Recently I served for the first time with the Tent City Ministry, which ministers to individuals without homes, living in tents in downtown Chicago. I was unsure what to expect and wanted to share with you what that experience was like, in case you are unsure like I was, and wondering how you can help. It’s such a worthy mission that is easy to step into, as you’ll hopefully see from my story. So come along with me for a day with the Tent City Ministry.
Early Morning Encouragement
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9:00 AM and we meet up in the St. John’s parking lot at the back of the old school gym. I’m hoping to be as much of a help as I can be and not be in anyone’s way. The air is sharply cold, and flying specks of snow dot the windshields of the vehicles and prickle exposed skin. Everyone else going today has done the tent city mission before, so I watch them to pick up clues on what to do when. Brett and Julie Hansen are here and old hands at this work, and so is Paul Brose, whose stories about trekking out on this mission spurred me to try it. Julie is no-nonsense and energy and grit. With an easy laugh and her trademark curly hair spilling out around the top of her coat, she smiles and greets me. Brett and Dan Leary work on getting the trailer hitched. Paul tells me how sometimes the locks that secure the trailer get frozen so a key can’t be inserted, so it’s important we bring a small torch just in case. While Dan and Brett work, I watch with the rest of the gathered crew. Noting how two people are working while others stand around, Paul quips, “This looks like a solid union job,” and everyone laughs.
I shake hands with Daniel Wegrzyn, pleased to see him. He’s someone I’ve watched grow up at St. John’s, a good friend of my son’s. Even at his young age, he’s another veteran of this mission work. Paul’s daughter Ali says hello. She reminds me of her dad – very chill, ready to throw her hand in to work, a bit on the fearless side. I’ll see evidence of that later. |
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Load ‘Em Up and Move ‘Em Out
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The work starts in the parking lot, with loading donated items into the trailer. Bins full of the necessities are pulled out from the back of the old school gym door. Every bin is stuffed full and labeled for convenience. There is a wheeled rack of winter coats. The coats, as they swing on the rack as it is levered out the door and up the ramp, look thick and, most importantly, warm. Glancing through the bin labels, there are gaiters, gloves, long underwear, winter boots, socks, regular underwear for men and women, propane, peanuts, chips, and more. When the bins are opened later on site, I see that everything is basically new.
Once loaded, it is a forty or so minute drive into the city. We spend the time hearing about Dan’s recent retirement, “I wondered about working through the winter and then once it got cold, I decided it wasn’t worth it.” Good for him. Ali is newly engaged, and wondering about where to live after she’s married. Paul is driving us in his pick-up. Julie and Brett are in their pick-up, towing the trailer. Brett and Paul have discussed where we’re planning to go, which is somewhere near a particular McDonald’s on Bryn Mawr. On a previous trip, they have seen where new tents have popped up like mushrooms in a park near the Chicago River. As we search for the place, coordinating the location with the Hansens, Paul says to me, “Jesus is already here, we’ve just got to find him. But he always shows.” |
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Arriving at the First Encampment
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We find the spot, and at first we’re parked on a main street, with cars whizzing by on our left. Paul tells me they have an “in” with local police officers, who are understanding of the team negotiating traffic. Beside the spot where we’re parked, there is a path through the park that might be wide enough for the trucks and would bring us closer to the encampment, but we’re not sure if we can use it. Julie and Ali, our vanguard, march through the snow to the tents. A woman appears from one of the tents and tells them cars can drive through and that there’s an exit at the other end of the park so we wouldn’t even have to back the trailer out. Paul pulls his truck in first, and Brett, who is a master with a trailer in tow, follows close behind. We’re now parked about thirty feet from the tents, and the offloading begins.
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Marisa, Enrique, and Bags of BlessingsCoffee, hot chocolate and donuts find their way on to a table next to the trailer. The woman who first spoke to Julie and Ali encourages others to come out of their tents. The woman is layered with sweatpants and an old sweatshirt. I see a black cat wandering among the tents, stark against the white snow, one paw lifted as it looks about, and I realize the residents of tent city are finding a way to care for it. Two men and another woman emerge. The woman, Marisa, is squeezed into a double layer of coats that are far too small for her. She’s wearing mismatched shoes, one of them a Croc, that exposes her heel to the snow.
