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They prayed in the street out front. It was, really, all they could do. The buildings were in shambles, cheerless and institutional. The property stood neglected and overrun with weeds. The fences sagged drunkenly, where they stood at all. There were no staff, no supplies, no endowment, no funding whatsoever. Just a few people praying.
At the forefront of the group was Caroline Wolff, and she’d been here before. Not at this site, but in this place—a place of deep need met by deep determination and love.
She hadn’t expected it to be this way. Caroline and her husband had retired to Florida after a lifetime of service and sacrifice. They had raised their own five children. They had opened their home to at least forty others—teenagers “in trouble” or those looking for a refuge from the streets, a stable environment, or just plain fun. They had organized community service, opened a soup kitchen, served as lay missioners, helped rescue the Shrine of Our Lady of Czestochowa in Pennsylvania; they had owned a successful business, taught school, and coached basketball.
Cured with a Mission. Time to retire, the Wolffs had thought. Surely a little…
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