by Kathy Izard
“Mrs. Halsey, I’m Kathy Izard. You used to send me those notes, and I wanted to tell you how much they mattered. They meant the world to me.”
I tried not to cry, but my throat was closing, and my eyes were welling. It felt good to finally be at the end of this journey. This long road that began with Denver was now ending with a woman I had never met but who had profoundly impacted my life too.
Lily Halsey was crying as well. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she said softly, “Oh, I used to pray for you. I still do. I prayed this morning for you and Moore Place.”
We visited for an hour. With the help of her friend, whom I found out had worked with Lily at an advertising agency in Charlotte, she told me things I never knew about her son.
Before he became a fixture at the Urban Ministry Center, Bill was a college graduate and talented artist. He worked for years as a graphic designer. I almost laughed when she told me. Bill? A graphic designer? The same profession I had given up to begin this project.
Bill and I had both learned how to create layouts by hand before computers became so ubiquitous in the industry. Once the profession demanded computer skills, it was difficult to make the transition. I took classes at the community college and finally hired a private tutor to teach me the more advanced software.
Bill hadn’t been as lucky. He couldn’t afford a tutor. He didn’t know he could take classes at the community college. Bill couldn’t compete in the digital world. He lost his job, his confidence, and everything after that was a slow slide to desperation. His father died, and the family lost contact with Bill when he started living in that hole in the ground. Lily never stopped worrying about the son she loved.
The newspaper articles about the Urban Ministry Center’s plans for housing the homeless caught her eye. She didn’t know if they would help her son, but she could pray, couldn’t she?
When I asked Lily Halsey why she began sending cards to me, she replied with complete certainty, “When I read about Moore Place, I knew I had to help.”
Her blue eyes looked straight into mine, and she said with unwavering faith, “No one would have built Moore Place unless they believed God was in it.”
I texted Coleman that I was on my way but morning traffic was making me a little late. It was November 8, 2017, and I was picking up Coleman to take him to our eleventh annual True Blessings luncheon. It had been ten years since that group of friends brought Ron and Denver to Charlotte, hoping a few people would attend. And it had been ten years since we learned that all of the good we were doing during the day wasn’t enough. We needed to end homelessness, not just comfort the people who were experiencing it.
Along with Moore Place, we now housed more than 160 other men and women in apartments throughout the city as part of our Housing Works program. We had learned to partner with landlords and use rental subsidy vouchers. In 2015, we had expanded Moore Place to 120 apartments, so now almost 300 people were currently in the program. Between Moore Place and our scattered-site program, the UMC had a better than 90 percent housing retention rate. The City of Charlotte had even formed a coalition of more than thirty agencies into a program called Housing First with a goal to end chronic homelessness. In less than three years the group had jointly housed almost 600 people.
The True Blessings event had grown as well. Eugene Coleman would be giving the blessing for more than twelve hundred people—our biggest year ever with more than forty corporate donors. Since 2007, True Blessings had become Charlotte’s largest event for the homeless and in ten years had raised more than $7 million.
Coleman now lived in a one-story apartment on a quiet street, which that day was glowing with yellow and red fall leaves. The last time I saw him, I told him that I was finally finishing that book I was writing. It had taken six years, and I wasn’t sure he remembered I had asked for permission to tell his story. I was hoping he was still comfortable with the idea. We were meeting for breakfast, so I brought a sample copy of the book with me.
I put it on the table between us and pushed it toward him. “You remember I told you I was going to write that book?”
He placed his hand on the cover and held it there before looking up at me. “Am I in it?”
“Oh, you are in it!” I told him.
Coleman was quiet for a moment, staring down at the three hundred pages between us. Finally he said, “You remember when I spoke to those high school kids?”
“Yes!” I said. “That story is in there!”
“It is?” he asked, absorbing it all. “You know now that for all the rest of my life, I will know that I am seen.”
We both teared up and were silent together, not saying anything. Then he announced, “I think this is about to go viral!”
I laughed, now remembering his words that day, and texted Coleman that I was in front of his apartment. I could see he was dressed to impress in a tan jacket over a sweater and nice slacks. When he got into my car, he was rubbing his hands together nervously, but he held no notes.
“I know what I want to say,” he said. “I went to the UMC yesterday and met with Dale to give me advice. He told me there’s all kinds of folks coming, so best not mention Jesus.”
That made me smile. I knew Coleman leaned toward Christianity.
We caught up during our ride to the event and arrived a little early for a sound check. As we were passing by a coffee shop, I asked Coleman if he wanted anything. He hesitated but then saw a sign advertising the fall special and smiled wide. “Yes! This will be my first pumpkin spice latte of the season!”
During the sound check, Coleman spoke softly and needed several prompts to speak louder. I hoped this was not going to be too big of an assignment for him. He finally got the stage manager’s approval, and we found two seats in the ballroom as the convention staff filled water glasses, folded napkins, and set out silverware around us. I pulled out a photo I had uncovered the day before in one of my photo albums and handed it to Coleman. He grinned widely as he looked at it. “Oh man, I remember that day!” he said.
