So Many Stories, So Little Time to Tell Them...

This day is drawing to a close and my heart is full to overflowing with thoughts of the homeless folks God brought our way today. We were blessed to pray with each of these men--each of whom already claims Christ as savior.

One man, Tom, is a victim of a very violent crime that left him terribly disfigured. He now feels very awkward in social groups, but longs to worship with God's people. He dropped off a hand-made flier saying he wants to do handyman work to make money to get by (he is in a hotel and on a low disability payment). He loves the Lord and has been very blessed to come volunteer at the church.

Wayne, a man who spent a couple of nights in our winter shelter--and bought pizza for the other guys with his day-labor earnings-- came by. He has some terrible infection causing open sores all over his body. He needs to get to Ventura where he can get some special free medical care. We paid for his train ticket there. He was very very grateful.

Melvin came by just wanting to use a phone to call Volunteers of America to get into rehab. He said, I am a chronic alcoholic and God is telling me to get into rehab before this kills me. Most days I wake up and my first thought is, 'Where can I get a beer?' but today, my first thought was, 'how can I keep form finding a beer and get help?'" He was given a time to show up. We gave him some nutrition bars and things and sent him on his way. He was filled with gratitude for the

Harold came to our door desperate and wanting to talk to a pastor. After a brief conversation he agreed to settle for talking to me. He tells me, "I'm killing myself with drugs and I need to get into a rehab place, but they are all full. I need help."As his story unfolded I learned that Harold is the son of a pastor and has faith in God. When I delve into the circumstances of his life for the past few years I learn that he recently got out of Federal Penitentiary and soon began using crystal meth. He was clean and neatly dressed and carried a big zippered portfolio with him. We talked for quite some time and I also learned that Harold plays piano and is quite an accomplished artist. He showed me some of his drawings and they were very good indeed. He told me he even makes money playing piano and selling his drawings to tourists. Seems though that any money he makes goes into drugs instead of his basic needs. Before he left Harold asked if he could play the piano he could see from where we sat. I agreed and he sat down and began playing beautifully and singing a song that was a beautiful jazzy hymn to God. He told me he'd written them himself. As he played four very young kids walked into the room with their music teacher. She let them go up and stand right by Harold as he played and sang. I could tell the kids were enthralled and Harold--Harold got a big smile on his face and I could tell he was relishing playing for the kids. Since it had been sprinkling today we went to the Ladle office to check the weather. Rail was predicted for overnight. I offered to let him leave his portfolio in the office overnight and he was relieved to be able to do so. I will see him tomorrow when he comes to pick it up. He will be invited to join the Ladle staff for lunch and we can talk more. Perhaps he will play some more songs--and draw closer to God...

Down and Nearly Outers: Three of Their Stories

I often wish I had a photographic memory in order to clearly recall all the folks I have talked to and their often complicated stories. Some days, like today, bring a nearly non-stop stream of people to the church who are looking to have a special pressing need met. By the evening time the faces and stories are beginning to blur a bit. For my own memory's sake, I'll give you a brief rundown on three of today's visitors.

The first guy, homeless--I can't remember his name just now--wanted something to eat. To be exact he wanted a jar of peanut butter and some canned goods if we had them. Ed got him a bagful of nutrition bars, a vitamin water and some other things. Craig came by to get his disabled buss pass refilled as I had told him Sunday we would. As we walked to the Transit Store together he told me how eight years ago he lost his job as a manager at a big furniture store (no longer is business, which you will see, may be poetic justice).

While seeing the doctor after a sudden episode of blurry vision, it was discovered he had glaucoma, and that it had goon undetected and untreated for many years. Craig had worked for them for years and many commendations for good work in his file. Soon after his boss finding out about his glaucoma Craig was transfered to a less-than-desirable store. Then he began getting written up for this and that. Finally on what amounted to a technicality, they fired him. He was dispirited and scrambling to stay afloat. Before long his state disability ran out. Soon his car was repossessed. It went downhill from there and he hasn't worked since. Craig was homeless off and on until recently getting on SSDI (Social Security Disability Income).

I asked about his family. His dad was never around and his mom died a few years back. He says he and his two brothers have never been close--not even in childhood--and now they never communicate. Craig talks of wanting to get into retail sales or perhaps, "open my own sporting goods store." With real frustration evident he says, "I hate not working. I'd give anything just to be able to go to work each day."

