My name's Kenna. Kenna Grace Overmeyer.

I'm fifteen years old, live in Fort Worth, TX with my family. My family consists of mama, my grandmother, and my three little brothers Jacob (13), Gordon (11), and Petey (9).

Daddy died when I was real little. I was four. He died of a brain aneurysm. It was quick, sudden: one minute he was there, the next--gone.

I try to remember my daddy, find it hard to. I know he had dark hair and snapping blue eyes, but not much else. I want to miss him more than I do, but I can't because as I said, I didn't know him well.

Mama misses him real bad: every day she talks to him, as theough he were still around. Sometimes she cries. It breaks my heart.

Mama hasn't been herself since daddy died. She has serious mental problems. Extremes in emotion: one minute, she's happy, all is right with the world; the next, she's crying or screaming at us.

Mama has something called bi-polar disorder. She's supposed to take medicine for it, but doesn't like the side-effects; therefore she'd rather do without--and then she's not able to function like a normal parent should.

I have to do a lot of the chores (and watch my brothers) when mama is sick. It's hard.

On weekends, when mama is well, I go help out at the local shelter, where I help cook meals for the indigent of our community. I have met many wonderful characters: Shoeless Joe, Gracie-the-bag lady, Roscoe, Mark, Tigre, Pablo, and Effie-Lou, among many.

They are wonderful. It's just life has kicked them in the tail, and are down on their luck.

 As an example. Roscoe, a war veteran, was fine until he went to war; he came back a changed man. A double amputee who spends his days selling poseys on the street corner, hoping to make a little money. His mind's shot; sometimes he'll think he's still on the battle field, and he goes berserk. It's scary when he does this.

All I can do is try to be there, hold him, try to comfort him, as his tears soak my shirt. It's sad how the war's changed him.

He doesn't have a friend in the world but me. He's lonely, broken in mind, spirit.

And Shoeless Joe: he doesn't have any shoes; he often is barefoot. Even in cold weather you'll find him without shoes. If it's extremely cold, he'll tie newspaper around his feet to try to keep them warm. He is mute (he can hear), a really sweet man who wouldn't hurt a fly.

How he ended up on the streets was when his wife threw him out because he was late with the alimony check. She also got tired of his alcohol habit, so she threw him out, and now he's homeless, with nobody to help him.

Except me, but I won't give him money until he promises me that he won't drink.

So far he's stayed away from the brown bottle. I pray this continues.

Pablo, meanwhile, is an elderly Hispanic gentleman who lost his house in a fire; not having a job (or the ability to speak English), he ended up on the streets, with nobody to help him. He has no family; if he did, they abandoned him. He now must fend for himself on the mean streets of downtown Fort Worth, hiding from gangs, trying to keep warm, trying to find something to eat.

He's another one who has an easygoing, sweet personality. I really like Pablo: he's warm, genuine, and funny, with a knack for making others laugh.

Every Saturday I do this: help out at the local homeless shelter. I try to bring some hope to others in need, even though I have problems myself (sick mother, school assignments [trying to keep up my grades], tending to three active little brothers, caring for a grandmother who has Alzheimer's disease, etc.).

Helping people less fortunate than myself has put things into a whole new light. Even though my problems are bad, they are nowhere near as bad as some of the ones facing some of my friends from the shelter. Compared to them, my life is easy.

On Sundays, I go to church, then I go back to the shelter, where I spend the afternoon with my friends. Now, I only do this when mama is lucid, able to function on her own. On her bad days, where she's in bed, bemoaning the world, I stay home, try to help her out, try to give her encouragement.

I want to make it clear that I don't leave my mother when she's having one of her low periods. Oh, no, I couldn't do that!

I'd be afraid she'd try to hurt herself somehow (or one of the kids); I can't risk it. And with granny having Alzheimers, she can get pretty forgetful; she can't be left alone either. (When I'm at the shelter or at church, my aunt comes and stays with mom and grandma, as well as the boys.)

I'd say I have a pretty good life. God's blessed me with an incredible ministry for helping downtrodden people, and with a gift for gab. I love to talk. I could tell some wonderful stories about my friends at the shelter, or some of the stories from when our family was more stable. I can also sing, and I love sharing the message of Hope in song or verse with others.

I just wish I could do more for the poorer members of our community! They need our help, and I've gotten this far: I'm not about to turn my back on my friends now!