Almost Home, Holding Onto Hope : Lessons from Homelessness

What I Learned Being Home: Almost Home, Holding Onto Hope

This blog is a continuation of a blog series I did last year on my homelessness.

For months I had managed to find someone’s couch to sleep on, or get enough GoFundme donations for a few nights in a hotel. Those times I could forget that I was homeless. I could shower, eat a free continental breakfast, or watch tv all day. Most of all I had a safe place to sleep at night.

But January 2017 I had run out of all those options. I broke down crying in the Community Service office where I was to do garden work to pay off a traffic violation.The community service office told me about an emergency shelter program called CAST, Chesapeake Area Shelter that I could go to that evening for place to sleep. From late October to mid April several areas church in Chesapeake open their doors for the homeless. In the evening they provide dinner, a space to sleep in the church sanctuary. In the morning they offer breakfast, and bagged lunch. All I needed to do was show up at the bus pick up location at police precinct parking lot in South Norfolk, show an ID card, and pass a breathalyzer. After a particularly cold night sleeping in the backseat of my Volkswagen Beetle in the Wal-Mart parking lot. I decided I would give the shelter a try.

I pulled up to the parking lot to see a line of about 30 people waiting to get on a school bus. For minutes I sat almost paralyzed in my car, thinking of how the bottom had fallen out from my once perfect life.

How is this your life? These people once watched you on television reporting the news, and now look at you.

Then panic hit me.

What if they recognize you? Will they say mean things? Will they think I have money and steal from me? Will they think I’m undercover doing an expose?

The last thought was ridiculous. I had not been on television in 2 years. It’s not likely any of them would have thought I was doing some special report. Maybe I was hoping, reaching for some resemblance of my old life.

I was no television news reporter, or hot twenty something girl. I was a homeless woman in her early thirties with no money, job, or friend to call.

I got as much as I could carry out of my car;  my suitcase of clothes, makeup bag, medicine, and purse. I reached the back of the line, and felt a ball form in my throat. I wanted to cry, scream, plead to God. I wanted to die to disappear from the weight of my situation.

Then I heard a voice from the front of the line, “Alright, women will go first. Have your identification card out when you come forward. You will blow into the breathalyzer then we will let you on the bus.”

A man who saw me standing towards the back of the bus line motioned for me to go up front. When I reached the person checking people in, I handed him my ID. He glanced down at my identification card and beamed a flashlight at it.

“Could you please call me Hope? I know what my ID says but I go by Hope,” I said softly.

“That’s a lovely name. I can do that. Now breathe into this little machine until it beeps,” he replied.

As I blew onto the black box, I thought of all the movie scenes I had seen about homeless shelters. I imagined a big room with dozens of cots, and me lying awake until they called for lights out.

“Alright, Hope you can get on the bus,” he said.

I climbed up the bus steps and spotted a seat in the middle. As I passed, my eyes met the faces of a few women, a skinny white woman with a military duffel bag taking up half her seat, a black woman with what seemed to be pitch black, dead eyes. When I reached my seat I tried to imagine what lead these women to this bus, to this homeless shelter program.

Over the next few minutes the bus attendant allowed men to get on the bus. I turned to look out the window.

Lord, why? What did I do to deserve this? I am a college graduate. I once owned a home this should not be my life right now.

Then I felt a surge of hurt wash over me, remembering how my mother changed the locks on the home I was sharing with her and my family. I thought of how warm they were in their five bedroom house. I imagined them sitting by their over-sized television, eating yet another take out dinner. And, I wondered, “Do they care where I am right now?” Of all the times my parents reached out to me, it was to pursue legal action or tell me what an ungrateful daughter I had become. It was never to ask if I was ok, if I was fed, if I was safe.

Warm tears started to stream down my face.

You are homeless, Lauren. This is real. You’re not couchsurfing, or in between places. You’re homeless.

And the scary thing I didn't know how long I’d be that way, what would happen to me physically, spiritually, or emotionally.

