A Bittersweet Day
Success, a setback and a new friend
Working among our unhoused neighbors, some days are a mixture of hope and heartbreak. Today was a perfect example of just how complicated this work can be.
Let’s start with the sweet.
It’s pretty well known around Skid Row and Westlake that I have an “in” and can, from time to time, help someone access interim or emergency housing without having to navigate every traditional hoop. A few weeks ago, a colleague reached out and asked if I would talk with a young man. I quickly agreed and headed to 10th and Lake, not far from MacArthur Park.
I met Carl (whose name I am using with his explicit permission), and we talked through what housing could look like and what the process would involve. He was hesitant. After nearly five years of homelessness—and remarkably, almost 2 years of sobriety while living on the streets—Carl had become deeply accustomed to the life he knew.
Last night, I received a simple email from him: “It’s time!”
This morning, we met, loaded his most important belongings into my car, and drove to his interim housing placement. A few hours later, he called to tell me about his intake, the people he had met, and what the next few weeks will look like.
It was a good day.
Earlier, though, I ran into Jacob. I’ve written about Jacob many times, the good and the not-so-good.
Jacob had entered a 90-day program in North Hollywood after getting out of state prison. About a month after he went in, today I found him back in the middle of things at 7th and San Pedro. It was pretty obvious he had relapsed.
I was disappointed, but disappointment doesn’t diminish care.
One poor decision doesn’t change how I relate to someone. Recovery is rarely a straight line, and when Jacob is ready to try again, I’ll be there—as I have been for nearly four years. And however you relate to the Divine, I ask for your prayers for Jacob.
And then I made a new friend.
At 6th and Kenmore, I met Matthew after one of my friends from the Immaculate Heart Community became concerned about him. She had watched him sink deeper into mental illness, homelessness, and declining physical health.
Matthew and I only spoke for a few minutes before he continued on his way, but I promised I’d check back with him in a few days.
This is where relationships matter more than transactions.
Agnes told me that Matthew has consistently declined services and sometimes even refuses food she brings him. Knowing that, I wasn’t expecting to solve anything in a single conversation. My first task wasn’t finding him housing or connecting him to services—it was simply beginning to earn his trust.
That trust will take time. Helping him accept assistance, if he ever chooses to, will be an uphill climb.
But those are climbs worth making.
Some days end with someone moving indoors. Some days end with relapse. Some days begin with nothing more than a handshake and a promise to return.
In this work, all three matter.