intention of spreading light. But instead, that dark place made me lighter.