The photo was Coleman on his first day of housing ten years ago. We had just handed him a key to his new apartment, and he was unlocking the door to his first home in twenty years. He had turned to look at the camera in disbelief as he unlocked the door.
“You don’t know how many nights I lay under the moon thinking about just that day and thinking it was so far away, that it would never come,” he said.
“Joann clearly remembers talking to you that first day,” I told him. “She came right into my office afterward and told me ‘this guy is special!’”
“It was the strangest thing,” he confided. “I just heard this little voice say to me to go talk to that lady, and I didn’t know her, but it was Joann. It was like there was this little angel on my shoulder saying I should go, pushing me. Led me straight to her.”
An hour later the lights dimmed, and Coleman and I made our way to the stage. I welcomed the crowd and introduced him. Approaching the lectern, Coleman leaned into the microphone just as we had practiced, but he had not rehearsed a word of what he was about to say.
“I was gettin’ nervous about speakin’ at this thing,” he said. “But then I got to thinkin’ these are my friends. They the ones that helped me. I thought love was gone for me, but then here I got a house. You people helped me. You got me off the street. So nah, I ain’t nervous! I wanted to do this for all you gave me.”
Then he stepped away from the podium and opened the sides of his jacket showing off “his self” with a big smile. “Here you are, this here is Mr. Coleman!”
He then prayed for the food and the people in the room, asking the Lord’s blessing on all. Especially those still waiting to be housed. I thought about how far we had come in those ten years. From serving soup to saving lives. Coleman could never have been here in that moment without that shift. Here was Coleman, ten years later blessing those who gave him a second chance and proving that not only does housing work but we need to do more.
> Watching Coleman in front of that crowd, it was hard for me to remember how we saw it any other way. It was hard to remember a time when I didn’t think homes were the most important thing we could do.
I remembered the dream Coleman had shared with me while we waited for him to give the blessing in the ballroom. “When I went to go to see Dale yesterday, to get some advice on how to say this blessing, I saw all the folks waiting in line,” he said.
The UMC still served a meal 365 days a year and was still open for services for those experiencing homelessness.
Coleman looked at me. “And I thought, wouldn’t it be a really great day if one day I go down there and nobody’s there?”
It took a minute for me to realize what he meant.
“Wouldn’t that be great?” he asked again. “If one day, there was nobody there?”
twenty-six
TRUST THE WHISPER
Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery that it is. In the boredom and pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy hidden heart of it because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.
—Frederick Buechner1
I always believed Moore Place was the end game. For years I thought my purpose started the day I met Denver and would end the day we opened the doors to that dream of a building. But just as I eventually learned everything started way before Denver, I now understand it continues after Moore Place as well. The road keeps going. Moore Place was one stop on a path that stretches too far ahead for me to see. If I keep listening, my life is still talking to me.
What was I supposed to do with all that knowledge about building and fundraising? Not be afraid to do it again.
A year and a half after Moore Place opened, a friend, Betsy Blue, asked if I would talk to her about a project she and her husband were feeling called to lead. Their family had experienced mental illness and found it nearly impossible to get care. Although she was an event planner and her husband, Bill, a banker, and neither had any formal psychiatric or medical training, they felt compelled to help all the families in Charlotte struggling with mental illness. The overwhelming need kept whispering to them.
“Did you know there are 7.4 million people within a hundred miles of Charlotte and not a single residential mental health treatment bed?” Betsy asked.
I could almost hear Denver say again, “Does that make any sense to you?”
It didn’t.
I knew how difficult it was to have a parent cycle in and out of hospitals. And Charlie and I had just experienced the pain of trying to get help for a child with depression.
Betsy didn’t have to ask the next question: “Are you going to do something about it?”
Charlie and I decided to work on this one together, and this time I did not lead.
We walked alongside Bill and Betsy Blue as they spearheaded a community effort to raise $25 million to build HopeWay, the region’s first and only nonprofit residential mental health treatment center. What began with five families who had experienced mental illness grew to more than two hundred who made donations to purchase and renovate a twelve-acre campus. In December 2016, four years after Moore Place opened, HopeWay began serving hundreds of clients and families through best-practice residential and day-treatment programs.
As I was working to raise money for HopeWay, I wrote and rewrote versions of this book. Witnessing Bill and Betsy, listening to their call, I was reminded of all the people who were part of the Moore Place journey. Liz, Dale, Bill Holt, Jerry Licari, and so many more who heard that small whisper to do something—then did it. I didn’t want all those stories to be lost. I didn’t want to forget how all of this might not have happened if even a few people had not acted on what they heard, no matter how crazy it seemed.
It is difficult to make sense of it all. Life seems completely random and perfectly designed at the same time. Louise sent me a sermon she wrote that said in part:
If it’s all constructed, we might as well write a story large enough to live in. An adventurous story—one where we are joyful, creative, and connected. One where we name ourselves as powerful, willing, and able to offer deep service, available for passionate living. One where we thrive instead of merely survive.
