He turned up outside the church a year ago February. Unlike most homeless sleepers, he wasn鈥檛 eager to move when we activated the back door for the day鈥檚 visitors. We鈥檇 encourage movement (with an offer of coffee and a washroom to clean up in) and, eventually, he鈥檇 move on for the day.
We went to Timmies one night. I heard of his time in jail and the probation order that kept him confined to Duncan. His inability to use the shelter relating to his inability to hold his temper in close quarters with temperamental people. He鈥檇 been banned and didn鈥檛 seem eager to meet 鈥榯heir rules鈥� to return.
鈥淚鈥檓 a human being aren鈥檛 I? Shouldn鈥檛 I be able to have a warm place to sleep? Wouldn鈥檛 let a dog stay out, would they? Why me?鈥�
I had no answer. I knew he was right and I knew he wouldn鈥檛 be sleeping in the church either.
Released from prison clean and sober, he was determined to stay that way. Attending every meeting in town, he enrolled at Global Vocational, looking for any work available. No luck so far. Hard to find a job without minutes on your phone, no address, no place to launder your clothes or shower.
I called around, most agencies knew him. Found him to be volatile, an explosion waiting to happen. Watching as the cement bed and cold air accommodations took the will from him. All agreeing that sooner or later he鈥檇 lose it and end up back in jail. Hoping he wouldn鈥檛 harm someone in the process.
I think he lasted two or three months before using again. Masking the pain, but not the anger. That ramped up. I had to call 911 one day, when he, enforcing his will on the folk in the kitchen, became too scary to leave in the building. I don鈥檛 think he believed I鈥檇 do it. When I did he left us, his opinion echoing back along the street. Some kind of church we were.
I saw him a bit in the fall, here and there in town, sometimes at the dinners held in our church. Hoodie pulled far over his head, anger radiating.
He didn鈥檛 talk to me anymore.
Around Christmas he sent a card to a friend. From prison. Thanking her for the kindness she鈥檇 shown him, saying he hoped he鈥檇 be back to see her one day. That he felt like he belonged, for once, in one part of Duncan.
We hoped he鈥檇 find another place. A better place. A place with a home he could afford on the $725.00 a month allocated to him on his release from prison. A place where he could start fresh. Making it through the programs, the anger, and the loathing.
I was speaking of him with another friend last week. Someone working in the pathways of addiction, response, support and recovery. Someone who knew him, understood the issues facing him and the hapless agencies that also knew him and were unable to respond. His plight was not a-typical.
We shook our heads over 鈥榯he system鈥� willingly spending $100,000.00 a year, or more, to incarcerate a human being, while refusing, in righteous indignation, to provide the rudimentary housing and support that could turn the page for them. At a far lower price. The conversation returned to him.
鈥淒id you hear?鈥� She asked, 鈥渉e killed himself in prison, just after Christmas.鈥�
Something inside of me groaned.
鈥淢y God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?鈥�
Keith Simmonds is in ministry at Duncan United Church, where folk are engaged in seeking justice, loving kindness and walking humbly with the Creator. He blogs at聽.
You can read more articles on our interfaith blog, Spiritually Speaking,
