A Gift of Hope: Helping the Homeless (4 page)

I would love to offer humor from that night, to lighten the mood, but there was so little of it. There was plenty of laughter in the van, at the beginning of the evening, mostly out of nervousness, I think. We were out of our element, in an unfamiliar world even in our own city, and sometimes when you’re scared, it’s easier to be funny than to admit to grief. But there was nothing funny as the night wore on, nothing to laugh at. It was all so touching, so raw, and so poignant. It
raked my heart over barbed wire, and I left a piece of myself forever on those streets.

That night, I stood over an old man sleeping on church steps in the pouring rain, and gently woke him. I was carrying a jacket I hoped was his size, and a rolled-up sleeping bag under my arm. As he woke, he looked at me through dim eyes, and more than likely he’d been drinking (maybe the only way he had to keep warm, or at least blot out the reality of how he was living). He blinked as he looked up at me, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. “Did I die?” he asked, with an air of amazement.

“No, no,” I reassured him, and handed him a down jacket and sleeping bag. He was still staring as I ran back down the steps to join the others. He called out his thanks and blessed me, and as I turned back to wave, I saw him struggling into the jacket, and then unrolling the sleeping bag, shaking his head.

We had no sense of mission then, and I don’t think any of us could have named or labeled it at that point. That came a long time later. Those first nights were “one-night stands,” something we felt led to do, with no thought beyond those moments. We went into some of the rougher parts of town that night but had no sense of danger. People were too cold, too wet, and too miserable to present any threat to us. Later, much later, we learned that although miserable, the
cold, hard, wet nights were safest for us. When people are deeply engaged in their own survival, there is rarely a thought of harming others. Sometimes on warmer, easier nights, on the streets there is an almost tangible tension, a sense of people looking for trouble, angry at what is happening to them, which created stressful moments for us too. Longer days in summer months were more dangerous for us, when we could be plainly seen from a great distance by those who were occasionally less well meaning, or preyed on others. We worked best, and in the safest conditions, in darkness and in bad weather. Hard for us, and for the homeless, but less risky for the team.

But on that second night, there was no danger, just a lot of cold, acutely uncomfortable people. The jackets and sleeping bags helped, but surely not enough. I was discovering at each stop that our showing up brought more than just warm, dry gear, it brought the message that people who didn’t know them and wanted nothing from them cared enough to find them and bring something they needed. Maybe we could have just as easily brought cardboard boxes or orange crates or old galoshes. The idea that someone had come out in the pouring rain, and gave a damn, was a powerful message. The gift we shared that night was one of hope, which was an important theme for us too. If someone could show up unexpectedly and without motive—why couldn’t it happen to us in our
own lives, bringing us what we needed? It was a gift like no other, and I realized then that what was happening was just as important for us as it was for them. Who doesn’t need hope in their lives: hope that something can change, that someone cares, that not only bad things happen unexpectedly but good things can happen to us too?

At one of our last stops, a huge man, who might have frightened me if I’d been alone on a dark street with him, broke into a smile that was dazzling. He looked into the sky with the most beautiful teeth and grin I’d ever seen, and laughed out loud. “Thank YOU, GOD!” he shouted heavenward, echoing what was in my heart. And of course, he thanked us too, and blessed us as we left.

Everywhere we went, people asked us where we came from, what church, what group, what organization. The answer was always “nowhere,” that we were just a group of friends who wanted to do this. There was no way to tell them why, we didn’t know ourselves, except for the message I’d heard in church, which sounded weird even to me. (I didn’t tell anyone about that.) The people we handed sleeping bags and jackets to were surprised, and mystified, but also grateful and pleased.

And this trip, with more jackets, sleeping bags, and people in the van than the first time, our supplies were a mess after a few stops. Socks and gloves were everywhere, sleeping bags
rolled out of the van, fortunately in plastic covers, and the down jackets slid all over the place—having two sizes made sense but made it more confusing. We were constantly shouting to each other, “Socks, I need SOCKS!” “I can’t find the large jackets” “Give me a medium.… a MEDIUM!” for some tiny, shivering woman. It was painfully haphazard, albeit well intentioned, not sloppy so much as chaotic. Eventually we found what we needed, but we were running all over each other, trying to make sure that each person had one of everything, and we ran out of supplies all too quickly. I was stunned, yet again, at how rapidly we used up what we’d brought, with so many people left who needed everything.

That night, we had enough for seventy-five people, and I doubt that what we had lasted two hours. Suddenly the van was empty, there were no sleeping bags rolling out of it, no more jackets to offer, no socks, no gloves. Much too quickly, we had nothing left to give. I always hated the part of the night when you had to drive home, trying not to see the people in doorways that we hadn’t been able to get to. It was painful beyond words, and sometimes we cried as we drove past them. I went home at night thinking not only of those we had met and supplied, but, with an aching heart, of those we hadn’t, and sometimes thinking of them more than the others. Emptying the ocean with a thimble again, our thimbles so tiny, and the ocean of need so huge.

Interestingly, and contrary to what most people would expect, no one asked us for money. The question was never raised. In eleven years on the streets, I was asked for money once, and then only for a dollar. People were so grateful for what we had to give, and so respectful, that I don’t think it even occurred to them to ask for more. Once in a while, people would ask for a cigarette, but rarely. They were thrilled with what they did get, and deeply thankful. They had learned to expect nothing from life, and so many had lost hope, that a gift of any kind was a wondrous thing. They taught me much about gratitude, for what one has or is given, without wishing for anything more.

