One of our Ladle regulars is an older gentleman in his early seventies. He’s originally from the East Coast but has lived in California for decades. He tells me often about his time studying for the Catholic priesthood as a young man, his job as a schoolteacher, his beloved parents, and the time he met Katherine Hepburn when he was working at SeaWorld. Some weeks he stops by the church almost every day for a cup of coffee in the morning and some conversation.
He has good days and bad days. I wonder at what point in his life the symptoms of schizophrenia and bipolar began to set in and disrupt his life. I wonder what kinds of traumatic experiences he may have had that contributed to his mental disorders. I admire how he tries to maintain a semblance of normalcy and personal dignity; he always pays attention to his appearance and is proud of his academic vocabulary. And yet, I’m frustrated by how impossible it is to reason with him on his bad days.
He has no living parents or siblings. Never married, never had children. He’s alone in world, continually cycling through the revolving doors of hospitals, jail, psychiatric crisis centers…and First Presbyterian Church.
Despite his sometimes fragile grasp on reality, one thing he knows for certain is that he loves the Lord, and that the Lord loves him.
This church is a haven for him, and the closest thing he has to family. I haven’t seen him here for a few days now…and I’m missing coffee time.
Yesterday was the Rescue Mission’s annual candlelight vigil for the homeless who died on the streets last year. We grieved the lives lost, all 116 of them, certain that at least a few were known to us — including a family member of John, our director.
During the vigil, I couldn’t stop thinking about Lloyd. Lloyd was a middle-aged homeless man and a regular at our Ladle meals, where he came both for the food and for the kindness. His unrelenting alcoholism had kept him languishing on the streets for many years. He vacillated between apologetic despair and a simple faith in God that edged toward hope. He always expressed his gratitude to us for serving him and often seemed ashamed by his inability to repay the favor. On his good days, he had smiling eyes and a compliment for everyone. On other days, he kept to himself and just emanated sadness.
Last fall, Lloyd let me know privately that he had just been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer — stage four. He told me he was ready to die and that he hoped God would accept him. I saw Lloyd for another month or two after that, and then he stopped appearing at the Ladle. It’s now been almost a year since I’ve seen him.
At the vigil yesterday, John reminded us that our God is a God of the homeless and lonely. Even Jesus had “no place to lay his head.” Lloyd’s life and death mattered. I wish I could tell him how much he has been missed.
One of the hardest realities about life on the streets, especially for the chronically homeless who have been out there for years, is isolation. You get the flu and no one takes care of you. Or, worse, you end up in the ER and no one goes with you. Many of our friends from the Ladle have no family, or they haven’t spoken to their families in decades. Many have become accustomed to highly solitary lives. Sometimes it’s painfully obvious: someone will be visibly jarred just by being spoken to, or being called by their name, or being touched.
The isolation of many homeless folks is especially highlighted when people go through medical crises. Hepatitis A is currently ravaging many of the homeless in San Diego, including some of our Ladle guests. This week we had to admit one of our most faithful attendees to the hospital for this disease. This individual has no living family members, and he has been isolated on the streets for a long time, suffering from episodic anxiety and schizophrenia. Yet he is truly a brother in Christ. His faith in God and his humble heart, despite everything he has gone through, is something remarkable.
John sat with him in the ER for half the night on Wednesday. Otherwise, he would have been there alone, physically ill and mentally troubled, with no one to speak up for him or make him feel safe in the uncomfortable and scary environment of a hospital waiting room. Our goal at the Ladle is to break into the isolation of our guests and become family to those who have no family; that’s exactly what happened in that waiting room.
I got to go visit him today, and another friend of his from church is going to see him tonight (despite this whole get-up the nurses make us wear). He is not alone. He is deeply loved, and he has a family.
That’s what one of our guests said to me on Sunday when talking about why he doesn’t want to go to a traditional clinic for medical care. He’s usually referred to only with nicknames, although over the past six months he has shared his real name with a couple of us. As a young black man growing up in the South in the 1960s, he experienced a lot of abuse from “the system.” In high school, a gym teacher racially insulted him and he grabbed the man’s lanyard in defiance. That landed him in prison, since the judge counted it as “assault with a deadly weapon.” It’s not surprising that he distrusts institutions.
He loves the Ladle though. We’ve gotten to know him well. He makes money by washing and detailing cars, and he’s gradually growing his client base. We think he’s really got the potential to turn it into a legitimized business someday.
By giving him an opportunity to speak with doctors in a setting where he already feels comfortable and cared for, with people he already trusts, we’re able to give him access to medical care that he might not otherwise receive. That’s the whole point of Street Corner Care. He summed it up well when he said, “I don’t like going to clinics. But I like your doctors. You guys are the only doctors I’ll talk to.”