When the Shelter Closes

Across the street from my house, a man slept under a tree, his dog by his side. My first, naive thought: he must be traveling through. But he kept coming back, often sleeping there during the day. Then it hit me—that person might not have a home.

I live in a small Midwestern town with a population of 12,000 permanent residents. It’s the kind of community where people pride themselves on knowing everyone—everyone who matters, that is.

I’ve lived here my whole life. Growing up, I remember a few locals who always seemed to be hanging out uptown—an overstuffed bicycle basket or duffle bag close by. We didn’t know their real names. They were given disparaging nicknames and reduced to the target of cruel jokes and rumors. What I didn’t understand as a child was that they might have been unhoused. I thought homelessness only happened in big cities—I thought I knew what it looked like.

Sometime later, I was visiting my mother when she said, “There was a big commotion here last night. A group of homeless people living in the woods behind the elementary school started a fire. The firemen had to put it out, and the police came and broke up their camp.” She didn’t say they had started the fire intentionally, but I heard the subtext.

Three years ago, I moved my business to the highway outside of town. I began to see people pushing full shopping carts past my window. One day, I observed a disturbing encounter between a distraught woman and exasperated police officers. My business’s parking lot was flooded with police cars; they took the woman away. Another time, on my way to work—a full cart sitting on the sidewalk. The next day, the next week, it was still there. At last, I understood—there wasn’t just a handful of unhoused people, but an entire community.

In the winter of 24, our family resource center secured funding for hotel rooms for some of our nearly 100 unhoused residents. After participating, many hotels became uncomfortable with the arrangement and backed out of the program. In the summer of 25, funding was withdrawn and the initiative shut down. Community leaders scrambled to secure city funding to renovate a privately owned, dilapidated house to serve as a temporary shelter from December through February.

I got involved in October. Renovations were slow—bogged down by bureaucracy and limited resources. I knew the house they planned to use; I drove past it every day. It was a tiny building that looked like it should have been condemned, with the biggest structural offender being a gaping hole in the roof. When I finally stepped inside in mid-November to paint, my heart sank. Outside, a volunteer chipped at a sheet of ice with a hammer. There were no floors. There were no doors. There was no electricity, but thankfully there was heat. We were frantic to get the space ready. My perfectionism disappeared as I painted over dust and dirt. We painted until darkness flooded the room, knowing the bunk beds had to be moved in over the next few days. All the while, I could hear squirrels rustling in the ceiling, threatening to chew through the wiring, again. A tense dialogue occurred between the contractor and an organizer.

“This job site doesn’t meet my standards,” the contractor said.

“We just need to get bodies in here,” the organizer replied with exasperation. “We are trying to stop people from freezing to death. As long as we have heat, this is better than being outside.”

Both were frustrated by circumstances outside their control. It had already snowed once. I used to feel joy when snow arrived early, but this time all I could think was that there were people outside who might not make it through the night.

The shelter finally opened in December, two weeks behind schedule. Rooms were given on a first-come, first-served basis to adults only. The day it opened, I delivered towels. Inside, the room was alive. I had once questioned the capacity for ten people; now the cramped space held fifteen residents and three employees. A man and his young daughter waited outside. She gripped his hand tightly, trusting that her father would protect her. I imagined having to explain to a child something they could not understand—that adults with children were not permitted inside. I burst into tears as I drove away, resenting myself for having a home.

The shelter closes on March 1st. It has housed a rotation of dozens of people during sub-zero temperatures, but what about the other 85? The organizers invited me to a celebration of its success on March 2nd. The people I’ve met during this project are the kindest, most giving souls I’ve ever encountered, but the thought of a party the day after closing the shelter makes me sick.

As soon as the doors close, we will begin planning for next year. All of us want a permanent shelter, but many more years of temporary winter shelters are likely.

The people living at the shelter have been gracious, helpful, and kind. I think, a few different moments in my life—I could be here with you, sharing a room instead of delivering towels.

When I talk to community members who are not involved, the lack of awareness is still galling.

“A hundred people!” they say with disbelief. “I would have guessed under 20!”

How many other small towns share the same broken system—a lack of money, a lack of resources, and perhaps worst of all, a lack of awareness? When the shelter closes, where do they go?