A Gift of Hope: Helping the Homeless

by Danielle Steel

  I remembered a few homeless people I had seen in regular spots in doorways in my neighborhood, so we stopped there first. People were already tucked in for the night by the time we went out, shielded behind pieces of cardboard boxes and staying warm as best they could. And the reaction we got, each time we stopped, was one of surprise, and instant gratitude. Suddenly, their faces lit up, as clean, new, good-quality sleeping bags were put into their hands; warm jackets were handed out and immediately put on and zipped up; gloves went onto hands; and people took off battered shoes and put on warm socks. And as I looked at them, met their eyes, and touched their hands, I was no longer scared, but deeply humbled by their warmth and humanity. I was suddenly embarrassed by the fearful thoughts I had had about them for years. Other than the births of my children, it was probably one of the most important nights of my life.

  I had already learned a hard lesson, that no matter how “comfortable” we are in life, whatever our “station” or “rank” appears to be, however “safe” we want to believe ourselves, we aren’t. We are right out there in the front row of life’s storms, whoever we are, and whatever we have. I had lost my so-much-beloved, precious son, my sweet boy, and then a husband whom I also loved. I had learned firsthand that tragedy and disappointment can strike any of us at any time. For me, right then, it didn’t get worse than that. Other things happen to people—catastrophic illness, tragedies, whole families die in fires whether you are rich or poor, road accidents claim high school students who have families who love them—and these people I was handing sleeping bags to had wound up on the streets. So how safe are any of us? We just aren’t. Bad things happen to good people all the time. The phrase “There but for the grace of God go I” never seemed truer to me than that night. And as we handed out sleeping bags and jackets, I couldn’t help thinking how proud Nick would have been of me—I who had so often shrunk beside him when he reached out to some homeless person with a hot meal, who had pursed my lips and told him he shouldn’t hug them because he might get a disease. God forgive me. What a different world I walked into that night.

  After we had delivered our goods to the people I knew where to find, we began driving, drifting from the safe familiarity of the neighborhood I lived in, crossing invisible borders into uncharted land and some dicier neighborhoods. And the people I was looking for were painfully easy to find: in doorways, in parking lots, in dark alleys, sometimes in little clusters of five or six, sometimes in pairs, sometimes alone, always startled and unable to comprehend what was happening. Why were we giving them things they needed desperately? What was it all about? We represented no church, no organization, no religion, no agency, no shelter. We wanted nothing from them. We just stopped and asked if they needed what we had to give, and, without exception, they did. Some laughed, some cried, some hugged us, and every single person said the exact same thing as we left: “Thank you. And God bless you.” Every single one. I was impressed by their kindness, decency, and good manners. I couldn’t think of the last time anyone had said “God bless you” to me, even in church.

  Once or twice, with my eyes held by theirs, I whispered, “Please say a prayer for a boy called Nick,” feeling embarrassed to ask them even for that, but the words came out on their own. How often had he fed them and sung for them in shelters—maybe they could say a little prayer for him now. Maybe it would help. He had been gone for exactly three months.

  I asked no questions of the people I met that night, nor in the years after. Others are curious about how they wound up on the streets. Was it bad luck, bad management of their income, drink, drugs, a broken marriage, a lost job, or an illness? All of the above? I never knew, and I believed I had no right to ask. Eventually, I made some fairly accurate guesses, knowing the streets better, and some people volunteered their stories. But I always felt (and still do) that privacy was the last shred of dignity they had. They didn’t have to tell me what happened in order to earn what I had to give. I gave my heart and respect along with the supplies. They didn’t have to give me anything back, and surely not the stories of their lives, which belonged only to them. Did we see signs of drink or drugs that first night? Some. Did some look mentally ill? Yes, many in fact. But living on the street in winter conditions, with no hope of getting off the street, who knows what any of us would do to survive? And for those who are mentally ill and should be on medication they can’t afford and don’t have access to, alcohol and street drugs are the only available form of self-medication to dull the pain of their lives.

