Once it was a thriving neighborhood, a place where immigrant families came for good jobs with the local steel mills and the cloth factory.
By the time the pastor arrived in the late 1980s, it was already a neighborhood in transition from predominantly white, made up of Slovak, Czech and German immigrants, to black and white to more recently mostly Hispanic.
The church reflects that history, with some 300 parishioners coming from across the racial, ethnic and the socioeconomic divide.
But unlike big cities, where streets are defined by their immigrant nationality, there is no Little Puerto Rico, no Little Dominican and no Little Mexico in Clark Fulton.
Today, it's considered one of Cleveland's most ethnically diverse neighborhood. It's also considered one of the city's more problematic, with one in every five houses in foreclosure and a nearly double-digit unemployment rate, according to figures.
Those problems have produced, well, other problems: drugs, prostitution and gangs.
Neighborly, but cautious
Wodgik landed in Clark Fulton in 1998, down on her luck and addicted to crack cocaine.
It wasn't a life she aspired to in her middle-class upbringing in the suburbs of this city along the southern shore of Lake Erie. Who does? It's just what happened, she says.
For nearly a decade, between 1998 and 2009, she lived on Seymour Avenue directly across the street from Castro -- from what now people just call "THAT house." For the last seven of those years, one, two and then three women were allegedly being held prisoner there.
"Our children played together and this whole time this is going on inside there. I can't believe it. He took everybody's kids for rides on his four-wheeler," she said, fighting back tears.
Since the news broke, Wodgik has replayed the years, the meetings over and over in her mind.
"I keep thinking, did he say something? Did I miss it?"
There were little things, of course. In all those years, she says, he never invited her or her son into his home. He always pulled his car into this driveway and locked the chain-link fence. He always went into the side door, never through the front door.
But then again, there are a lot of people like that in Clark Fulton: Neighborly, but cautious.
"You know, you talk to people. But you don't get in their business. ... That can be problems for you," says 31-year-old Angel Perez, sitting on the sagging porch reinforced with plywood boards on the block behind where THAT house sits.
Asked about whether he knew Ariel Castro, he said: "Yeah, I seen him around. I didn't get in his business."
But then again, Perez says, he sees everybody around. People hang out, and their children play together.
Wodgik knew Castro a little better, but not much. "I just thought that's the way he was, private. And you're allowed to be private," she said.
But now, standing on the street, looking back and forth between THAT house and the one with a boarded up, broken window that she once called home, she wonders.