Every day, beneath the shade of a cracked overpass, sits a woman named Priscilla. She’s a familiar face in her community — tough, stubborn, and unforgettable. Her chair is nothing more than an old, rotting seat, its fabric long gone and frame rusted through. Still, it’s where she feels safe.
Her legs are painfully swollen, three times their normal size. Her foot is infected — the skin soft and damaged, constantly attracting flies and bugs. The infection has worsened over time, yet no matter how many times she’s offered help, Priscilla refuses to go to the hospital. Ambulances have been called. Rides have been offered. Pleas have been made. But her answer is always the same — no.
The woman who cares for her is a local police officer. She’s spent countless days checking in on Priscilla, bringing her food, supplies, and medicine — and yes, sometimes enduring her sharp tongue. Priscilla can be sweet one moment and fiery the next. “Believe me,” the officer laughs, “I spent many of our early meetings begging her not to call me the B-word.”
Despite her moods, the officer has grown deeply fond of her. “She’s one of the most amazing souls I’ve ever known,” she says.
On a recent visit, she brought Bactine spray to clean the wound on Priscilla’s foot, along with her favorite snacks — Hot Cheetos and beef sticks. When Priscilla realized there was no pizza, she shouted in mock outrage, which only made them both laugh. But as the officer knelt down, gently cleaning the wound while trying to keep the bugs away, she couldn’t help but think of the song ‘Who Will Be Jesus to Her?’
That question lingered.
In that quiet, gritty moment — under a bridge with dirt on her hands and a badge on her chest — the officer felt something deeper than duty. “We’re often called names. We’re accused of being cold, unfeeling, or worse. But people don’t see this part of what we do. The part where we show up for someone who has nothing, no matter how they treat us. The part where love looks like kneeling in the mud to clean an infected foot.”
She paused, reflecting on her purpose. “God put me here to serve. I’ve never felt closer to Jesus than when I’m doing the work He gave me to do.”
To her, police work isn’t just about enforcing laws — it’s about living compassion. It’s the daily, quiet acts that rarely make headlines: buying food for someone hungry, helping a stranger find shelter, comforting a person who feels invisible.
“Moments like these remind me why I wear the uniform,” she said softly. “Though the world may misunderstand us, we’re still called to love — to serve as well as protect. This is the side of police work few ever see.”
And as the sun dipped behind the bridge that evening, Priscilla leaned back in her worn chair, smiling faintly — perhaps not realizing how deeply her story was changing someone else’s heart.