  Did I have a sense of danger? No. Were there signs of violence or any threats to us? No. People were cold, shivering, frozen, but above all grateful and always kind. On that first night, we went into less fortunate neighborhoods, but we didn’t venture into the really dangerous areas where we would make our rounds later on. That night was our christening on the streets, and it was a gentle one. The employee I had brought with me was as impressed as I. And since we had no idea what we were doing or how to do it, our end of the operation was more than a little haphazard.

  We had stacks of jackets (in one size, large, I think) piled up in the back of the van. We had sleeping bags thrown everywhere, and were constantly digging for a matching glove or sock. We would emerge with our offerings loose in our arms, hand them over, and move on to the next stop. There was nothing smooth about it—all it was, at our end, was a pile of “stuff” and a lot of heart. And as far as we were concerned, the night was going well. What we gave them was absorbed into doorways and alleys in about an hour. There were so many people in dire need that we could have given away hundreds of sleeping bags and jackets that night if we had them. Giving away forty or fifty jackets and sleeping bags was like emptying the ocean with a thimble. I have never felt so small and insignificant in my life.

  It was hard to come face-to-face with such acute need and misery, and feel so helpless. It dug deep into one’s heart, mine for sure. I thought it was going to be a single, extraordinary experience for me, and I was both touched and in somewhat good spirits. In many ways, it was the best night I had had in a long time, and certainly the most useful one. And predictably, for a short time at least, it took my mind off my troubles. These people were, without question, far worse off than I. So the mission, that cold December night, was a success. I felt as though I’d done the right thing, and heeded the message I’d heard. And I thought I only “had” to do it once.

  But as I later discovered, and as happened every time we went out over the years, God threw us The Big One, the curve ball, at the last stop. He always did. It never failed in eleven years after that. We stopped on the way back to my house, in front of a bank. We saw two piles of “things”: boxes, a blanket, what looks like debris until you realize it’s someone’s house, or “crib,” as they’re called on the street. One of the men who joined us to do this work shortly after, and is one of the founding members of the group, used to see cribs like these, and cheerfully call out “table for two!” so we would know how many to prepare for. In any case, we were aware that we were stopping for two people, and thus far it had been a good night.

  As we approached the doorway to the bank, which was somewhat sheltered, we saw only one person, or form, between the two piles of stuff. I couldn’t see the sex or age of the person, who was lying on a single piece of cardboard, with a thin, tattered blanket covering the form. A wheelchair caught my eye at the edge of the small encampment, and I assumed we would be meeting an old woman or man. We called out, asking if the person needed a sleeping bag or a warm jacket, and a young woman sat up and looked me in the eye. She was beautiful, with a face like an angel, long blond hair, neatly brushed, and huge blue eyes. She looked at me, frightened at first, and we explained that we had some warm jackets, sleeping bags, gloves, and socks to give away. In fact, we only had two sets left, and had been careful not to stop at larger groups on the way back, so as not to disappoint anyone or cause a fight. So this was definitely our last stop.

  “You’re giving them away?” she
said, looking stunned. I nodded and smiled, as her face dissolved before me and she started to cry. She couldn’t say anything, she just sat there on the street sobbing, shivering in the cold, and she thanked us profusely when she caught her breath. She said that she was with her mother, who had gone to use the bathroom at a nearby McDonald’s and would be back in a minute. We went to the van, and got what we had left, as I wished it was more. And when we came back, she volunteered that she was twenty-one, had cancer, had just started chemotherapy, and was starting to lose her hair. My stomach turned over as I listened. She could have been one of my older children. How could she be living on the street, covered by one ragged blanket and undergoing chemo? She kept thanking us and crying, unable to believe that we had appeared in the night and had anything to give her. As we talked, her mother returned, and the four of us chatted. They said they were afraid to go to a shelter, and had gotten hurt in shelters before. (Rapes, robberies, and muggings are common in homeless shelters.) They said they would rather take their chances on the streets, where they felt safer, than risk violence in a shelter. They quickly put on the jackets and got into the sleeping bags, and after talking a little more, feeling helpless, we wished them good things. They thanked and blessed us when we left.

