A Gift of Hope: Helping the Homeless Read Free Page A

lots, in dark alleys, sometimes in littleclusters of five or six, sometimes in pairs, sometimes alone, always startled and unable to comprehend what was happening. Why were we giving them things they needed desperately? What was it all about? We represented no church, no organization, no religion, no agency, no shelter. We wanted nothing from them. We just stopped and asked if they needed what we had to give, and, without exception, they did. Some laughed, some cried, some hugged us, and every single person said the exact same thing as we left: “Thank you. And God bless you.” Every single one. I was impressed by their kindness, decency, and good manners. I couldn’t think of the last time anyone had said “God bless you” to me, even in church.
    Once or twice, with my eyes held by theirs, I whispered, “Please say a prayer for a boy called Nick,” feeling embarrassed to ask them even for that, but the words came out on their own. How often had he fed them and sung for them in shelters—maybe they could say a little prayer for him now. Maybe it would help. He had been gone for exactly three months.
    I asked no questions of the people I met that night, nor in the years after. Others are curious about how they wound up on the streets. Was it bad luck, bad management of their income, drink, drugs, a broken marriage, a lost job, or an illness? All of the above? I never knew, and I believed I had no right to ask. Eventually, I made some fairly accurate guesses,knowing the streets better, and some people volunteered their stories. But I always felt (and still do) that privacy was the last shred of dignity they had. They didn’t have to tell me what happened in order to earn what I had to give. I gave my heart and respect along with the supplies. They didn’t have to give me anything back, and surely not the stories of their lives, which belonged only to them. Did we see signs of drink or drugs that first night? Some. Did some look mentally ill? Yes, many in fact. But living on the street in winter conditions, with no hope of getting off the street, who knows what any of us would do to survive? And for those who are mentally ill and should be on medication they can’t afford and don’t have access to, alcohol and street drugs are the only available form of self-medication to dull the pain of their lives.
    Did I have a sense of danger? No. Were there signs of violence or any threats to us? No. People were cold, shivering, frozen, but above all grateful and always kind. On that first night, we went into less fortunate neighborhoods, but we didn’t venture into the really dangerous areas where we would make our rounds later on. That night was our christening on the streets, and it was a gentle one. The employee I had brought with me was as impressed as I. And since we had no idea what we were doing or how to do it, our end of the operation was more than a little haphazard.
    We had stacks of jackets (in one size, large, I think) piled upin the back of the van. We had sleeping bags thrown everywhere, and were constantly digging for a matching glove or sock. We would emerge with our offerings loose in our arms, hand them over, and move on to the next stop. There was nothing smooth about it—all it was, at our end, was a pile of “stuff” and a lot of heart. And as far as we were concerned, the night was going well. What we gave them was absorbed into doorways and alleys in about an hour. There were so many people in dire need that we could have given away hundreds of sleeping bags and jackets that night if we had them. Giving away forty or fifty jackets and sleeping bags was like emptying the ocean with a thimble. I have never felt so small and insignificant in my life.
    It was hard to come face-to-face with such acute need and misery, and feel so helpless. It dug deep into one’s heart, mine for sure. I thought it was going to be a single, extraordinary experience for me, and I was both touched and in somewhat good