The Homeless Woman and the Lost Girl

I got a text on Christmas eve. It was from a homeless lady I know.

She wasn’t always homeless. She used to be in a horrible, neglectful nursing home that made everything worse– she’s a bit young to live in a nursing home, but she had a badly broken leg and got shuffled there after she was released from the hospital. I am at a loss to describe how bad this home was. I smelled the stale urine myself and saw the mess the rooms were in. In the summer I felt the blast of hot air when I opened the door to her room– the hallway was air conditioned but the vents in the rooms didn’t work. So I was partly horrified and partly relieved when her broken leg healed enough that she could limp right out of the nursing home and live on the street. From what I could see, living on the street actually improved her alertness and her mental health, compared to what they’d been. But now it was winter. It was Christmas eve. The wind chill was below zero. And she was getting kicked out of the place where she’d been sleeping.

I didn’t know what to do. I am not a social worker or anything like that. I am a weird neurotic woman who likes to go for drives to soothe myself when I have a panic attack, so I ended up knowing a lot of people who live nearby and need rides. And now, I didn’t even have a car. I couldn’t even offer her a bed at my house because the wind chill was so severe that our drafty upstairs was uninhabitable, and we were sleeping downstairs on a mattress in the living room. But when I fretted about the homeless woman on social media, three separate people volunteered to reserve her a hotel for a few nights.

I tried to text the woman with this offer, but she never got back to me. One of the people who volunteered to help sent a startling amount of money to me in case she made contact again.

I didn’t hear from her for twenty-four hours. Finally, long after I’d decided she must be dead, she texted me to say she found another place to stay. She just didn’t know what she’d do a few days after that.

I still had several hundred dollars that weren’t mine, but she didn’t need a room just then.

The day after Christmas, I chatted with The Lost Girl, who was still trying to find a house to move into. There was a lovely place that she was going to see on Tuesday, but if she signed the application she would need the whole deposit and proof of income sent to the office within 48 hours to even have a chance.

I conferred with the person who had sent me the hotel fund. After I got her permission, I quickly gave the money to the Lost Girl instead of the homeless woman. It wouldn’t be the homeless person she’d meant to help but it would keep another person from homelessness. The money just covered the security deposit and the application fee. The Lost Girl went to tour the house– it was warm and dry, with nothing really wrong except an ugly carpet. She texted me photos, bubbling with excitement. Her children would be able to play safely in the fenced yard. They could use the dry basement for a toy room, which would make it easier to keep the place clean. She signed every form they told her to sign, got her proof of income at the social security office, paid all the money and waited.

In the space of two hours, she was rejected. Her income was two hundred dollars under the limit they would consider. They gave her back her security deposit, and ate the application fee.

I wonder how many thousands of application fees they’ve eaten over the years.

I thought about all the things a very poor person could buy with the money in one application fee: a pair of sneakers or a birthday present for a child who’s used to getting nothing. Two or three cheap meals from the grocery store, or a big feast from a fast food restaurant on the day before the food stamps update for the month. Several cups of coffee to drink slowly in a warm coffee shop so you can wait for a bus or a ride home without freezing and not get told to leave.

The Lost Girl went back to the drawing board.

Within a few hours she found two other places: one ridiculously small and dilapidated, and the other larger and in better shape. The large place was in a rather nasty part of LaBelle, a two-block stretch where we’ve had violence. It was close to the little strip of land that used to be a park, called “Piece of Pie Park” because the lot was triangular. The city shut down the park because it was easier to post “No Trespassing” signs than to crack down on the drug dealers who showed up on the playground. Neighborhood residents weren’t told the park was being closed until the demolition crew showed up to tear down the swing set.

On the bright side, it was close enough to me that I could come over to babysit sometimes. It also had a fenced yard. It was close to another kind family I know and walking distance from the market. It had big bedrooms for her children to play in– right now, three of them are crammed into one room and the baby is with her in the other. Ten times better than where she was living now, and a thousand times better than being homeless.

The landlord told her over the phone that there was no application fee and no forms to fill out: “If you like it, give me the deposit and it’s yours.”

She showed up with the deposit and toured the place. That was when she was informed that actually this wouldn’t be as simple as liking it.

There was another family ahead of her who wanted to move in on the first. Only if they didn’t move in, could she actually have the house. She was number two of five desperate applicants so far.

We’re still waiting to hear if she gets it.

If she doesn’t, her lease will still be terminated on the fourteenth. She tried to file a grievance but the landlady informed her, as far as I can tell in violation of what was written on her termination letter and in violation of state law, that it was too late for that. If she doesn’t get out by the fourteenth, they will start eviction proceedings. With an eviction on her record she won’t be able to get a new place regardless of having the deposit.

But if she does get the house, four other families will be without the house they wanted in January. And I don’t know what will happen to them.

The Lost Girl needs the house. She is exhausted with stress from living in the apartment complex. She has four children: two elementary school boys, one of whom is autistic, plus a toddler and a baby. Her fifth child is due in March but at risk for premature labor any time. She has hypertension, diabetes, and PTSD. In a society that was anything like a just one, everyone in town would be clamoring to help her find housing.

Meanwhile, the homeless lady texted me again. She’d found another place to sleep for a few days. Could I please pray she found something else after that?

I didn’t have anything to give her, so I prayed.

But we’ve got to do better than pray.

Mary Pezzulo is the author of Meditations on the Way of the Cross, The Sorrows and Joys of Mary, and Stumbling into Grace: How We Meet God in Tiny Works of Mercy.