Marisa is delighted to see us. “Oh, God bless you.” She is Hispanic, her accent is thick, and it’s clear she is more comfortable in Spanish, but we can understand her gratitude clear as a bell. Her hair is a blond mass of braids and ponytails, a slight nod to maintaining some sense of fashion. Julie Hansen grabs a shopping bag to fill and takes charge. “Let’s get you some boots. What size are you?” They find new boots, and Marisa squeals with delight. Julie ties the laces for her. More items fill the bag. A winter coat, one that fits, is located, and Julie helps Marisa pull herself free from the old ones. The sleeves are so tight, it takes the two of them working together to get her loose. I think of the song about salvation I learned as a kid: “I’ll tell you the best thing I ever did do - was take off the old robe and put on the new. The old robe was dirty, all tattered and torn, the new robe was spotless, had never been worn. I’ll tell you…” I approach one of the men and ask his name. It’s Enrique. He has been accepting items, but has remained mostly quiet, smiling and watchful. The first woman we met keeps instructing him about things to take and I assume they are a couple. He suffers all her hectoring with quiet amusement, as far as I can tell. We shake hands, and I see how his fingers and nails are ingrained with dirt. Funny to think that clean hands are a luxury, but the thought is there. I find I don’t have much to say beyond “It’s nice to meet you,” and “I hope this helps.” I move on to my next task. I’ve picked up from the others that if you see something is needed, just jump in. We spend about thirty minutes here and then move on to the next site further along in the park. |
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A New Location & Extra Hands from Chi-Care
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Again, Julie and Ali – remember I told you Ali is fearless – check in on the tents to see if anyone is available. There is an American flag flapping on a pole in the middle of this encampment and a tan dog tethered to one of the tents. The dog wags its tail as Julie and Ali approach and I hear the raspy voice of a woman in the tent, the owner of the dog, talking with Julie. I find out later the woman is in a wheelchair, so naturally Julie finds out what she needs and carts it over while we’re stationed there.
An old man approaches, shuffling. If I had to guess, he is in his sixties. Lank black hair frames his face, and his eyes are searching as they scan our faces. He starts with coffee, and I see again how the hot beverage is a beacon to all these caught in the cold. It warms their bodies and brightens their day. Like at the first stop, the donuts are also popular. A young man approaches on a bike, and it turns out he is the old man’s son. The bins are lined up in two rows along the road through the park, and shopping bags are loaded up. Hats, gloves, new boots. I should mention that the items have sizes clearly marked, but many of the people just hold the boots up to their feet and put them on right then and there if they find a fit. We have them step on the bin tops, so they don’t put their feet in the snow and ice. High school boys from a group called Chi-care appear. They are passing out hot meals. We exchange a few words with them, comrades of shared purpose, and Paul talks for a few moments with their leader. In sneakers, heedless of the snow, the boys spread out into the encampment, moving from tent to tent, hot meals and waters clutched in their hands. They are a blessed version of Uber Eats. The old man’s name is Gustavo, and I make a point of shaking his hand. He gets a new coat and the ever-popular propane. I see from the other volunteers that the approach is – we don’t say no until the items are gone. One man asks me how many pairs of socks he can have – “Just one?” he asks me. “No,” I tell him, “please take what you need.” He takes three more pairs. |
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“They’re back! They’re here!”
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We exit the park and head for our last location. We find a spot in the parking lot of a medical establishment, where a chain-link fence separates us from the encampment. This is our busiest location. Close to fifteen, maybe twenty, people approach. I see two women running from their tents in loose pajama bottoms, one is shouting, “They’re back! They’re here.” When she arrives, she tells anyone who will listen: “I didn’t think you would come so soon, but thank God you did. Thank God you did.” The two women appear to be friendly, partners of a sort. The one who talks a lot, a black lady with spunk and a motor mouth, fills two bags quickly, and is constantly giving you a play by play. Her compatriot, an older white woman, is named Christine and she has lost her dog, Chaos, to the authorities. She and Julie talk a good deal about this, Julie providing advice on how to retrieve the animal. “They had no right to take him,” Christine says over and over. Julie, who remembers the dog from a previous visit, tells her the dog is beautiful, and she hopes he is returned.
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A robust man is at this site, not quite as tall as me at 6’4”, but broader in the shoulders, and near my age, in his 50s, if I were to guess. Like Christine, he remembers the team being here, and they remember him too. “We have a coat big enough for you this time,” Julie says. “I made sure.” And indeed it is big enough. He is all smiles. Again, there is coffee drinking, cocoa drinking, and donuts disappear. Brett smiles and greets people, a cigarette in his hand. One of the women asks for a cigarette, and he hands her the remainder of his pack.
A Caucasian man in his thirties comes up, also tall, with bare hands, one of them bandaged. He wears ripped jeans and has grown a three or four day old stubble on his chin and cheeks. He is in sneakers, and so after he gets boots his size, I suggest gloves, and lead him to the bin containing them. He asks about propane, and we don’t have any more. He tells us, “A few nights ago, I almost froze to death. I ran out of propane.” I remember being outside briefly a few days ago myself, just walking from my car to the gym, when it was -9 degrees and it was unspeakably cold. Some of the other people chime in to affirm he did run out, and that some of them gave him theirs. There is a community here, a willingness to share. The black lady who chatters all the time also repeats that we are out of propane a few times, not scolding us, just confirming the fact. It’s clear how precious it is in this brutal cold.
