Trust Comes in the Long Haul

I’ll call him Herman.  And just to be clear, that is not his real name.  He’s been coming to Manna House for a long time, almost from the very beginning.  We’ve had our ups and downs with Herman, especially early on.  He wanted to do business at Manna House.  It was probably drug related business.  It certainly involved money.  Herman was a bill collector.  So, on occasion we’d ask Herman to leave because we have a strict policy of not conducting any business at Manna House.  We’re a capitalism free zone.  We’re a sanctuary where people should be free to relax and not worry about being hassled. 

One time when Herman was asked to leave he got very angry.  He yelled a lot, and he threw in a few threats as well.  In more recent years, Herman has mellowed.  He seems to be out of the business he was in.  He sometimes likes to talk about his grandchildren, some of whom he occasionally baby sits.  He is definitely less edgy.  But he still has an edge to him, a kind of street toughness that he doesn’t let down.  Until this particular morning.

It was a slow day, a Tuesday.  We do women’s showers on Tuesday, and so we don’t do “socks and hygiene.”  Instead we do “socks and soap.”  “Socks and hygiene” means guests come and go through the clothing room in the house getting a variety of items.  “Socks and soap” means we give out a little bag with a pair of socks and a bar of soap to guests in the backyard. 

Typically, once the “socks and soap” are distributed, guests head out to the soup kitchen a few blocks away or other destinations.  And there are fewer guests waiting for showers too.  By the time Herman approached me in the backyard there were only 20 or so guests remaining there.  None of them were near where I happened to have taken a seat, near the back porch.

“Can you help me with something?”

“Sure Herman, I can try.  What is it?”

With that he produced an envelope, and I thought maybe he needed help negotiating some government bureaucracy.  But when he handed me the contents of the envelope and I opened the letter I saw that attached to the letter was a debit or credit card of some kind.

“I got this, but I don’t know what they’re telling me, how to use this card.  What does this letter say?” Herman said.  It dawned on me that Herman couldn’t read.

Relieved that it was something I actually could help him with, I said, “It’s about how to activate the card.  I can help you with that.”

He borrowed a friend’s phone, and I began to walk him through the call, including the numbers he needed.  I’d say a number and he’d repeat it to the person he had reached on the phone.

The whole process didn’t take but five minutes or so.  Herman thanked me when we were done, and then walked away.  I sat there, taking in what had just happened.

We get to know guests over time, some better than others.  I had never imagined Herman in any other way than tough, very self-sufficient, and not one to ask for help.  On this morning he not only asked for help, but he also risked some vulnerability when he revealed to me something that he was clearly reluctant to share. 

I’m not sure what to do with this except to be humbled by Herman’s trust.  And maybe, too, to realize that something like this can only happen when we hang in there for the long haul with our guests, respecting them, and being faithful in what we do.  We’ve been open nine years.  I’m thankful Herman has hung in there with us so we could reach this day together.