A Season of Hope

One huge difference between those of us who work with the homeless, and those who do not, is that those who do know how little difference there is between the homeless and ourselves.

Last Monday, a young woman, resident at Opportunity Place for 90 days, came to our stakeholder meeting to give her perspective on what it meant to be homeless and the mother of a one-year-old daughter with almost total hearing loss.

A little background may help. Tarisa is a veteran, who spent 3-1/2 years in the military before getting a medical discharge based on an injury that compromised her knees and feet. She underwent several rounds of surgery, but when we met her, was still dependent on a cane in order to walk.

As Tarisa was in and out of the hospital, she entered into an unfortunate relationship, that ended badly in all respects except for the arrival of a little girl. Between the medical treatment, the lameness, the pregnancy and birth, Tarisa was not able to work. When the relationship finally ended, she was left with nothing but her child.

I have known Tarisa for three months now, and we have talked often. She is articulate, lovely, bright and poised. Although she has only a GED, she could and should have a college degree. Anyone seeing her would think she could be a school teacher, a nurse, or manager of a store. She could be your daughter, your sister, your friend. The description, "homeless," would seem impossible.

And yet, for a little while, Tarisa was walking up and down the streets, pushing her baby in a stroller, with all her possessions reduced to fit into two grocery bags. She had no idea if she and her daughter would eat, where they would sleep, how they would stay out of the rain. Her own words go straight to the heart:

"I didn't just lose my home, my car and my possessions. I lost myself. I was so totally alone. There was not one relative, one friend, one acquaintance, who cared enough about me and my daughter to make sure we were well and safe."

She thought of the bridges burned, the opportunities lost, and fell into despair.

But the one thing we all know is that, just as quickly as hope can turn into despair, despair can turn into hope. Tarisa found a church that knew about Opportunity Place, and brought her and her daughter to us - a soggy, sobbing mess - but whole and well.

Tarisa was asked what she expected when told she was being taken to a homeless shelter, and she quickly answered: "jail." She had seen the movies and read the newspaper articles, and she was expecting a room full of cots, or perhaps just a floor and sleeping bags. When asked what she found, she said, "home."

I have led a privileged life. I attended college, worked for a major metropolitan newspaper and national news magazine, got married, went to law school while my husband went to medical school. I had the luxury of being able to stay home and raise my four children for 18 years. While never rich, I have never been in want for a single second.

But of all the privileges I have had, having the resources and wherewithal to help Tarisa, her daughter, and over a hundred more of her sisters and their children, is the greatest privilege I have known. It is a privilege granted to me by a community of caring and concerned volunteers, ministers, social workers, public servants, donors, and stakeholders of all kinds. The Opportunity Place staff stands in for hundreds of loving people, and get to watch lines of anxiety fade, tears dry, and hope blossom again, even in the most unlikely places.

Tarisa's story has a happy ending. She is working with the VA and DAV to get benefits based on her injury, she has a job, and she and her little girl are getting their own place. Her daughter (who, by the way, is adorable) is getting excellent care through subsidized child care, including a teacher specializing in working with the deaf.

Not every story ends as well as hers, though many do. But whether the women and families who seek the help of any of our service providers find a way home isn't the point. The point is that they were given a path that would lead them there.

Merry Christmas to all those who provide the means through which our homeless neighbors can find safety and self-sufficiency, and to those who use that road to find themselves again.