It's getting close to 12:30 pm and we are winding down. Julie and I help a kind-eyed man who is stuffing things in his bag. English is also his second language, and he is gesturing to two containers we have in one of the bins. “I sleep at the park. Over there.” He points across the street. “We have them. Rats.” He gestures to the containers. Julie opens one of them and checks inside. Half full of packets of rat poison, she hands him the container. “Take the rest of it.” I tell him to stay warm. I tell him God bless. And then we are gathering trash and loading bins and saying our goodbyes.
A Caucasian man in his thirties comes up, also tall, with bare hands, one of them bandaged. He wears ripped jeans and has grown a three or four day old stubble on his chin and cheeks. He is in sneakers, and so after he gets boots his size, I suggest gloves, and lead him to the bin containing them. He asks about propane, and we don’t have any more. He tells us, “A few nights ago, I almost froze to death. I ran out of propane.” I remember being outside briefly a few days ago myself, just walking from my car to the gym, when it was -9 degrees and it was unspeakably cold. Some of the other people chime in to affirm he did run out, and that some of them gave him theirs. There is a community here, a willingness to share. The black lady who chatters all the time also repeats that we are out of propane a few times, not scolding us, just confirming the fact. It’s clear how precious it is in this brutal cold.
It's getting close to 12:30 pm and we are winding down. Julie and I help a kind-eyed man who is stuffing things in his bag. English is also his second language, and he is gesturing to two containers we have in one of the bins. “I sleep at the park. Over there.” He points across the street. “We have them. Rats.” He gestures to the containers. Julie opens one of them and checks inside. Half full of packets of rat poison, she hands him the container. “Take the rest of it.” I tell him to stay warm. I tell him God bless. And then we are gathering trash and loading bins and saying our goodbyes.
The Blessings of Service and Community
We chat about life on the way home. I hear about wedding plans and college plans and retirement plans. Paul and I share trade secrets on being dads. We are heading back to our lives. I remember Gustavo with his tired eyes, Marisa with her squeals of delight, Christine longing for her dog, and I think how human they are in their wishes and wants – to be warm, to have a pet, to have a person willing to share, how they want to be fashionable if they can be.
Back at St. John’s and we don’t have to unload the bins because our youth are doing it on Sunday after church. I shake hands, give hugs. Julie tells me she wishes we had brought shirts to pass out. Marisa had wanted shirts, and we simply didn’t have them. Julie tells me she might pick some up and drive them back out to her, and I believe her when she tells me that. That is the way of it. I wave to Brett who is repositioning his truck, and he hops out to embrace me. My daughter years ago nicknamed him “Mr. Handsome.” And so he is, some kind of Chicago-style Mr. Clean, complete with the trademark dome, a larger-than-life presence, an earring or two, though not hoops. And most of all, a ready smile. He’s Mr. Clean, who’s not scared to get dirty. He thanks me for coming. But it is I who am grateful for the last few hours.
1:30 PM and I toot my horn as I drive away, thinking Paul was right, you do find Jesus in tent cities, tying laces, sharing coffee, offering new boots, patting a shoulder, passing out a canister of propane, hearing the delight in excited voices as they gather something new and needed into their bag, seeing the relief in a weathered face when a member of St. John’s can say, “Take as much as you need.”
Back at St. John’s and we don’t have to unload the bins because our youth are doing it on Sunday after church. I shake hands, give hugs. Julie tells me she wishes we had brought shirts to pass out. Marisa had wanted shirts, and we simply didn’t have them. Julie tells me she might pick some up and drive them back out to her, and I believe her when she tells me that. That is the way of it. I wave to Brett who is repositioning his truck, and he hops out to embrace me. My daughter years ago nicknamed him “Mr. Handsome.” And so he is, some kind of Chicago-style Mr. Clean, complete with the trademark dome, a larger-than-life presence, an earring or two, though not hoops. And most of all, a ready smile. He’s Mr. Clean, who’s not scared to get dirty. He thanks me for coming. But it is I who am grateful for the last few hours.
1:30 PM and I toot my horn as I drive away, thinking Paul was right, you do find Jesus in tent cities, tying laces, sharing coffee, offering new boots, patting a shoulder, passing out a canister of propane, hearing the delight in excited voices as they gather something new and needed into their bag, seeing the relief in a weathered face when a member of St. John’s can say, “Take as much as you need.”
I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this and it’s clear how accessible and blessing-filled working on this mission was for me. If you have questions about the work that’s being done or ways to contribute, feel free to reach out to Julie Hansen at [email protected]