give hope

When I arrived at Sacred Heart last Saturday, crowds of people were gathered around our front door, the lines stretching out to the sidewalk, around the corner, and then around the block. Hundreds of children and adults wrapped in blankets and sleeping bags had camped out on the sidewalk in order to register for our holiday program. It was still only 5:00A.M., and we weren’t scheduled to begin registration for another four hours.

The sidewalk was impassible. I had a lot to do to prepare for the 250 volunteers who would begin arriving at 6:00A.M., but instead I found myself outside, moving slowly among the people, weaving in and out of the street, searching each face in the darkness for one young woman in particular.

Back in October, on another early Saturday morning, I was about to meet her for the first time.

  

The morning fog had not yet dissipated, and the girl I passed on the stairwell was inhaling a cigarette for breakfast, her makeup evidently making the best of its second consecutive day. I had been reduced to retracing my steps as I tried to find unit 205 of the beleaguered 4^th Street apartment complex, the numbering system of which had utterly confounded me.

When I finally found the door, its screen utterly demolished, I hesitated. What would I say? Everything was so quiet. Then I knocked.

A minute passed, and I knocked again. Another minute passed. I looked back to the sleepy smoker on the stairwell for guidance, but she seemed indifferent to my predicament. A part of me was relieved at the lack of response, but then suddenly the door opened.

The young man who answered did so with his back to me, and on pulling open the door, simply disappeared into the bathroom without ever making eye contact. Having left the door open, I poked my head into the darkened room.

The walls were bare, and there was no furniture, no dishes or utensils, no light fixtures, and in fact, there wasn’t even any evidence of electricity. Among the empty bags of chips, shredded cardboard, a stick, a sock, lint, dirt, and innumerable strands of hair, I counted four, then five bodies strewn across the discolored carpet, each covered by a thin sheet or blanket. Most of them looked like teenagers, their exhausted faces pressed into the coarse, unwashed shag, asleep with their shoes on.

After a moment one of the piles of flesh and bone rose and readied herself by rubbing her face with her hands. This is how I first met Regina.

 

Regina is twenty years old, the mother of a four-year old daughter, and homeless. Her father, also homeless, is a customer of ours at Sacred Heart, and after being released from a long prison sentence is now trying to put his life back together. Having lost his relationship with his daughter, he still worries about her, and after finding out where she had been staying, asked if I would try to help her. I spoke with her on the phone, and she agreed to meet.

After our first meeting that October morning, I neither saw nor heard from her again for several weeks. She was a pleasant young woman who hoped to get an education, remarking that she wanted to be a counselor, “So I could help people who are living on the street.” But she had dropped out of high school, had no income, and no real system of support.

Then a few days ago she called me. It was quite late, and she needed a ride. She had been forced out of the apartment where I had first met her, and she and her daughter were now staying somewhere on The Alameda.

When I picked up Regina and her daughter on Monterey Highway, it was cold and dark. She gave me a convoluted account of the events that had recently transpired, and not really knowing what to say or how to help, I brought up Thanksgiving, for it was evident that there wasn’t going to be a family meal for her to partake in.

“Are you interested in a Thanksgiving meal for you and your daughter? We are getting ready for our holiday program at Sacred Heart, and if you register you can also get new toys for …” and I gestured silently at the four-year old, who looked intently at my pointing finger from the backseat. Regina said she was interested.

But when we got to our destination, it was a motel. 

I helped her in with her duffle bags—all her worldly possessions. “Regina, will you be able to prepare a Thanksgiving meal?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Then showing me the little refrigerator with a plug-in hot plate on top of it, she told me that some of the rooms have kitchenettes. 

As I prepared to leave, I asked her how long she was planning to stay at the motel.

“Well, I get $65 a night from my social worker for two weeks—because I was in a bad situation.” I tried not to imagine what sort of situation would trigger this response from her social worker. 

“How long have you been staying here?” I asked.

“About eight days.”

“Then you only have six days left—is that right? What will you do?”

“Well, I found out that this motel gives me a weekly rate.” This added four more days to her stay. “But in a week, I get $150 more.” Another two days.

I was making the calculations in my head as she enumerated the winding down of her resources. Just as one source would run out, a little more would emerge, but always less then the amount before. Until finally, there was nothing.

“That would mean that your last night will be,” I re-calculated. “November 25^th. You’ll have to leave the motel by 11:00 A.M. … on Thanksgiving Day.”

She sat on the bed, her daughter asleep on her lap, and all she said was, “Oh.”

 

I still have no idea if Regina made it in to register for our services last Saturday. It was a busy day, and some 1500 families came through our doors. But there are still some spaces open. I hope she makes it.