By Diane Brown, IHM and Lorraine Leishman, M.A.
The weather is nasty – bitterly cold with temperatures in the single digits, bringing wind chills to 20 degrees below zero or more. There will be snow for a while, maybe a day or so. Then the clouds will hang low, helping us remember it is winter, with a biting wind assaulting our faces, drying our lips. I am so grateful for my black, high-topped boots as I negotiate the drifts in front of the building.
I unzip my boots and hand them across the desk, along with my winter coat, to Security. They are stowed behind the desk primarily so they won’t be given to a guest by mistake. Slipping into my Sketchers, I sign in and hang the lanyard with the badge around my neck. The mask goes on next – there is COVID here. Tyrie comes up to me. “You good?” he asks, as he does with all volunteers. “Fine as frogs’ hair,” I joke. “Frogs don’t have hair,” he puzzles. “Yeah, but if they did, just think how fine that would be.” Tyrie rolls his eyes, hands me a clipboard and a walkie and hustles off. There is a lot of hustle here: Staff and volunteers walk quickly from point to point, creating a sense of urgency. Urgency feels right here. This place, the Pope Francis Center Bridge Housing Campus, was built to save lives.
I approached the line of folks waiting for their breakfast. Lines are a big part of being homeless. There are lines for the bathroom, lines for the showers, lines for food and lines for medical care. Some lines lead to wall chargers so phones won’t die and communication with friends and relatives remains assured. No one wants to disappear; too many have. There are lines to get to speak with the housing advocates, to communicate with security, to talk to anyone in charge. My clipboard gives me the power to control a line, so I hand each guest a clipboard to write their name, signifying their desire to shower today. Down the breakfast line I go, then I head into the gym, to the tables where guests are already eating.
The food here is delicious. I gained 5 pounds while I worked here full-time, eating lunch every day. Chef Shawn, a tall, good-humored woman, could be the executive chef in any restaurant, but she chooses to give her gifts to the homeless and those transitioning into permanent housing. That’s what this building is normally all about – providing up to 38 men with a studio apartment, a regular schedule, medical and dental care, addiction recovery services, and classes to ease the transition from the streets of Detroit to their own permanent housing. Right now, the spacious gym of this beautiful campus is being used to provide safety, shelter, meals and showers to men and women experiencing homelessness, protection from a cold that kills.
Some unhoused people come to the Bridge Housing Campus by bus or on foot. Some come by van from the Day Center. The police pick up those who are willing to ride in a cop car. Little by little, a trickle at a time, the gym fills with a diverse population. Homelessness is not defined by race, religion or gender. In 2024, there were approximately 771,000 unhoused persons in the United States; 33,000 in Michigan and 1,725 in Detroit. There are 1,700 emergency “beds” available in Detroit. Where do the other 25 go? In 2025, a 9-year-old boy and his 2-year-old sister froze to death in a minivan in the parking garage of a casino. The mother, grandmother and three older children survived. The family had been searching for shelter for three months. Those at Bridge Housing are only here because the other choice is freezing. The volunteers, however, have choices, choices that determine the quality of care and dignity for the city’s most vulnerable.
Some volunteers tend the warehouse donation center, organizing the mountains of clothing, toiletries and backpacks that arrive daily. They keep what is immediately needed and send the rest to other area shelters. Other volunteers work in the kitchen preparing and serving the residents and our temporary guests. A small crew of three or four per shift helps guests shower. That’s where I fit in.
The process is simple. I walk around the gym with the clipboard, encouraging the guests to sign up for a shower. There are two large bathrooms with walk-in showers on the other side of a courtyard. Guests can take as much time as they choose and soap, shampoo, towels, and fresh clothes are provided for those who desire them. As soon as one guest finishes and returns, the shower is cleaned and sanitized, and the next guest on the list is invited to cross the frigid courtyard.
The courtyard was constructed to be a sleeping porch for guests who couldn’t stand to be inside. Being indoors is problematic for some, so guests are always free to stay on the sleeping porch or just to leave. Right now, however, it is so cold that there is just one tent on the sleeping porch, and its owner is sleeping on a sagging cot inside the gym. Under his cot are breakfast and lunch leftovers. Hording is a reasonable response to food insecurity. Under another cot is a worn Bible, frayed tabs extending beyond the pages. Faith in God runs deep for some, spiritual duct tape holding life together. Everyone here, together. The only guests who leave are just going for a quick run to the nearby gas station for cigarettes or to hang out outside the front of the building while they smoke.