More than anything, that is the gift of the past ten years—the ability to rewrite my story. One where I am connected to a community of friends willing to work for change. One where my history with my mother is not filled with resentment but with compassion. One where my life has a faith found, not forced. And one where, when I pay attention, God definitely shows off.
I no longer believe a calling is reserved exclusively for people like Dale or Louise who go into the ministry. I believe, now, we are each called to life—true, abundant, purposeful life.
Each of us has a call patiently waiting and whispering. You might have heard yours already but are afraid to admit it. It could be as big as a building, as technical as creating proformas for a nonprofit, or as simple and powerful as a ministry of sending cards.
My message to you is this: trust the whisper.
Whatever it is. Whatever you feel is quietly, persistently, relentlessly calling to you. No matter how crazy or inconvenient it might be to listen.
Once you hear it, that one true thing, it’s impossible to turn away because it will keep whispering. And when it does, you must spend the rest of your life either answering it or pretending you never heard it.
Be willing to listen.
Be willing to let go.
Be willing to take that leap of faith.
When you do, the life you can’t see is infinitely richer and more significant than the life you can see and thought you had planned.
The day I took a ride with Denver, he took me to a road that wasn’t even on my map. I hope your journey begins today and leads you to a path you never thought capable of navigating.
I can’t explain grace or God’s plan, but this much I have learned: grace is that moment when your purpose speaks to you so loudly you can’t help but hear it. Believing in it is crazy, but denying you heard it is even crazier. You may not see it coming, but when grace finds you, stop, listen, and take good notes. Everything in your life has prepared you for this.
You are ready, and grace is real.
THE LAST WORD
Although some names in The Hundred Story Home were changed to protect the privacy of individuals, the one name I regret I could not change was my mother’s. That would have been her preference. After the long sixteen-year search for the right medication and treatment, Mom has lived the past thirty as many patients do—in silence and secrecy about her circumstances because of the pervasive stigma surrounding mental illness.
My mother’s bipolar diagnosis did not and does not define her life. It merely became one facet she learned to manage. Mom never wanted a career because her singular goal in life was to be a mother. She wanted to expose her three daughters to each of the arts she loves so much: painting, music, dance, opera.
During her struggles and after, Mom was always determined that her life would mean something. She was instrumental in establishing the Girls Club of El Paso, which she served in several roles, including president, volunteer coordinator, and program coordinator. First Presbyterian Church has also been a main focus of her service where she has been a deacon, an elder, and a faithful choir member. Her passion for reading makes her a dedicated member of two book clubs, the Fantastiks and Tuesday Book Club. Her favorite activity each week, however, remains her Wednesday bridge group, with whom she has laughed and shared stories for more than twenty years. Mom has always believed that the three sustaining pillars of her life are faith, family, and friends.
Mental illness affects one in five adults in a given year, and everyone knows someone who has struggled with a mental health issue: anxiety, depression, and addiction to name a few. I pray that the final message of this book is to know treatment and hope are available. Let’s end
the stigma and start talking about mental health with the same normalcy we extend to physical health. That is something we all can do.
Here are some mental health resources:
IN CHARLOTTE:
HopeWay
www.hopewayfoundation.org
NATIONAL:
National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI)
www.nami.org
Bring Change 2 Mind
A nonprofit organization working to end the stigma and
discrimination surrounding mental illness.
www.bringchange2mind.org
READER’S GUIDE
Thank you for reading The Hundred Story Home: A Memoir of Finding Faith in Ourselves and Something Bigger. I would love to be in your living room discussing this with you, your book club, or study group. Below are some questions to get the conversation going. If you have discussed The Hundred Story Home, let me know! I’m eager to hear your responses, including related issues your group discussed that weren’t in this guide. Send your comments and suggestions to [email protected].
1.One of the central themes in The Hundred Story Home is homelessness, yet there are many levels to this issue, from those living on the streets to the challenge of eldercare. Have you ever experienced homelessness or even a temporary loss of place or self? In what ways could you relate to people like Samuel, Jay, Ruth, and Coleman? Have you had to move parents from their home?
2.Did getting to know the stories of how people like Coleman and Chilly Willy became homeless make you feel or think differently about homelessness or homeless people? Do you ever feel compelled to stop and talk to a homeless person and learn his or her story? Have you? If not, what holds you back?
3.How did the stories of women like Christine (who left the pilot program) affect your perspective about how homelessness might be different for women than men?
4.Mental illness is a prevalent theme in The Hundred Story Home. It carries a similar stigma to homelessness. Although one in five adults will be diagnosed in a given year with a mental illness, a silence and perceived shame around the topic remain. The National Association on Mental Illness encourages people to “see the person, not the illness.” Do you or someone you love have experience with this type of stigma? How does it make you feel? What are some ways we can reach out to people who might be suffering in this way?