“Judge not lest ye be judged.”
The Holy Bible, Sermon on the Mount
Matthew 7:1

In 2014, after a long time relationship abruptly ended, I found myself perilously close to being on the street. After 14 years of emotional and mental abuse I was ordered from my home and because the house was owned in his name only, I was left no recourse but to go. I had seen the writing on the wall for quite a while but the hard facts are that I was prepared neither financially or emotionally to make the break. Suddenly, I was being given no choice in the matter.

One thing that I had done was have my name added to the list for public housing, so the first place I went was to the housing authority. I explained the situation and only asked where I was on the list. Instead of answering, the receptionist silently reached into a wall file and withdrew a piece of paper. It was a list of homeless shelters in Knoxville. At that point I went from scared to terrified.

Over the course of the following few days I chased every resource I could find for help. I had my disability income but it was woefully below what I needed to have my applications for apartments and houses approved. Friends encouraged me to contact a local church known for helping people out. Even buying them cars as well as helping them with housing issues. My plea was rejected when their finance manager unapologetically declared that I was “too much of a risk” to help. I was left feeling bludgeoned.

At the eleventh hour I stumbled across a rental ad for a mobile home ten miles from town. By then I had all but lost hope but something told me to call about it anyway. The owner of the park was a compassionate, truly Christian man who decided to take a chance and not only allowed me to sign the lease, but did so with the stipulation that I could pay the deposit and first months rent with my next paycheck. The relief I felt was immeasurable, and I have been here for nearly eleven years.

I was one of the fortunate ones, mostly due to the fact that I did have an income, meager though it was, and I am by nature, and I was desperate enough, not to give up. Several years later I had the occasion to become acquainted with four women of late middle age who were not so lucky, and they gave me a soul wrenching insight into what had nearly happened to me.

Their names are not important for they all shared remarkably similar stories. They were homeless and had lived on the street for an average of about two years. They were in treatment for substance abuse and they were petrified of the day when they would be discharged, because they knew they would be going directly back to the street since they didn't have insurance to pay for further treatment.

They had all been born into a culture that encouraged women to become homemakers and to allow their husbands to handle all of their affairs, up to and including her own. Everything was in his name and, because they were living as they had been taught, they were content knowing they would be provided for in the event anything happened. Only they weren't. Their husbands died of various causes and their families either wouldn't or couldn't take them in. The women had all graduated from high school but had no practical job experience, so the only jobs they found were menial and often less than full time. They managed to find places to live that weren't exactly safe but they were grateful for the roofs over their heads and tried to make do. Luckily they were all working in the food industry so they were able to eat with some regularity. In the end, it was all to no avail. There wasn't enough money to keep the roofs over their heads and despite diligent searches, most of the time with the help of social workers, they ended up homeless and on the street, and their lives went from bad dreams to nightmares.

They never went into depth about what it was like being a homeless woman. However, I have a good imagination and could fill in the blanks readily enough. When they arrived on the street they weren't drug addicts or alcoholics and absolutely unprepared for the nightmare that awaited them. Within months they were doing what many had done before them. They began doing whatever they had to do to forget the lives they were living. They had given up hope.

I learned a lot from those women. I learned the truth about the lottery system that exists when it comes to finding a warm bed for a night in a mission, only to be turned back out in the morning. If they “won” one of those beds, that is. I learned what the words “coercion” and “extortion” meant as I listened to how they were victimized by people who appeared to offer assistance and salvation. Unfortunately those offers came with a stiff price and after a while they lost their ability to trust anyone. Even themselves.

They talked about others who lived on the street. The mentally ill. War veterans who could not assimilate back into society. Other addicts and alcoholics. And people, mostly women, who shared stories similar to their own. There were some who managed to find a foothold back into something resembling a normal life, but they were very, very few. After a few days I lost contact with them and I've often wondered since what happened to them. Did they ever find their way off the street? Were they even still alive? I had no way to find out, but they've never been far from my mind.

I am a person with a big heart that tries not to cave to misconceptions about people, but I admit that I had some where homelessness is concerned. It turns out it's a complex problem that has been around for as long as there have been people. Yes, some choose to remain homeless. But too many are on the streets through no fault of their own. And once you're there, it's damned hard to get off of it.

I was incredibly fortunate in that I never ended up there. As the saying goes, "there but for the grace of God go I." It would have taken very little for it to have happened to me and I shudder when I think of how narrow my escape truly was.

Two years ago I walked into a Walmart that I hadn't been in in years. Looking around to get my bearings, my gaze lit on a familiar face at the same moment hers found mine. We both broke into smiles as we rushed forward and hugged one another. It was one of the women I'd met all those years before. I couldn't recall her name and it was obvious she couldn't remember mine either, but we knew each other's faces. And hers positively beamed as she excitedly told me that she was off the street, that she had an apartment that was safe, never too hot nor too cold, and that she had a clean bed that was all her own. Best of all she was clean and sober. We talked for a while but then she had to leave and I had to get on with my shopping, but the encounter left me jubilant. One of them had made it!

But what about the other three? I will probably never know if they are still there or if they had found their own ways back into society. Or even if they are even still alive. But finding the one gives me hope that if she could do it, maybe, hopefully, the others have as well.

c. 2025