Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, January 19, 1992 TAG: 9201190059
SECTION: VIRGINIA PAGE: E1 EDITION: NEW RIVER VALLEY
SOURCE: THOMAS MULLEN THE RICHMOND NEWS LEADER
DATELINE: RICHMOND (AP) LENGTH: Long
TO REACH THE CHILDREN AT RISK, SHE'LL FEAR NO EVIL
The big, green bus creaked and groaned through the night into Gilpin Court, where violence is so common that many of the youngest children know someone who has been killed.Before the bus doors opened, children started streaming out of run-down buildings and began sprinting toward the bus. They bounced up the steps and hugged a petite grandmother who awaited them with her arms stretched wider than her shoulders and a smile nearly as broad.
Their greetings flew fast and furious: "Hi, Pastor Jones." "Can my friend come with us, too, Pastor Jones?" "Are we gonna practice the Christmas play tonight, Pastor Jones?" "Hi, Pastor Jones, I, um, love you, Pastor Jones."
"Pastor Jones" - the Rev. Delores B. Jones - hugged each child, answered every question and ushered all the children to seats on the unheated bus.
Then, with her husband, W.T. "Deacon" Jones, at the wheel, the bus moved on to pick up more children at Mosby Court and other inner-city areas beset by a trinity of urban troubles: crime, drugs and poverty.
These neighborhoods are Delores Jones' parish; the children who live there are her parishioners.
At least three times a week, she and her husband drive the bus through high-crime areas to pick up a core group of about 80 children to go to their church, Love Outreach Ministries in Ginter Park.
"The government calls them `at-risk,' or `high-risk kids.' They're poor. They come from the worst neighborhoods. I feel like the church never relates to these children," said Delores Jones, who was dressed in a dark blue jacket and skirt, light blue shirt and stiff white clergy collar.
"You don't see any other pastor in town doing what I'm doing."
The slight, 56-year-old minister does not say that to brag about her work. It's meant more as a charge to other clergy, some of whom, as the old preacher's expression goes, talk the talk but don't walk the walk.
"Church shouldn't just be tithing on Sundays and talking about programs," she said.
For a few hours during the week and on Sunday mornings, Jones takes the children out of their environment and tries to show them they can escape the troubles that have kept many of their elders chained to a life of despair.
"The only solution is God, the love of God," Jones said. "We want to break the cycle of ugly behavior."
She attempts to do that by instilling discipline, manners, positive values and an unwavering belief that each child is loved by God and has a chance for a better life.
"They learn respect for us. They learn respect for each other. They learn respect for themselves," said Jones. "That begins to affect them in school, and then when they're out in other public places."
On Tuesday and Thursday nights, Jones and her husband - the children always call her "Pastor" and he is always "Deacon" - leave the church parking lot sometime after 6 p.m. for their one-hour pickup run.
Both usually have finished a day's work at their paying jobs: He works at Richfood Inc. and she works part time for Virginia Power and for the Love Outreach Day Care Center, based at the church.
It takes just a few minutes for the bus to leave the manicured lawns and stately homes of Ginter Park and reach the bleak and barren landscapes of urban poverty.
The stops are at prearranged areas chosen by Delores Jones when she started the ministry about three years ago.
At one stop, two small children hustled to the bus. During the drive, one of them pointed out the window.
"There's the jail," she said. How do you know? she was asked. "I seen somebody there." She is 4 years old.
At another stop, a group of children and teen-agers hopped on board. They moved quickly to their seats and turned their backs against the windows, from which they could see what they were leaving behind.
Some are old enough to realize they are getting a few hours' relief from their everyday lives.
"I ain't scared, 'cause I know they don't bring no guns to church. People out our way be shootin' and stuff. Come here, no shootin," said Alphonso Satchell, 13. "I like going with Pastor Jones. We do fun things. Talk about school and God and stuff. I have fun."
Alphonso would like to join the group for Sunday services, but he can't.
"I got to work," he explained. "I sell incense on Sundays. Helps pay the rent."
Eight-year-old Rachelle Logan got on the bus, sat down and immediately popped up in her seat to smile at Delores Jones. In turn, Jones gently cupped Rachelle's face in her wrinkled hands, looked into her eyes and smiled back.
"It's perfect going with Pastor Jones. I like Pastor Jones," Rachelle said in a singsong voice. "She get on me when I be bad, but I know she l-o-o-oves me."
Near the last stop, some of the oldest children got on the bus. They included an 18- and a 19-year-old.
The two came under hard-eyed stares from other boys walking, drinking and smoking nearby. No taunts were exchanged, but they were implied in the stares.
"Some people, you know, they like to tease me," said Lorenzo Mallory, 19, who has been involved with Love Outreach for more than two years. "It doesn't bother me. I know that I'm doing something positive for me. Coming here keeps us out of trouble, keeps us doing something positive."
At one time, Mallory conceded, he would have been one of the youths who might have taunted others for getting on a church bus.
"We used to fight and all, beat up people. . . . A lot of negative stuff," he said. "But not anymore."
Mallory met Delores Jones one night when he was hanging out with friends on a street corner.
"Pastor Jones just stopped the car and asked us: `Would you like to come to our church?' We said, `Yeah, you know, we'll try it,' " he said. "We liked it. There's something about Pastor Jones. She makes you feel special. She's like a mother. We never met anyone like her before."
Jones said she can relate to the children.
"I was just like them, except I was in the country," she said. "I know the pain. I know what it's like to be on welfare."
She takes her role as a surrogate parent seriously. Once, she won support from Virginia Power and Friends of Love Outreach, a group composed mostly of spouses of Richfood Inc. executives, to buy winter coats for the children. Another time, she cajoled support to buy the children shoes.
"I have a different mind-set for poor people," she said. "I don't think they should always get hand-me-downs. If we're going to teach middle class, they should have middle-class things."
Jones began her work by going to tough parts of town, where she knew there would be children in need.
"I just stopped the car, got out and asked children to come," she recalled. "I'd say: `It's a church, but it's fun. Can't hurt you to take a look.' "
The church's reputation for fun spread. Children play games, have Bible lessons and often get treats. Jones became known as a "lady pastor" who cared about young people.
Today, her congregation is probably the most unusual in the area. Except for a few adults, it is made up of about 80 children. The Sunday collection plate is never overflowing.
"In regular services, there's $2.65 in my collection plate. If we see $5, we don't know what to do with ourselves," Jones said, shaking her head and chuckling.
She receives no pay from the church.
She struggles to make the $1,000-a-month rent on the building into which the church recently moved. She gets help from the Friends of Love Outreach and other contributors.
She would like to buy the church building. She also would like to buy an adjacent house and its adjoining property.
"Day care brings in about $750 [a month]. We make up the rest, one way or another," she said.
"My goal is to have this whole block part of Love Outreach Ministries. I want to turn that house into a receiving house for babies, young children. I'd like to have three basketball courts here. If you have basketball courts, you could keep a lot of boys off the street. That, plus a couple plates of chips and cookies.
"For someone with no money, I think big, don't I?"