  Back in the van, we were silent for the ride back to my house. Not a word was said. My mind was full of all we had seen, and my heart was aching for that beautiful and very sick young girl. I was haunted by her face, and everything she had said. And I did not know it yet, as I climbed out of the empty van back at my house, but that last stop had done it. The twenty-one-year-old girl with cancer had ripped out my heart. God’s Last-Stop Curve Ball had hit me squarely in the gut. I was hooked.

  TWO

  Second Night Out

  The night after our venture out to “help the homeless” (What help? A few jackets and some sleeping bags? In the face of all they needed, who was kidding whom?) was the night of my annual Christmas party, which for twenty years had been a lavish event. It was a different time, when the economy was stable and the world wasn’t as austere as it is now. That night, I had a hundred people in black tie for dinner, including well-known socialites, a smattering of famous people, the mayor, some other politicians, a congresswoman, a senator, and several judges. Although my daily life was spent at the orthodontist or soccer games, and driving carpools—the life of the mother of nine kids—my parties had always been a big deal, and I went all out. I had debated canceling that year, because of my son, but decided it would be even more depressing for me and my children to sit in a dark house and not follow familiar traditions or see friends. So I gave the same party I did every year. I wore a long black evening gown, and the guests were well dressed and bejeweled. There was a band. People danced. There’s no question it was beautiful, even if I wasn’t having a good time. And the reality was, my wearing sackcloth and ashes wasn’t going to change the plight of people on the street. And my interest in the homeless was very new to me. So the show went on. What was different was that, as I sat at my dinner party, I felt like I was crawling out of my skin. I was nervous, distracted, haunted by all that we had seen the night before, and particularly the young woman and her mother at our last stop. I could think of nothing else.

  I was seated next to a high-up elected city official, and I casually brought up the issue of the homeless in the city and their seemingly growing numbers. He complained somewhat irascibly that people who try to help them don’t know what they’re doing and only make things worse. The more you give them, he insisted, the longer they’ll dig in their heels and stay on the street. It seemed a strange theory to me. Why would anyone want to stay on the street for a sleeping bag and a pair of socks? It made no sense to me (and still doesn’t, although it is the excuse most often used for people doing nothing to help). The subject changed. The night went on. The mayor and I danced a time or two. And at last everyone went home. By then, I wasn’t crawling out of my skin, I knew exactly what I wanted to do. I just hoped I could find them again, at the bank.

  The employee who had helped me the night before was also working that night. He looked very different in black tie than he had the night before. As soon as the guests left, I told him my plan, and his eyes lit up as he agreed to join me in a quick visit to the streets. I rushed upstairs, took my dress off, and climbed into jeans, boots, a wool cap, a sweater, and a ski parka. He changed into jeans and a warm jacket too. And five minutes later we drove off in the van. I had a moment of feeling like Robin Hood, one minute dancing with the mayor, the next driving off in the dark of night. And much to my chagrin, when we got to the bank, the young woman with cancer and her mother were gone. Damn. It had seemed like such a good idea, but got us nowhere. For the next hour, we drove around. I didn’t want to go home until we found them. I couldn’t bear thinking of that sick girl and her mother on the street.

  Finally, we found them in the dark recesses of a nearby parking lot, tucked away in a corner. The gleam of the wheelchair had caught our eye. I gently woke them up and we offered to give them a ride to a shelter, which they refused, and I gave them enough money for a hotel for a week. They said they knew of one where they could stay. There was more crying, more hugging, more blessings, and more thanks. We gave them our cell phone numbers and asked them to let us know how they were. They were the only homeless people I ever gave my phone number to, or gave money to.

