Christmas morning.
We get up at 2:00 am and heat up the porridge we prepared the night before.
Heading out the door at 2:45, it isn’t as cold as I expected, but it’s cold enough. I think about people sleeping outside in this weather — upper thirties, foggy, wet — without any proper gear… without access to anything clean, dry, sanitary, or warm.
For a few nights, at least, there’s a chance for them to get inside and be dry and warm, if not exactly comfortable.
We get to the church at 3:15, right on time to get oriented for 3rd shift. A couple of people in orange vests stand outside under a pop-up tent, and they direct us down a dingy concrete staircase to a solid steel door that leads into the basement.
The doorway opens into a tall hallway with half-finished walls, bright lights, and a table full of neatly stacked clothes. Further down is another table with a couple more volunteers serving as greeters and registering volunteers and guests. We sign in and get vests of our own and pieces of duct tape to mark our names on.
We’re led, with a few others, down the hallway and into the sleeping room.
It’s dark, lit slightly by the light from the hallways on either end and some barely-on track lighting above. 2-foot x 6-foot foam pads are arrayed on either side of the central walkway. On the mats are people, mostly sleeping, some moving a bit, some coughing, a couple moaning. Humans who, if not for this temporary shelter operation, would be trying to survive outside in the cold and wet.
The smell in the room is strong — body odor, urine, coffee, alcohol, mold, sickness. The aroma of hardship.
It being Christmas, I think of the story of Jesus being born in a makeshift abode in a stable. This basement has become a makeshift stable for humans. No room in the collective inn of society.
But I’m glad there is some accommodation made, and that I can be a small part of making that happen. And, part of meaning of the story is that the divine is born forth in the lowest of places. So there’s that.
We walk through toward another doorway at the other end of the room, out the other door into another hallway, and another door into the kitchen, for a very brief briefing.
We’re informed an undisclosed “incident” with a guest has occurred during an earlier shift, but things seem to have calmed down. There is no sugar for the coffee, nor lids for the cups. But there are plenty of cups.
We each get our duties — 15 or so of us volunteers, to take care of around 70 guests. Some run the welcome table. Some are in charge of guest belongings, which had to be checked in when they arrived and must be checked out when they leave, and not before. I take a post in the sleeping room, just watching for any issues that may arise.
Some guests sleep quietly. Others fidget, groan, or get up for various reasons. One man sits up and begins working on a small object with a multi-tool.
A woman walks up to a box sitting on the floor near me and begins rummaging through it. I ask if I can help her with something. She says she just needs to find “something,” and that it’s mostly first aid stuff in the box.
She seems to know what she’s about, and I have the sense it’s something she feels private about. She pulls out a box of menstrual pads. I feel immense compassion. I feel…sad. There are many women there, and this is part of their reality — scrounging for something to soak up their blood.
An older man stumbles to the bathroom making hacking sounds, his belly protruding, pants down below his buttocks. When he walks back he’s trailing urine in his footsteps.
The lead volunteer advises us that his mat will need extra-strength cleaning at the end of the shift because it’s “heavily soiled.” Sometimes the mats have to be thrown away, blankets and guests’ clothing too. He’ll be given a new pair of pants and several adult diapers before he’s sent back outside.
They begin to rouse the guests at 5:30, to get them out the door by 6:30, so that they can, if they wish, make it over to the mission for breakfast. A few have already been awake for some time. Many would rather stay asleep a good deal longer. Outside it’s still dark, misty, and cold.
As guests rise, we collect their mats and blankets. The shelter will be open just one more night for this activation period. It’s an emergency operation that’s initiated whenever the weather meets certain criteria for long enough.
I think the criteria are pretty high, but I also see how much effort it takes to make this happen. It’s not a solution, by any means. It’s just a way to keep people from freezing to death for a few nights when the threat is greatest.
There are “warming liquids” — decaf coffee, hot chocolate, bouillon – as there have been all night. No food, but something to put in their bellies and get warmed up, and a few calories. Cups and thermoses are filled. People who have food with them munch a bit, wearily. Some ask around for cigarettes. Some are calm; some are agitated. Some hobble to the bathrooms, their bare feet swollen and hard like rocks.
They retrieve their belongings from the keepers of the bags. The night before, some complain, there were mixups, and some guests didn’t get their things back, or their things were given to the wrong people.
We try to make sure everyone gets what they came with, fulfilling that promise made when they arrived. My wife has been back at the baggage area, sorting and organizing with another volunteer who has been there each of the five nights the shelter has been open. Black garbage bags full of people’s belongings line the back end of the back hallway, as well as filling an adjacent room.
We direct guests back there when they’re ready to head out, or in many cases, I just go and get their bags for them. Mostly just one or two bags. A few have backpacks or rolling suitcases. One couple has ten heavy bags full of items, and it takes them two trips with a handcart to get it all outside—to do what with I’m not sure.
One gentleman complains that the garbage bags aren’t being reused day-to-day, saying insistently that’s it’s bad for the environment. I let him know we are reusing them as much as possible.
He begins to get more agitated, emphasizing how much he cares about the planet, and the day before he saw someone just take his bag and throw it away. He’s getting upset. I tell him I agree with him completely (which I do), and I will make sure this time his bag is reused. He likes this and calms down a bit. There is a good deal of waste from the operation — part of the mess of homelessness.
At 6:45, the last guests have gathered their things, and we all make our way back out and up the cold stairway, into the mist. A few remain on the front steps of the church, smoking and chatting.
We bid them farewell, and get in our car. I feel blessed and humbled.
I don’t know why things are like this. I suppose they have been, in one form or another, as long as civilization has existed. Trauma, addiction, bad luck, bad government policies, mental illness, physical disabilities — so many painful experiences, conditions, life paths. It could be me, if not for a bit of grace. It could be you.
I want to trust in the unfolding of life, in the perfection of all these experiences people have, even if I wish it were different, because it makes me feel uncomfortable, sad, and powerless.
And, I believe this is a solvable problem. I see the generosity in people coming out in the middle of the night to care for these humans who lack homes, who lack love and belonging. And in the huge array of items donated. Some people care. And, I know we can do better.
Everyone can have a home of some kind, have their basic needs met. There is plenty to go around, if we use and share resources more sustainably and equitably. One billionaire’s fortune could be used to feed, house, and heal tens of thousands. It’s not just about money, but money is a big part of it.
Everyone can be healed through love and kindness. There are a variety of methods for resolving trauma patterns, which, if adopted and used on a mass scale, could change our society.
I’m not so arrogant to think I have the answer to an age-old issue that many have spent their entire lives working on. But I do think it starts with a stronger collective will, and that starts with greater awareness, which is why we each need to involve ourselves at least in some way, and why stories like this need to be told.
We are all human. We all breathe the air and drink the water. We are all part of the Earth, and the Cosmos. At the center of all the atoms that make up our bodies is the same empty space, filled only with energy. What hurts one of us hurts all of us, and what heals one of us heals us all. May the day soon arrive that we recognize this truth, live it, and make it the guiding principle of our society.
