The Coldest Night at the Overflow Shelter

This has been a winter to remember. The text message came about 3 p.m. A man who signed up for work at a nearby church that was taking in homeless people couldn’t make it. “Can you come in?”

A week ago, I had signed up as a backup in case a volunteer had a problem. This night, indeed, was a big problem: it had warmed up to only ten degrees on this February afternoon.

It had snowed all day and stayed so cold that I hadn’t bothered to get dressed: just read and did some writing in my jammies because our apartment warmed-up so slowly. It had been a long time since I’d seen a storm in the Ozarks like the one we had this frigid President’s Day.

“Sure, I’m still good with coming in, if I’m needed.”

It was only the second time I’d worked the all-night shift at the Unitarian church. I was definitely needed. Lots of different people were helping out. Other churches in Springfield, Missouri, had also been taking in people who had no place to shelter for the night. How many would die on the streets without these volunteers and churches?

I caught some sleep on and off. Mainly, I stayed awake, as it’s required that one of the two shelter volunteers is awake all night. Ted was watching movies on his laptop. We had 17 men initially.

Left: Photo by Stuart Miles. Right: Photo by whatamiii.

A volunteer named Jorge served coffee and snacks for two hours as people settled in. He’s an engineer and will be driving to Texas County—the largest jurisdiction in Missouri but one of the least populated—to oversee the work in a factory that manufactures electric parts. It’s 90 miles each way, four days a week. Today, there are dangerous highways.

Near the basement door was a table with coffee, hot chocolate, and donated snacks. On the large plastic “sneeze protector” of plexiglass someone has taped a photocopied sign, which read “In case no one told you today: You are beautiful.”

You are loved.

Two guys across the room seem to be having trouble sleeping. Ted and I talk about all kinds of things and especially about Herman Melville because I’m auditing a class at Missouri State on early American literature. I’m reading Melville’s first book, Typee, about his jumping ship on a South Sea island, the hard life of sailors, and related adventures. Somehow escaping to a South Sea island, even one that possibly has cannibals, seems desirable this evening.

You are needed.

One of the old guys comes up to tell me that he’s ready to work but is having trouble getting his paperwork together: “They want proof of address for me to get food stamps, but I don’t have an address, and my birth certificate isn’t enough for them.”

You are alive for a reason.

Shortly after midnight, a guy comes into the shelter with all his stuff in three thin plastic shopping bags. “I just got off from working at Denny’s,” he explains.

You are stronger than you think.

At 2 a.m., I look up from the book I am reading. There is a woman rapping on the window by the door.

“Eden Village said I should come by here,” she explains. She’s wearing a blanket over her head and coat to keep out the cold. I show her to a cot.

You are going to get through this.

Another guy comes to the snack table in the middle of the night. His neighbor was hassling him. I go over and talk with the neighbor, who has lots of issues, a lot of anger. But he listens. He mainly needs some extra clothes that have been donated to the church for homeless people. I bring out different sweatshirts. Finally, he agrees one is right for him: nice and heavy with a cool logo.

I’m glad you are alive.

Lots of coughing echoes across the big basement room that is filled with sleep and occasional snoring. They put on their COVID-19 masks when they come out for snacks. Mainly they sleep, mostly still in their clothes and wrapped in blankets. Ted or I check the room each hour. No one wants to talk in the earliest, coldest time before dawn.

Don’t give up.

Ted turns on the lights at 6:30 a.m. Most everyone’s up. Some are going outside for a smoke. “It’s -12 degrees out there,” Ted says in amazement.

A big guy comes in, smiling, with only a few teeth. “I see you got those big, brown shoes in there. I think they might fit me.” They do; he’s happy and says, “Always good to have a little extra room for more socks in cold weather.”

A little after 7 a.m., the bus arrives. In less than ten minutes, everyone’s gone. Ted and I do the initial clean up, spraying a bleach mix on the cots and pillows. It’s all fixed for other volunteers to come in right on schedule to sweep and get everything ready for the next evening.

Yes, you are loved by a huge community.