  What followed, over long months, were several visits with them on the street, and many phone calls. I got them into a women’s shelter twice and they wouldn’t stay. We followed them for close to a year, maybe longer, unable to really provide any solid long-term help, just the knowledge that someone cared. They always bounced right back onto the street—the mother was feisty and didn’t comply well with shelter rules. Eventually, we learned that the young woman had died. I could never find her mother after that, she vanished from the streets. I don’t know what happened to her, but that young woman with her lovely face and gentle ways got me hooked for all those years on the streets. I never forgot her and never will. Many faces and many people since then have snagged my heart and stuck in my mind, but that one young girl was special to me. I only wish I could have made more difference than I did. The only thing we could do was show her that someone cared. It was all we had to give. And for as long as we could, we tried to give her hope. But she and her mother were typical of many who feel more at home living on the streets, despite bad weather, bad people, and bad times. To many, shelters, where violence, petty crimes, and disease abound, seem more dangerous. They have more friends and feel safer on the streets. For others, long-sought-after housing isolates them when they finally get it. Once alone in an apartment, they fall prey to depression, and far too often suicide is the result. Although the risks and discomforts on the street are obvious, for many homeless people it is a comfortable, familiar world.

  After our second meeting with the young woman and her mother, I felt that I had done my job and fulfilled my mission. But something had changed in my life during those two nights, a piece of me had shifted, and I was forever different. You don’t go back to who you were before. You are never, ever the same again. It is permanently life-altering to discover the world on the streets. But I didn’t know that at the time.

  I thought then that I was off the hook. The message I’d heard didn’t tell me to make a career of it, it just said to go do it, and I did. So I went back to my daily doings and ordinary life, working and being with my kids. I had no plan to do it again. And then a week later, right before Christmas, I heard Go back and do it again. Nuts! I was less reluctant than the first time, but I’ll admit, I dragged my feet a bit. And then finally, I gave in. Okay, okay, I’m going. Yeesh. Sometimes God is a little pushy, and even pushes hard. He did.

  This time I asked two employees and two friends to join me, and we filled the van until it was bursting. We even had jackets in two sizes. And as we drove out that cold night, in a driving rain, I was not quite sure that this would be our last visit
to the streets, nor that I wanted it to be.

  John and Jane, the couple who joined me that second time, were the perfect choice. They were close friends of mine and had done years of hands-on work for a variety of causes, most recently taking care of people with AIDS, bringing them meals and comfort. The misery of the human condition is no surprise to them, and they were anxious to join me in reaching out to the homeless. They were the only people I confided in about what I was doing. Right from the beginning, and not even sure why, I had a strong sense that this was something I didn’t want to talk about, or share with people I knew. I had always had a powerful belief that good deeds should be done anonymously and in silence. They lose meaning when you toot your own horn, expect acknowledgment or praise, or talk about them. It has taken me more than a dozen years to break that silence, which I’ve done only because I felt that the homeless could be best served by waking people up and sharing what I’ve seen.

  John and Jane have huge hearts, willing hands, strong backs, and are full of creativity and spirit. An artist with tremendous talent, Jane also spent years working in retail, and jumped excitedly into ordering what we needed when I shared this project with her. John, a professor at a major university, has a profound love for young people, anyone in need, and is always willing to help.

  On that second trip into the streets, we still had no idea what we were doing. Once again jackets were piled all over the place, sleeping bags were jammed everywhere, and boxes of gloves and socks were spilling onto the van floor. Our hearts were in the right place, and wide open, and we had no idea who we would meet or what we would find. I had no sense yet of who exactly lived on the streets, and no precise idea of what they needed. All I knew was that they were cold and wet, and anything we could bring them would be an improvement. I realized that they must be hungry too, but offering food as well as sleeping bags and warm jackets seemed way too complicated to me. So we stuck to the initial concept of sleeping bags, jackets, socks, and gloves. For now, it seemed like the best we could do.