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Then there was Bill who came to San Diego about 6 months ago, he says, for cancer treatment. In the months since, he got hit by a car while skateboarding downtown and, about a month ago, got hit in the head with a baseball bat while sleeping and lost many of his teeth and had to have metal pins and wires put in his jaws. Now he has decided to go live with his sister in New Mexico. Ladle paid for a portion of his bus fare.

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Jane is in her late 50's and looks much older. I can see she is missing several of her bottom teeth and because of it the remaining teeth come up over her upper lip when she talks. Seems she has been homeless for quite some time. Jane has been in and out of several downtown hotels and it seems to me she has some metal or emotional issues. After a recent hospitalization to have her spleen removed, the hospital discharged her to an independent-living home in National City. Jane came to the church to get a change of clothes because, "last night they got into my suitcase when I went to the store and they took all my clothes." "Not only that, but they threaten me and are mean to me and I think they are going to kick me out or keep stealing my stuff so I'll leave." I get Jane a blouse; a nice from our clothes closet and she is very happy with it. She says she'll will come back Sunday when we have a clothing distribution program going and get some more things.

So it goes...

God regularly uses others--especially my wife-- to show me what true generosity is and how far I have to go to attain that essential virtue. Yesterday at the corner bus stop by our church I ran into a disabled man I've known for years. Paul lives in a downtown hotel and gets by on the SSI check that goes mostly to pay his hotel bill. We made small talk as he waited for the bus and when he said he was on his way to the ATM to withdraw some money I joked with him, "get me a stack of money while you're there." He called me this morning and apologized for not realizing yesterday that I must have been dropping a big hint that I was broke and needed money. "Allen," he said, if you need a few bucks, well, I don't have much--but I could give you a little if you need it." I then had to explain that I had been joking around and really didn't need any money. I thanked him and blessed him for being so kind and thoughtful. As we said goodbye I was reminded once aaginjust how far I have yet to go...

Will Molly make it home to Arkansas in time for Thanksgiving? She looks to be about 17 to 20. Still with a good deal of innocence about her. She came by the church about a month ago for a bus pass in order to look for work. At that time she was optimistic and hopeful. However, after finding no work, becoming tired of life on the streets--and with the holidays approaching--she is anxious to go HOME. I directed her to Traveler's Aid Society. Perhaps she will make it home in time for Thanksgiving with her family. I hope so. Please pray for her.

Sam's Storage Crisis

Sam's call this morning is like many that come to the Ladle office on a daily basis. Sam has a crisis. Sam is desperate. He's about to lose his storage unit. The thing is, storage places don't just put your stuff on the curb when you're seriously behind in your rent, they lock you out. Then, after a certain period, they auction off the contents of your unit to someone who buys it all, sight unseen. Sam pleads with me, "I only need $288 and I'll pay you back, I swear." I have to tell Sam we do not do loans. "But all my mom's paintings are in there. She was really good--even taught art for years. I just can't lose them; I've got to keep them for my son."

Sam has a 7-year old son he sees on weekends ever since his girlfriend kicked him out a year ago. Sam has had run-ins with the law ever since adolescence. He tells me about how his mom always used to get him a lawyer to get him off the hook when he was a teenager. She is no longer around to do that, but Sam keeps going to court for a variety of things like ignored traffic tickets.

In fact, Sam tells me he's just this morning realized he missed a court date which was for earlier this week. It just slipped his mind. He no longer even has the car he got the tickets in because it was towed to impound three months ago when he was caught driving without a license or insurance. That's when he first called me--to ask for a loan to get his car out of the tow yard. It was going to cost over a thousand dollars Losing his car was a double whammy because he'd been sleeping in it since being kicked out of his girlfriend's house. Now he is sleeping in the back yard of some guy he knows in Golden Hill.

Sam is feeling like his whole life is falling apart, and I can't really argue with him on that point. Things really are a mess and, since losing his car have only gotten worse. Sam feels sorry for himself and like the world has turned against him. I give him a tough-love pep talk telling him to quit playing the victim, straighten out the legal problems he's brought on himself and then set about rebuilding his life. I tell him I believe that, if his mom's paintings are really as important to him as he says, he can hustle up the money by day labor or begging--"flying a sign" which he has done before--or borrowing from friends and family. The only thing Ladle Fellowship will offer at this point is to store the paintings for a month or two if he can recover them. We'll also let him do court-ordered community service here. We'll pray for him. We'll encourage him. That's about it.

