We had just finished our annual toy run when Tommy got a call from his niece, sobbing about a pastor, an eviction, and Christmas Eve. Without hesitation, our engines fired, and forty-three of us rode straight to the east side. Grace Fellowship Church had always been a lifeline to the neighborhood—but nothing prepared us for what we found.
Pastor James, a double-amputee Afghanistan veteran, sat in his wheelchair in freezing slush, his belongings scattered like trash. His wife, only three days post-C-section, held their newborn in a thin blanket. Standing over them was Garrett, the landlord, smug and ordering deputies to remove them for being “three days late” on rent. Inside the church, workers were tossing out pews and breaking the handmade wooden cross.