The male bus attendant walked down the aisle counting the number of people on the bus, and he stopped at my seat.

“Hey no crying. You’re ok. We’ve got you now,” he said. I nodded in agreement, and tried to suck back up my tears.

I can’t remember the name of the church they took us to, but I do remember the volunteers seemed excited to be serving.

Each guest as they called us had to show proof of ID again once at the church. The volunteers checked to see if you were a repeat visitor to CAST. If you were new you filled out a short questionnaire accessing your needs.

When I reached the registration line, and handed the volunteers my ID, the volunteer read my first and last name out loud. I felt myself tense up, fearing someone would recognize my television name.

“I have a favor to ask, can you call me Hope? I know what my ID says but my middle name is Hope, and I go by Hope,” I said.

“Hope, that’s beautiful. Certainly. I’ll just write that on your name tag. Be sure to wear this all night.”

From there we were directed to the rooms we’d be sleeping in. Women were slept in a small activity room. While the large number of men in the program slept in the main sanctuary. Each people was given a gym mat, a blanket, and some toiletries. When I reached the room for women I saw how everyone else had placed their items on top of their gym mats to mark their space. I did the same.

My Mat

“Come on honey, dinner will be ready soon,” a church volunteer said.

I followed her to the dining area, and sat at the table to wait for dinner. By that that time I felt no need to cry or scream. I just wanted to eat, and sleep. Church members then came around the table with soup, salad, and dessert. I remember eating the food and being pleasantly surprised at home good it was.

The man across from me, ate his meal slow, but kept staring at me.

“You look too pretty to be here ma’m,” he said. “This your first night?”

2017 Throwback, Covering Pain in Makeup

“Yes, it is,” I replied. I hoped if I didn’t talk no one would notice me. Looking back I can see how ridiculous that was. I was one of few women who came to the shelter wearing dresses, makeup, putting headbands in my hair. And my first night at the shelter I was wearing a floral dress, with pink eye shadow and lip gloss. I always felt in that season of my life. Dressing up and putting on makeup was an escape from the reality of my homelessness. It helped me to not feel as broken.

“Yes, it is my first night. My parents put me out,”I replied.

“Oh, I see. Well a lot of people’s folks done put them out. You are in good company,” he said with a laugh.

In coming weeks at the shelter program I would come to realize so many people didn’t expect to homelessness, and what brought them to the program varied from addiction, mental illness, divorces, and evictions.

I have learned that homelessness has no face, no look, no stereotype. So many people are living one paycheck away from being on the street. Some of the best lessons I learned being homeless are grace, compassion, and loving people exactly where they are at.

The volunteers in CAST showed me a level of love and respect I couldn’t even get from people I shared blood with. They sat up late at night with me and explained scripture. I watched them bandage blistered feet, listen to broken hearts, and even help find people furniture who finally found a place to stay. I determined early on during my time with CAST when I was back on feet I’d do more to give back to hurting people. I vowed to be less judgemental of people’s plight, and more willing to listen. I also felt and experienced the strength of God in a way I never knew. Many nights, I would cry myself to sleep on floor of a church sanctuary. Crying for my family, crying for my past life, crying for comfort. I would put on my headphones and listen to this Mariah Carey song called’ Almost Home’

The lyrics go:

I've held hope in my two hands
That there would be another chance
To find the kingdom, I'm believing in my heart
Cause underneath the good there's something greater than you know
When you're almost there
And you're almost home
Just open up your eyes and go, go
When you're almost there, almost home
Know you're not alone
You're almost home

It was as if God was speaking to me through that song. “I am preparing a place for you. You’re almost there just don’t give up Lauren.”

I can’t tell you how many times I replayed that song on my restless nights. It took great strength to get up every morning, put on a smile, do my makeup, and try to keep looking for jobs.

I also learned that hope, a little spark of hope is powerful.

To be continued…….