By Nick Feldman
Spring 2009 Kaplan Award Winner
Promptly at 5:45 p.m., a line that has formed every night for over 70 years begins to wrap around a weathered three-story brick building. A thin cross stands on the roof above the corner, silhouetted by rays of sunlight against a cloud-specked sky.
A tall man in an orange velour tracksuit exits a side door. Each in the line hastily expels a breath at the electronic device in his palm — a Breathalyzer. Upon a satisfactory reading, a name is crossed off the clipboard. They enter the door and wander inside to find a seat in the chapel. Exhale. Check. Exhale. Check.
Jack Morgan meets me outside with a friendly welcome and a firm handshake. The Volunteer Director for Bread of Life Gospel Rescue Mission, Morgan has been involved with street ministry in one capacity or another for nearly 30 years. He understands these men. Before his transformation to Pastor Jack, the clean-shaven, easy-going man was homeless as well, a heroin addict.
“For me, it’s all about a love for the people and a desire to see them succeed,” he mentions, gazing across the street at Pioneer Park. “This neighborhood gets pretty rough when the sun goes down. Between the drug dealers and prostitutes… you could get hurt out there if you’re not careful. I’d rather guys be inside.”
Like most of the men who find their way into the mission Morgan is black, but men of all color sit side-by-side in evenly rowed stackable plastic chairs on old carpet and chipped tile that clashes with the freshly painted windowless walls of the chapel. Blue foam mats are stacked high behind the podium, spread out at night so a few dozen more men can sleep under a roof rather than under the stars. There are a few simple conditions to find a place inside: be sober, sign up by 4 p.m., check in by 5:45 p.m. Come late and you lose your spot.
“Terry” walks in to the building about 20 minutes late, but he’s already been granted an exception to the time constraints because he’s employed; coming from work is the only way to show up after the deadline and be allowed inside. A newly tiled and refurbished room across the hall from the chapel hosts lockers for those like Terry who work but can’t afford a place of their own.
He enters the chapel, finding a seat among the slightly drooping eyes held open just enough to take in scripture and the songs written and performed by an energetic blue-haired woman. The singing voice, tinged with an untraceable accent, cracks every few minutes, but no one seems to care.
After an hour of chapel service, the men make their way into O’Hara Hall, named after Jennie O’Hara who helped found the mission and served as its director for over three decades. The tan and brown alcove serves as dining room, though its plain gray tables and chairs often are often rearranged for studying and lectures. A whiteboard at one end proclaims inspirational messages written in neat, black block letters. Walk by faith, not by sight. This is God’s kitchen.
John Clark, a local chef, has been volunteering at the mission every Friday night for nearly five years. Beginning as a one-time event, his presence evolved from “something I always wanted to do” to “I did it” to “this is fun,” he says; now, he sometimes brings his three preteen children in to help.
“I’ve had maybe one bad experience in the past three or four years,” Clark said. “The guys just always seem jubilant when they come through.”
A bulky man with scarred forearms and a contagious grin cracked jokes in my direction as I explored the mission, and continued to do so after we were introduced. Mark Joseph has worked in the kitchen since returning to the mission in September; he first spent a 10-month stint there nearly four years ago. After re-entering the workforce, Joseph found himself in a dangerous relationship he realized had to end and a job he had to quit.
“I saw some things I thought I was done with that crept back into my life very quickly,” he said. “I realized where I was going if I didn’t get out.”
Upstairs, past the administrative offices, is the bunkroom. A large white poster with the words “The Rules” scrawled at the top overlooks the room filled with bunk beds. You must shower daily. You must make your bed. No smoking is allowed inside the building.
As the only shelter in the city that has mattresses rather than simple mats, the mission encounters unique problems — like bedbugs. Many wood bunk beds, as well as chairs and desks, have had to be thrown away because of the five-millimeter-long masters of stealth and deception. The parasites, common in high-density sleeping quarters, emerge only in the darkest hours of night and recede back into wood and fabric to avoid light. The mission has many other challenges to overcome, dealing with a transient population that faces grueling hardships and the uncertainty brought on by mental illness and substance addiction.
“Some of them don’t want to be clean,” Morgan said sadly. “And they sure don’t want to hear about Jesus.”
Suddenly, he perks up: “But we keep trying.”
This building, hidden in plain sight to many, is a refuge. At least 8,500 men, women and children are believed to be homeless every night in King County; of those, nearly 3,000 go without shelter. But when the lights are turned out at the Bread of Life mission, the 115 men inside can roll over in their twin bunk beds and count themselves among the blessed.