Will he be successful? I don't know. I hope so. I' too would like for Sam Jr. to see the paintings his grandma did.

Alice and the Hundred-Dollar Bill

Before I tell you about how Alice came to be in possession of a hundred dollar bill and how she lost it and how it was recovered and what she did with it then, I need first to tell you a little about her. Alice is in her early-seventies and has been homeless most of her adult life. As near as I can tell, Alice has no problem being homeless and I think actually prefers the homeless “lifestyle.” Even though she does not come to our soup kitchen and does not receive any food or clothes from our Ladle ministry, Alice nonetheless has developed a strangely enduring and unusual connection with our church. This connection goes three pastors back—back nearly four decades to the friendship which developed between her, Rev. Paul Pulliam and his wife, Ruth.

One day, back in the late 70’s, Alice simply showed up one Sunday and from that day on began attending First Presbyterian Church regularly. She kept mostly to herself and would leave right after the benediction. Before long, Alice began frequenting the reception area outside the church office on weekdays and chatting with the secretary, delivery people and anyone else who happened by. Over time, Alice’s weekday visits became more frequent and were lasting longer. Eventually, she was spending most of every day on the couch in the reception area and, like some modern-day Bartleby, no one seemed willing or capable of dislodging her. At some point the church administrator let her know she would no longer be allowed to spend her days in the church. It seems Alice took great offence at this new policy and so, like a jilted parishioner, found a new church to go to—a Lutheran church.

Alice wrote to Reverend Pulliam—and his wife—to let them both know she would no longer be attending services at First Presbyterian Church--and why. Pastor Pulliam and Ruth each replied with letters sent to her P.O. box encouraging her to understand why it was just not possible for her to spend her days at the church and expressing their—and God’s--love and concern for her. She wrote back, dropping the letters off at the church office. This began a correspondence which has continued—off and on—until this very day. The Pulliams would give her stationery and other writing supplies.

Often Alice’s letters are accompanied by gift packages which she has carefully assembled from small items she buys at the thrift store. Invariably these gift packs come elaborately nested in scrap paper, greeting card portions, napkins and plastic bags. On many of the paper surfaces, Alice writes out scripture verses, quotations or lines from poems. The verses and quotations she chooses often relate to some nearby holiday or other event. Somewhere on her wrapped gifts, Alice always puts her full name followed by, “homeless senior.” In the ten years I have been director of Ladle Fellowship, I have received perhaps eight or more of her special gifts. At first I had no idea who she was. Eventually I came to learn of her continuing relationship with Pastor Pulliam and Ruth.

You are now ready to hear about the hundred-dollar bill. In recent months a man from our church, Scotty, began to meet with Alice at the Starbucks downtown for morning coffee once a week. Over coffee and snacks Alice has been slowly opening up to Scotty. She is very intelligent and insightful—even philosophical about life. Last week, a very well-dressed businessman took note of Alice—had he perhaps spoken to her in the past or seen her on the street?—walked right up to her and handed her a hundred-dollar bill. Alice, surprised, said, “What is this for?” and the businessman replied, “It is for whatever you might happen to need right now.” Alice thanked him as he said, “God bless you” and walked away. Alice tucked the bill in her sleeve and continued her conversation with Scotty. As Alice returned Scotty’s hug, the bill fell from her sleeve to the sidewalk. Just then a street person in his 30’s bends down quickly, pockets it and walks swiftly up the street. Once Alice discovered what had happened and told Scotty, he took off after the man. Scotty—a 250-plus pound ex-Marine who is the spitting image of the Santa-- caught up to him a few blocks later and, between huffs and puffs, “exhorted” him about stealing from poor elderly women. The guy mumbled some kind of lame justification and then reluctantly fished the bill out of his pocket and laid it in Scotty’s upturned palm. Scotty returned it to Alice, reminded her to be careful, said a second goodbye and set off to work.

