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Miss Betty and Her People
by Linda D. Johnson
USA East, Territorial Literary Secretary
from
Priority! magazine, Fall 2001, reprinted with permission
From all
outward appearances, Betty Baker seems to be a sweet,
grandmotherly woman. In her bright, airy Asbury Park, N.J.,
apartment, stuffed animals hold places of honor on the couch
and rocking chair. There’s a “shrine” to her dog, Wendy, and
knick–knacks inherited from friends. But then Betty opens her
photo album and says, “These are some of my people.”
She starts with “Twinkles,” a transvestite. He’s wearing a
dress and has long, curly tresses. In a second snapshot, he’s
bald and looking very much like the businessman he now is.
Betty explains that he moved to another city, where he has
been living a “straight” life—and going to church.
In a black–and–white shot, Betty is inside a Salvation Army
canteen on a New York City street corner; a young
African–American man leans his head on the counter. “That’s
Jose,” she says. “He has been on the street since he was 9 or
so. That night, he came to see me because someone had shot him
in the shoulder with a BB gun.”
The next photo shows Betty at the canteen, a little white dog
at her side. “That’s my Wendy,” she says fondly. In a strong
Scottish brogue, she adds, “Whenever someone who was drunk or
high came up to the canteen, she would bark her head off. I
would say, ‘You’re pushing her buttons!’ And you’re pushing my
buttons too!’ ”
Tammy, in another snapshot, is a former prostitute who found
Jesus. The Sunday before Tammy died of AIDS, Betty told her,
“Jesus is really waiting for you.” Betty leaned in close and
heard Tammy whisper, “I want to see Jesus.”
Called to the streets
In the summer of 1984, late in her career as a Salvation Army
officer, Major Betty Baker began ministering to “the least of
these”—prostitutes, drug addicts, homeless men, street
children.
Her commander called her to say that he had a new street
ministry in mind. “After some real earnest prayer,” she says,
“I decided to take the canteen out.” Five nights a week, from
10 p.m. to 4 a.m., she made her rounds to some of the meanest
of Manhattan’s streets.
One night early in her ministry, Betty saw a young girl
standing alone and struck up a conversation. She told the girl
that she had cold drinks and cookies to offer. “Do you know
what I am?” the girl asked. “Yes,” Betty said softly. “You are
a person made in the image of the God I love and serve.” “But
I’m a whore,” the girl said. Betty repeated, “But you are also
a person made in the image of the God I love and serve.” “I
can’t look with disfavor on anyone,” Betty says. That kind of
unconditional love quickly earned Betty a reputation among the
street people, who called her “Ma” or “Miss Betty.” But they
also respected her because she was tough and spoke their
language—short of profanity, that is. If anyone tried to cut
into line for hot chocolate, for example, she would say,
“Stand there and take roots, but you ain’t going to be
served.”
A first–aid kit
During her seven and a half years on the street, Betty saw
more pain than most people see in a lifetime. “Sometimes I
would feel like it’s all a big open wound, and all I have is a
little Band–Aid.™ But then, I would pray to God, and he would
tell me that it was Him who had given me that Band–aid, and I
should use it.”
On occasion, the Band-Aid helped. One day, Betty saw a young
girl standing at the canteen, and she was moved to reach out
to hold her. Then the girl got into a car and drove off with a
man. He took her to a lonely street and put a razor to her
throat. The young woman cried out, “Oh, Jesus, oh, please help
me!” The man dropped the razor and shouted at her to get out
of the car. She came back and told Miss Betty she was going
back home. “I never saw her again,” Betty says. “I don’t know
if she knew Jesus, but I do believe he hears the cry, ‘God, be
merciful to me!’ ”
Another of Betty’s girls didn’t fare as well. Betty describes
Eve as a “tough cookie” who was into drugs. Still, she looked
up to “Major” and made sure others on the street knew that
they should not harm or otherwise “disrespect” her. One day,
as Betty was about to leave her post at the canteen, she
called Eve back to talk with her. “I want to remind you again,
Eve, that God loves you. He may not love what you do, but He
loves you. If you ever get into trouble, call on Him.” The
next day, Betty learned that Eve had been attacked and stabbed
seven times; she had died on the operating table.
