Sketches from the Bottom: Foreign Territory

Nothing exemplifies failure and redemption like a homeless rescue mission.

During my internship at a rescue mission, I watched people climb into sobriety, crash into renewed addiction, and comb through their past. I was quick to judge–until I heard their stories and discovered my own need for grace and second chances. This is part one of a six part series.

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There’s nothing like cracked roads to say, “Welcome back.” Strange but true.

When I drove onto the broken pavement with its spider veins and craters, I knew that the rescue mission was five minutes away. First I passed a row of broken houses with patches of grass between them, followed by the post office, and then slid onto a narrow residential road on which I perfected the rolling stop.

I navigated the trucks parked outside the beer distributor, only to be stopped by double-parked cars–drivers chatting casually their friends on the sidewalk or in adjacent car–or by a pedestrian who crossed the street as they pleased.

Men sat on the stoops of Steve’s Hot Dog shop, Z-Best Barbecue, and other establishments with mediocre American food. The old men appraised the passersby, commenting, “What a beautiful smile,” or the ever popular, “How you doin’?”

When I parked at the mission, I heard the men chatting in the covered porch before chapel started. Red slats protected the resident’s privacy as they sat outside and smoked and called out, “Good morning,” to those walking by. (When people recover from drug and alcohol addiction, cigarettes are a comforting substitute, though they are just as addictive. Many co-workers and recovery program clients told me that smoking was more difficult to quit than crack or alcohol.) Sometimes a homeless person was slumped against the building, pack at his side.

When I walked to the door of the mission, I remembered how timid I used to be. When I started my internship, I knew nothing about addiction, poverty, or mental disorders. I expected to work on the alumni newsletter, conduct interviews, and work on a mentor training manual. So I decorated my cubicle with pictures of a recent rip to England, read through training manuals, and sweated over font styles.

But I felt completely out of place in the mission itself. In college, the guys I knew were the clean-cut sort who liked studying in the library and thought that movie nights were the ultimate weekend experience. Not here. Some men looked as though their needles were  just taken away: addiction had sapped color from their skin, engraved lines on their faces, and whittled their bodies down to shadows. Other residents sat in the dining room for hours and stared, as though they hadn’t fully returned to themselves. Still others were good-looking guys who knew how to schmooze.

Most of the men could laugh and quip faster than I. It took me weeks to learn how to dish it back with a touch of feminine charm. Even as I learned to communicate with the guys, I realized that they were always watching, whether it was my attire, attitude, interactions with co-workers, eating habits. The scrutiny was unsettling. I could talk about Jesus and faith as much as I wanted, but my actions would reinforce or undercut whatever words I spoke. People hate fakes.

So each day I had to stifle my insecurities as I walked through the front door. I could only smile and be me—and be ready for action. When people are your job, anything can happen.

Read Part 2 here.