The next time they met, Alice handed Scotty an envelope containing the hundred-dollar bill saying, “here, give this to the church, I don’t really need it.” Scotty was dumbfounded. “What do you mean, you don’t need it? Look, get yourself a motel room for a night or two or buy something you need—Alice, this money is for you to use.” “No, Scotty, I don’t really need anything. And, besides, there are probably people who need it more than I do. No, I want you to give it to the church for the Ladle program—I’ll be fine” Reluctantly, Scotty agreed to do as she said. He knew she was a strong--and strong-willed--person and had made up her mind. She hadn’t even used any of it since he had given it back to her. Knowing Scotty as I do, I am certain he teared up at this point.

That was last Thursday. On Sunday morning I saw Alice sitting just outside at the corner of the church building. She had just delivered little gift packages for Scotty and me. Mine contained a colorful little cardboard box in which I found: a card holder in the form of an apple, a new little poured candle in a class holder shaped in the outline of a cat’s head, a pocket pack of Nice ‘n Soft tissues, a 3’ x 5” spiral-bound memo book on which Alice had written my name. Inside the wire spiral was inserted a new pencil with a stars-and-stripes pattern to it—probably in anticipation of Flag Day. The memo book was wrapped in red chiffon ribbon bow. Also in my gift pack, wrapped in a clear plastic pouch, was one of those cardboard coffee cup sleeves. This one was from It’s A Grind Coffee House (Alice seems to like these cardboard sleeves because she’s included one in each of the last several presents she’s given me). Also in the plastic pouch: a foil-wrapped tea bag (Numi brand, Velvet Garden White Rose—certified organic, “With every sip, a new dream awakens”); a scrap of Easter-colored wrapping paper which it looks like Alice has cut in the shape of an egg and on it written, “To (Personal) Allen Randall, FPC Ladle Fellowship, From Alice Margaret Simmons, Homeless Senior.” Also included, on a sheet taken from the memo book, was a long hand-written note of condolence upon the recent death of my mother. On a small piece of thin folded cardboard, like a miniature greeting card, I find little stickers: “Faith, “Promise,” “rejoice,” and another, with the dove symbol. On the outside of it Alice has written out—and referenced—Hebrews 3:4, “…Every house is builded by some man; but he that built all things is God.” Inside I find, written out in her neat hand, the text of Revelation 22:12-14 which begins, “Behold I come quickly…”

I aspire to someday be as generous and caring a person as is my dear friend, Alice Margaret Simmons.

Three Different Deaths

What is the average lifespan of a typical homeless person? I wonder. I will have to search for the answer to this question. From my experience, admittedly quite limited to our little downtown neighborhood, I'd guess it would be in the neighborhood of 58 to 62 years. But I'm not writing today about mortality rates but to mark the deaths, within a week's span, of three homeless people who were Ladle regulars: Ron, Susan and Kyle. Here, first, is a little something about Ron.

Ron was a large Hispanic man in his early 50s. About 6 months prior to his death, Ron began spending his days at the side of our church, usually in the company of a drinking buddy or two. Upon my first encounter with him he told me he'd just gotten out of the hospital and was homeless. He said he had cancer, but was vague about where it was, what treatment he was getting and any prognosis he might have been given. When I told him our building was used as an elementary school during the week, and that we'd had a problem with men hanging out at this spot and drinking, he assured me that he had been "clean and sober" for a couple of years. He said he was homeless due to his poor health and some unexplained problem with one of his legs. He said he just needed to rest here for a couple of minutes and then would be going. A few days later I found him, again at the side of the church, but this time he was so drunk--or high, or both-- that he could not stand when I asked him to leave. A buddy--also drunk, but a bit more functional--helped him up and they staggered down the sidewalk as if contestants in an extremely slow three-legged race.

This was just the first in a series of similar weekly interactions with Ron. Sometimes however he'd surprise me by being completely sober. At those times he looked so different it was difficult to imagine this was the same man who, just the week before, was passed out on the church steps and unresponsive. A couple of times he was so far gone we had to call the paramedics. Other homeless people who know Ron told me he used to be a heroin user and seller. Ron, it turns out, was on a steeply and rapidly declining pathway. He seemed to know this but did not seem to care. The ultimate and sad confirmation of this came in the form of a telephone call I received from my counterpart at First Lutheran Church, just a few blocks from here. "Allen, I have some sad news," Jim began. "Ron died three days ago." "What happened," I asked. "They're not sure. Either he fell down and hit his head and then had a stroke, or he had the stroke first, then fell down and hit his head. In any case he died from the combination of the two. And he's not the only one to die recently," Jim continued. "I got word that Susan--you knew her from Ladle didn't you?--was found dead in the doorway of the 'C' Street Inn the day after Ron died."

