Sketches from the Bottom: Finding Home

The conclusion of a series.

I found home with the homeless and addicted.

My summer at the rescue mission was the first one I’d spent away from my family. They were six hours away in rural New York, and I was in a new city solo.

Though hired as a college intern for my writing skills, I was in for a crash course on social work, as clients met regularly with us to start planning for life after the mission. The quiet ones would materialize in front of the door, the pranksters would poke their head around the frame, and the bold would simply slide in our green visitor’s chair and start talking.

I would spin around from my desk at the window, my boss would lean forward in her chair, and we listened. I couldn’t help noticing that a few of our clients lacked personal hygiene, others missed social cues, and some had behaviors related to their mental illness.

They’ll have trouble fitting in, I thought.

I knew all about not fitting.

Just like the homeless who came to the mission with their baggage, I walked through the door dragging a suitcase of insecurity. I had spent three years of college struggling to belong. It became an exhausting comparison game, and I planned to graduate early to avoid the constant stress of trying to do everything right.

When I arrived at the mission that summer, I thought, “What do I have to offer?”

But the rescue mission was not like college. No one at the mission cared about graduating summa cum laude, participating in numerous clubs, or being the perfect friend. They had different concerns: Could they get their career back? Could they finally obtain their GED or their associate’s degree? Could they really change, or would they sabotage any chance at a new life?

The staff wasn’t perfect either. They struggled with their marriages, worried about their kids, and wrestled with the fallout from past mistakes.

Together, we were a family of the broken. None of our lives were attractive or tidy, so we didn’t pretend.

I worked out with other staff members at the gym, sharing stories. I went to girls’ night with my middle-aged co-wokers–the youngest one at the table by decades, but I fit. From time to time, I ran into former clients around the city, and seeing them was always a joy.

Through these men and women, I learned that it’s impossible to fall from grace, since it can’t be earned and that love doesn’t come because we do things right. It’s taken longer than I’d like, but I’ve learned to love myself, rather than seeing everything that I’m not.

The mission taught me that we are all misfits on the road to wholeness and that we don’t have to hide our scars.

It may take a while, but by the grace of God, we’ll make it home.