Peanut butter pilgramages

The dark green Chevy van moves at funeral-procession speed down Broadway, pulling over to let less patient vehicles pass.

Beneath the occasional street light you can just make out the license plate: REV 1. The brake lights flicker every few seconds as the van pauses along the vacant sidewalks of downtown Cape Girardeau.

It's a pneumonia-inducing kind of night. The temperature hovers just under freezing, and the starless sky offers an icy drizzle.

But the interior of the van is toasty, the heater blowing full blast. On a night like this the promise of a warm respite, if only temporary, may entice someone to join them.

"I don't think Jesus looked at the weather report before he went on the streets," Mary Null says from the driver's seat of the van.

In the front passenger's seat, Null's daughter, Carol, clutches a flashlight and half-hums, half-whispers a song.

My Jesus, my Savior

Lord there is none like you ...

A pungent smell fills the van, familiar but difficult to pinpoint at first. The back seat is filled with loaves of bread and plastic jars. Peanut butter.

Jesus' disciples went forth to preach with only their staffs in hand. Mary Null goes forth with peanut butter sandwiches.

Few in Cape Girardeau's churches and community organizations are familiar with Null or Lighthouse Outreach Center, the ministry she recently set up on the second floor of an office building at 1301 N. Kingshighway.

The church is difficult to spot from the highway. There are no signs out front indicating its presence. But it's there, with a wooden plaque on the door and 25 or so regular attendees at Sunday and Thursday services.

On Fridays and Saturdays and any other night of the week she feels God's call, Null and her daughter load up the green van with bread, peanut butter and water. They drive from their home in a Scott City trailer park to downtown Cape Girardeau in search of the city's homeless.

Homelessness in Southeast Missouri is not as visible as in large metropolitan areas. There's no one begging for spare change or sleeping in a cardboard box on a street corner in Cape Girardeau.

Still, officials with community organizations say there are people here without homes. They bounce from relative to relative, sleep in cheap hotels or cars. If you look hard enough, you're bound to find them.

Null and her daughter walk along the riverfront, watching for any signs of vagrancy -- a lone person carrying a backpack or blanket; empty food containers.

They drive down alleys between dilapidated houses, shining the flashlight into abandoned vehicles. They check port-o-potties at construction sites and Dumpsters behind convenience stores, just in case someone has curled up inside.

"A lot of people say we're crazy," Null says as she drives down Water Street, windshield wipers squeaking in the background.

She's not apologizing, just stating a reality.

"I don't worry about that. I only worry that someone will die without Jesus," she says. "As far as me, I know where I'm at."

She pulls the van off the road in front of a warehouse overgrown with vines. A plywood board has come loose from a smashed window. There's just enough space for a person to crawl through.

Carol, one of four grown children who accompany Null on her searches, circles the front of the building, shining the flashlight through the broken window. The interior is filled with scrap metal and other unidentifiable junk.

"Hello. I've got a warm van and some sandwiches out here," Null calls softly.

There's no answer. They wait around for a few minutes. Just in case.

It is not hard for Null to imagine what it's like to curl up amongst the rusty metal and sleep on the filthy warehouse floor. She was homeless herself as a teenager. The experience inspired her weekly peanut butter pilgrimages.

For years, she drove to St. Louis to distribute the sandwiches until someone told her there were homeless people in Cape Girardeau.

Null became ordained last year as a pastor through Full Gospel Churches and Ministers International, a nondenominational organization, though she's been licensed as a pastor for several years.

Her call to God came at age 13 through her next-door neighbors. She says she was abused as a child, and the neighbors, a husband and wife minister team, tried to intervene.

She left home at age 16, trying to escape the abuse. She lived on the streets of St. Louis for two years. She got married at 18 to escape the streets and found herself in an abusive marriage.

Null pulls off Kingshighway into a parking lot near an overpass on the city's south side. A concrete sidewalk curves down beneath the highway.

She has seen some teenagers here recently, but they ran away when she approached them. She's also found blankets and food wrappers stuffed under the overpass.

She left a Bible there once. It was gone when she went back. She keeps going back each week, though she hasn't seen anyone again. Tonight may be different, though.

Because of flooding on the Mississippi River, many sheltered areas downtown are under water right now. Those who typically seek refuge there may migrate to places like the overpass until the water recedes.

The path is well lit. The overpass appears empty from a distance, but Null walks the length of it, shining the Maglight around the upper part of the concrete supports. Just in case. There's no one there, not tonight. There's not even stray candy wrappers or crushed soda cans to indicate a recent human presence.

It's not always that way, though. Null has helped a few homeless people find lodging, including a couple whose van broke down in Cape Girardeau over the Christmas holiday. Since 1999, she estimates she's fed 2,000 people a year in St. Louis and locally.

The last place Null looks tonight is a local discount store near Interstate 55. There's a row of Dumpsters and a green sign with 2-feet-tall white letters spelling out JESUS behind the store. It seems almost fated that she would find someone here.

There's a new building going up next door. Crawling beneath one of the construction trailers might appeal to someone with nowhere else to go. They look in the Dumpsters. Nothing but trash. They shine the flashlight under the trailers. No one's home.

It's something they're used to, and there's no disappointment in it.

"If we don't find anyone, I feel maybe someone's been blessed and found a place to sleep that night," she explains, turning from the JESUS sign and heading to the van.

She'll load up the van again tomorrow and make the same rounds. Just in case.

cclark@semissourian.com

335-6611, extension 128