Being outside has a freedom that inside can’t match. Much of the homeless population has been “Inside,” locked in jail or prison. Those who’ve been incarcerated really need to be able to leave whenever they want. Although the gym’s windows are at the top of the cinderblock walls, the rest of the campus has been designed to answer the need for freedom: floor-to-ceiling windows in every room, even classrooms. The big windows help reduce the trapped feeling a bit.
I continue to work my way down the rows of cots, filling the list, setting up the line. The scent of unwashed clothes hangs in the air, a little less so from behind my mask. After I have approached all the women, I turn to the men. “It’s not fair,” one man sputters. “The females always get to go first. You should do the men first one day, the females the next.”
“That’s an interesting idea,” I respond as he writes his name on the line. “I work for Tyrie, and he said the women go first, so I have to do what he says.” There is a little more grumbling, but hierarchy is respected here. Inside an organizational structure, I am not the one making the rules, giving me a way out of confrontations, just as important to me as the windows are for the guests. No one wants to feel trapped.
As the walkie crackles to life, I get the all-clear to send the first two guests. One is ready to go right away, and I escort her to the door of the frigid courtyard.
“Sister Diane to Showers. Sending you, Katie.”
“Copy that.”
Standing in the doorway across the courtyard, Jim, the Ignatian Volunteer, welcomes Katie. Ignatian Volunteers are retired folks who spend about 20 hours each week at one location and are part of the vast Jesuit organization. Ignatian Volunteers do not receive a stipend or any compensation beyond the satisfaction of contributing. They come from all walks of life, bringing a spirit of service. Jim originally came on board to help the residents learn to read. During a Code Blue, everyone pitches in.
The woman Jim is receiving is Katie, just Katie*. It is as though poverty and lack of housing erased her last name. Teachers use first names with young students, reinforcing the power differential.
I can only go by the name the guest signed on the list, but when there is a last name, I work to remove that power differential; each guest is afforded the appropriate Mr. or Ms. with their last name – formal, respectful, dignified. Katie, however, remains Katie.
(*All guests’ names have been changed.)
Mildred is not ready for her trip to the showers, despite 30 minutes’ advanced warning. Just being on the streets, much less dealing with an addiction, takes a toll on a person’s ability to organize thoughts and belongings.
Living rough means that there are no guarantees, no reason to plan or prepare. Because something always happens. Promises are broken. Dreams are deferred.
Mildred takes her time locating the clothes she wants to wear from the two large, canvas bags she has stowed under her cot. Unlike many of the others, she has a wealth of clean clothes and is flustered by the choice.
The walkie goes off. “Showers to Sister Diane.”
“Go ahead,” I reply.
“Sister Diane, we have a free shower. Please send us someone.”
“Copy that,” I respond, amazed at how military-sounding a walkie makes communication. “Mildred will be coming soon; she is not quite ready yet.”
“Copy that,” the strained voice replies.
Inside, I feel tension rising in my body. I breathe through it. There is no need to rush, I remind myself. I wait near this guest, my body still. I want to shift from side to side to relieve the aches in my feet and legs from the walking I’ve done so far. I’m only an hour into the shift. But I don’t move. I remind myself that my feet are in good shoes; my socks are warm, as are my jeans, and the green sweater I am wearing over the bright yellow polo. I’m in a good space. I breathe through the pain and the anxiety.
“Showers, to Sister Diane.”
“Sister Diane, go ahead.”
“We still have an open shower.”
“Copy that. We are waiting for our guest. When she is ready, I will send her.”
I take a deep breath. My body settles back into quiet. I am not speaking, just being, just accompanying this guest on her journey. This will take a while, but time is one of the few gifts I can give each person. Time, presence, respect and patience. Gifts God gives me every day, “in good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over” (Luke 6:38).
There are a lot of lines, but right here, right now, this guest is a line of one. I hold this line with her, for her. I am fiercely guarding her precious dignity, ensuring the generosity of that sweetest resource: time. Time for kindness, gentleness and grace. Time for mercy and love, so a person can get a shower when she is ready.