Betty railed against God: “Why did You allow this to happen?”
She was ready to leave the word, to give up everything. Then
she picked up her accordion and began playing an old tune, “By
the love that never ceases.…” A new sense of peace came over
her.
“I believe that as she lay there on that street, she knew she
was dying and that she called on God. I believe when I get to
heaven, I’m going to see Eve there.”
Innocent victims
During her ministry, the people Betty felt most protective
toward were the children. She would often see them on the
streets, alone, at 3 or 4 in the morning. “They lived in
appalling situations,” she recalled, “where little girls are
gang–raped and a mother pours scalding water on her child. The
poor little kids, they have nothing to live for. Their parents
are crackheads, and that’s not their fault.”
At Christmas, Betty would often deliver gifts to children
living in welfare hotels. “That brought me joy,” she says.
Today, 10 years after her retirement, Betty’s joy still comes
from her people; now they are the women she visits in prison
once a week. Recently, when she had heart problems, they said,
“Oh, Miss Betty, we’re going to pray for you.”
“I get back from them every bit as much as I give,” Betty
says.
Sidebar
As a young girl, Elizabeth Baker loved to follow the Salvation
Army band through the streets of Glasgow, Scotland. “We would
march behind, singing, ‘Hallelujah, slice a dump–lin,’
Hallelujah, Amen.’ It wasn’t to be cheeky or anything; it was
just something we did.” Young Bettyy also enjoyed the tea and
sugar buns The Salvation Army gave out. “I guess you could say
I was a bread–and–fish disciple!”
As a girl, Betty thought she would grow up to be a missionary;
instead, she was among the first wave of war brides to come to
the United States in 1946. But her marriage ended abruptly
when her husband had an affair and left her alone and sick in
a hospital. She attended a Nazarene church for a time, and
often felt the impulse to go to the altar, but no one else
seemed to go, and she didn’t want to do it alone. Then she
started going to an Assemblies of God church, where lots of
people went forward to pray. So one day, she left the pew
herself. The pastor knelt beside her and asked if she wanted
to accept Jesus as Savior. “I was bawling my eyes out,” Betty
says. “It’s just terrible for a Scot to lose control.”
The pastor’s wife encouraged Betty to go to Zion Bible
Institute in Providence, R.I. By the time she graduated in
1950, she was “established in the faith.” But she also found
that because of the divorce, she would not have a place in
ministry. She began to feel guilty and hopeless. One day, she
broke down, sobbing. A woman named Sister Gibson listened as
Betty described her despair.
“Betty, my dear, God would not expect you to spend the rest of
your life paying for this,” Gibson said. “Your sins are cast
into the sea of forgetfulness. They are under the blood. Do
not allow that to trouble you any more.” That was all Betty
needed to hear. She decided to leave the church and go back to
a Salvation Army church in Harlem, where Brigadier Mary
Nisciewicz was pastor. Nisciewicz suggested that Betty herself
consider becoming an officer/pastor.
At age 38, Betty joined all “the kids” in training school. Her
first summer assignment was in a home for unwed mothers.
Except for that time, she spent her entire career in New York
City. Often, she was in charge of a corps (church). One of her
assignments took her for three years to Stuyvesant Square, a
facility for drug–addicted women. And for the last seven years
of her officership, she was literally on the streets,
ministering to prostitutes and drug addicts from a Salvation
Army canteen.
For her work, the Army’s international headquarters recognized
her for exceptional service. She won an award from Woman’s Day
magazine and was named Citizen of the Year in New York City
during the late 1980s. Betty displays her awards on the wall,
but she knows who really gets the glory.
“I sowed a lot of seed,” she says. “God gives the increase.”
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