Yet again my soul groaned in grief for our so tragically fallen world and the ugly and terrible toll it visits upon the lives of the homeless--especially those enslaved to drugs, alcohol and mental confusion. Even as I laid the receiver back in its cradle, I was already questioning whether I could have/should have done something more or different to have helped either Ron or Susan avoid their sadly premature deaths. The bland and monotone thought, "no, there was nothing" relieved neither that dark little shadow of tentative guilt that now niggled my mind, nor did it counterbalance the lead-like weight of my sadness over the seeming inevitability and pitiful ending of these two lives.

Susan had been coming to our Sunday afternoon meal for about as long as I can remember. I never knew her very well. She was usually quiet and kept to herself and her little circle of street/drinking/drug-using friends. Susan was somewhere in her forties I suppose, but as you might imagine the hard conditions of street life can put apparent age on a person--sometimes an additional ten to twenty years worth. In the last year of her life the one thing that stood out if you were to see Susan would be that her feet were terribly swollen and marred with open sores. I think this may have been one of the symptoms of liver failure. It pained me to see her struggling just to walk up or down the ramp to our dining room. When I would express sympathy and ask what if there was anything we could do she'd give me a sweet partial smile and say, "No, I'll make it. It's the cancer. I'll be O.K. thanks." I've come to find that alcoholics with failing livers often cite "cancer" as the explanation for their physical symptoms. Susan however did not live long enough to die from alcoholic cirrhosis of the liver. She died of a drug overdose--probable heroin. Jim at First Lutheran told me her body had been found on a recent morning in the doorway of the C-Street Inn. Several street people who knew her came to me to confirm this and to tell me that the people she had been shooting up with had, when she'd overdosed, just taken her down and dumped her on the sidewalk. This was told to me in a tone as if they thought perhaps I should pursue this angle and tell the authorities about it. I didn't think there was any point to doing that, nor did I believe the authorities would be interested, or could even do anything if they were.

A week after Jim had told me about Ron and Susan, I got another call from him. This time it was Kyle. Though his death was not unexpected, the news of it brought me a heaviness as if someone had casually handed me a shoebox full of bricks. Kyle first came to my attention one Sunday morning when, after the church service a helpful church lady whispered to me, "The young man over there--the one in the dirty green T-shirt just walking away from the doughnut table--I think he must be drunk or something." I thanked her for bringing this to my attention and began to weave my way through the tightly packed fellowship hall toward the young man. He certainly did appear to be drunk. In one hand he was awkwardly holding onto a glazed doughnut so tightly as to be partially squishing it. In his other hand was a cup of coffee which was sloshing over the rim and onto his hand as well as onto the carpet.

I greeted him as I tend to greet street people inside the church who appear to be drunk. "Are you feeling all right?" I said, "You look kind of unsteady--is anything the matter?" "Nope" Kyle said, cocking his head and meeting my eyes, "I just need a place to sit." "Follow me" I said "there's a chair right over there"m I said, stalling for enough time to assess his slurred speech and very unsteady walk. His movements were, on the surface, somewhat similar to the stumbling of one under the influence except that Kyle's motions were more jerky and stiff. Even as I was making this observation and we had about reached the chair in the little foyer, one of Kyle's buddies came over to me quickly and said, "hey, it's O.K--he's not loaded, he's got Huntington's. "Yup" kyle affirmed. I spoke to him for a few minutes, but his speech was so slow and choppy it took him a long time to compose a whole sentence. And though I strained to listen, I could not make out half his words.

One of the friends watching out for him was a homeless man who was later to join the church. I doubt any member in our churches history had more tattoos--or more colorful. We are a Navy town, so I'm sure some of the men in the church have tattoos under their sleeves from their days in the service during WWII--ut not like Robert's. His were clearly biker tattoos and climbed clear up his neck.

To be continued...