Our little team worked well that night. More than any of us, Jane kept tabs on what we had in the van and gave us a running count of what was left as our supplies disappeared into the streets. Concerned about not having enough for everyone, we were careful not to stop at groups that were too big for us. The last thing we wanted was to disappoint or upset people, and we also didn’t want to risk their anger or frustration. Jane kept us on track, and seemed to have a hundred hands as she pulled what we needed from the back of the van, sometimes climbing into and over the supplies herself, a loving octopus in gym shoes. And John, with his deeply compassionate face and kind eyes, looked at people in a way that left no doubt how much he cared about them. It was as though he had
waited his whole life to meet each of them, and people responded immediately to him. Tony, one of my two employees with us, spoke to people we met in Spanish when necessary, and was unfailingly cheerful and upbeat as he handed out supplies. Younes, who had been with me on the first night, drove us patiently from one stop to the next, and his gentleness and size alone were impressive to watch, and kept us safe on the streets wherever we ventured. And although only in spirit, my son Nick was with us that night too. I thought about him a lot, and wanted him to be part of this event in some tangible way, since indirectly he had caused it to happen. I had put his watch on at the last minute, right before we went out. It comforted me to see it on my wrist, and made him seem part of the action in a real way. I always wear his ring. And since that night, I have always worn Nick’s watch when on the streets. It has kept him with us, and with me.

All in all, it was a good night, even if a wet and hard one. There were faces and moments we all remembered and took with us as we drove home. We had one set of supplies left in the back of the van but had seen no singles in a while. We were keeping an eye out for one. And then, of course, it came, God’s famous Last-Stop Curve Ball. Like the girl with cancer I had met on the first night, this last person nearly did me in. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, and we nearly drove past him. He was sitting in a doorway in an alley, a single figure,
perfect for the one outfit we had left. I called out to stop the van, which Younes did, we got out, and I walked toward a young man. I don’t know why, but I knew that this boy was meant for me, and even now I cry as I write about him. As we approached, I could see how young he was. He had long hair and a youthful face, and he was soaked to the skin. He was blond, and he had a face like Jesus. He had sores all over his face, and inevitably I thought of AIDS, but I was not really thinking as I looked at him, I was feeling. He was mumbling incoherently, and his blue eyes seemed to look through me. He looked to be about nineteen or twenty, the same age as Nick.

He was just a boy, sitting on a doorstep, soaking wet, in a shirt and jeans. He had one leg, the other was amputated at the knee, and his crutches were scattered on the street around him. I walked to him, momentarily speechless, unable to even offer him what we had to give. I stood there with tears rolling down my cheeks as he spoke deliriously. And then finally I was able to tell him that we had a warm jacket and a sleeping bag for him. He nodded. I offered to take him somewhere but he shook his head vehemently. For a moment, I almost wondered if my mind was playing some kind of trick. Was I seeing this only so that I would know how badly we were needed? And if Nick hadn’t been so lovingly cared for all his life, is this how he would have wound up, with one leg, delirious, soaking
wet on the streets? This boy was clearly the same age, and seemed possibly mentally ill. And as much as I reached out to that boy that night, I knew I was also doing it for his mother. Would some other woman have done that for me, if it had been Nick? One could only hope so.

I set our supplies down on the step next to him and stood there for a long moment, as slowly he pulled himself back into the doorway, a little more out of the rain, and we stayed there looking at each other. I said, “God bless you,” because I didn’t know what else to say, and it took all my strength to turn around and walk away, to leave him there and not put my arms around him. I was still crying when I got back to the van, and no one spoke on the way home. There was not a sound.

Unlike others, whom I sometimes ran into repeatedly over the years, I never saw that boy again. It’s hard to believe he’s still alive, given the condition he was in that night. It made me grateful Nick had never come to that, and it made me realize again how lucky we had been to have him, even if we lost him too soon. I tucked that boy in the doorway into my heart that night, and I will carry him there forever.

W
ith the second night on the streets, I supposed I had fulfilled my mission. I had listened to the message in church, followed directions, and gone out there. Twice. Three times, if you counted the time I went back to see the girl with cancer after my Christmas party. But by January, I knew it wasn’t a one- or two-time thing.

I remembered nearly every face we had seen so far, and I had become aware of a need so enormous that there was no way I could turn my back on it. I had seen too much to pretend it wasn’t happening, in my own backyard, in my own city.

There were other things I could have done, like work through an established organization. I knew of a family shelter, and had sent them gifts at Christmas. There are two incredibly efficient dining rooms for the homeless in San
Francisco. But the idea of going to work for some organization already established to help the homeless didn’t appeal to me. I wanted to continue what we’d started. And even if it was uncomfortable and unnerving at times, even scary, I liked working outdoors, on the streets, going out to look for people, and handing them things directly. That way, I knew they received what we intended to give them, and I wasn’t relying on others to distribute what we had bought.

I had a strong sense that those who were in the most dire need, or the least functional, were not able to find their way to dining rooms, churches, or shelters. I wanted to go to them and find them where they were. And it seemed to me that if I was going to do that, I needed to think it out, and approach the project with a certain degree of order. I spoke to Jane about it, and we decided to order jackets in three sizes for men—medium, large, and extra large—because we had been aware that some of our larges were too small for big men we met on the streets. But our mediums were often too big for women. There were far more men on the streets, maybe ten men to one woman, but there were enough women out there, we thought, to justify ordering jackets in two sizes for them. Likewise, we ordered socks in two sizes. We stuck with the gloves, and decided to add wool beanies. Our inventory was growing. We decided to go all out and order a hundred of everything for our next trip out.