Hope Is For Times of Uncertainty

By Myriam Shehata, OTN Intern


On Tuesday afternoon, as the last voters made their ways to the polls, Lindsey, Kathryn, and I took to canvassing: to find new camps and to see how our friends are doing and what they need as they anticipate winter.

It wasn’t until we circled our way back to head home three and a half hours later that I realized what a tiny little sliver of the city we had covered—we tried to spend a few minutes talking to everyone we found, but we had found tons of campsites and many more likely locations that we just didn’t have time to check. And we were only looking for new camps! In the likely spots, the locations that Lindsey knew we might have some luck finding people—behind train tracks, under bridges, in quiet woods—even these were full of new faces, folks who were new to town or new to this side of the country—folks who, for so many reasons had to pick up and relocate.

I’m a little surprised it took me this long to realize, but on Tuesday it hit me just how much our friends on the streets have to live on the move, continuously looking for better, and just how many of them find themselves so often in unknown and uncertain places, sometimes alone, forced to keep some kind of hope in the face of it all.

This capacity for hope overwhelmed me, because not too much reflection showed me that I am very good at having expectations and much worse at having hope.

I had expectations about a lot of things that happened this week. Starting from the minute I wake up each morning, I have anticipations and expectations of what the day will have in store. That Tuesday, I had expectations about how many people we would find in the woods. I had expectations about the limits of poverty and suffering in our city. And I surely had expectations about how Tuesday night would go. Of course, my expectations are not always so off the mark, but it’s when I found myself with expectations shattered that I realized how much I had been at a loss for hope—real hope. The kind of hope that acknowledges uncertainty and danger and fear and persists anyway. The kind that doesn’t depend on crystal clear skies and a wide safety net below. The kind that moves you to action, not to closing your eyes, crossing your fingers, and wishing for everything to return to what you’ve always known.

As we struggle to come to terms with all the changes in our city and our country, I keep coming back to the hope that our friends must carry with them as they pack up and relocate, always imagining something better. My prayer for the days and months to come is that in times of disappointment, anxiety, even shame, I may come to focus on and actively work towards the hope of our friends, a hope that we ultimately share: hope for a stronger, more inclusive, and more supportive community. Hope that we can come together and take part in the work of making this vision of justice a reality.



OTN’s 2016-2017 Winter Outreach Resource Guide

The official 2016-2017 Winter Outreach Resource Guide is here! If you have been wondering how you personally can help people you encounter who don’t have permanent housing or access to the resources they need this winter, you can find all the information you need to know in this guide. We cover available shelters, emergency situations, what you can donate, and more!

We recommend printing a few and putting them in your church, your car, or your purse so you’ll always have one on hand and know what to do in any situation and how best to help our friends. Download the resource guide here! If you would like to learn more about how you can help with our winter canvassing efforts, please visit our Cold Weather Response page or email


Love & Thanks,

The OTN Team


Relational Self-Care

By Haley Spigner

Everyone talks about “slowing down.” I usually struggle with the line between truly needing rest and being lazy. The line between taking enough time for myself and being too overprotective of my alone time. Am I not actually pushing myself hard enough? Or is guilt driving me to push too hard? If I actually ask my soul, I know the answer. But who has time for that?

Slow down. Make space. Allow yourself to rest. To process. To grieve. Smell the roses. Self care. Blah blah blah.

This work is literally life and death some days. What is slowing down? What benefit is there?

If I actually ask my soul, I know the answer. But who has time for that?

This week I sat with several people in some pretty dire situations. And for the first time in a while, I didn’t care how long it took. It didn’t matter. I didn’t rush. As I sit this evening and unpack my week, I am thinking back on what made this week so different than the last few months.

My first time meeting Richard was kind of accidental but I ended up being his ride home from the laundromat one day. I got there early and I was essentially a stranger to him but as he meticulously folded all of his laundry, he told me all about his life and his calling and visions he’s had. He asked about how I got involved with OTN and I gave him the short, clean, edited version that had become my rehearsed answer to that question.

I saw him a handful of times after the evening at the laundromat, one of the times being when I stopped by his apartment to check and see if he had seen a doctor about some pain he had mentioned. This quick check-in ended in me taking him to the ER. As we waited he asked me if I believed in Jesus and why people like us (Lindsey and I, specifically) chose to walk into “their” world.

This was only the millionth time I had been asked some version of Why on earth did you chose this work? Richard’s version of the question came out something like “Why do you chose to be involved in something so hopeless?”

“I don’t mean to make it an ‘us’ versus ‘y’all’ kind of thing,” he said, “but sometimes if I could get out of this family, this community of those on the street, I think I would.”

I attempted to offer him my cookie cutter answer but I had already told him the how of me entering this world at the laundromat. So he just stared at me blankly, uninterested in my boring response that didn’t get to the heart of things, to the parts of me that make me human and truly explain how I ended up in the ER with him at 9:00 PM on a Wednesday night. I didn’t have a prepared answer he hadn’t already heard so we sat in silence. I thought back to classes about tuning in to clients and appropriate self-disclosure and boundaries and tried to change the subject.

But he had shared part of his heart with me… and it was at that moment I realized I was unwilling to share mine with him. But I wasn’t sure why, especially considering that all throughout my social work education, I hated talking about boundaries. I wanted relationships, not clients and case notes!

But relationship are hard. And scary. And can hurt. And I realized I had been hiding from them, and instead resorting to “transactional work”:

I bring you the paperwork. I drive you to the ER. I help you figure out the food boxes near you. I call the landlord for you. No more. I don’t let you see my soul or my hurt. I don’t tune in because I don’t know what I could possibly feel if I do and I just can’t take that risk.

At that moment the “journey together” piece of our mission just clicked. I am here to journey alongside: relational versus transactional. So I talked: outside of my script, outside of my comfort zone. I was honest with Richard that this work is hard and scary and the last few months have been pretty rough. That I mess up and I don’t always (usually) know what I’m doing and that I learn best the hard way, unfortunately. Then the doctor came in and told us what we already knew and we left to get coffee. I’m not sure if the shift that happened in my being was apparent to Richard or not, but to me, it was a turning point.

It’s cool these days to be frantically busy and bustling and overwhelmed. Not to me. I want to move slowly enough that when I leave people, they don’t have to wonder if the blur that just came through talking at a mile a minute was me or not. I want to journey with my friends. That is why I’m here after all. I think I have been so afraid of tuning in and not having enough Haley to go around. But I tuned in better this week than I have in a long while and I finished this week more full than I have been in just as long.

I have heard my coworkers say a million times that we have something to offer and to gain from our friends. I never want to miss another opportunity to gain or to offer myself.

I think self-care is less about bubble baths or having technology-free time or making space and more about actually listening to your soul. I know at my core what is too fast or too busy. My heart knows. And the people around me know. People can tell when I’m rushing through my time with them. Richard knew I wanted to hide from his real questions. And he knew when I stopped being the social worker with all of the answers and became the person that was journeying through life alongside him.


The Most Dangerous Prayer

By Sarah Partee, 2016 OTN Intern


“I wish I had your life,” he turned and said to me. He was laying in a hospital bed with the murmur of the  television in the background. It had been a long night. The small room smelled of untended wounds and unwashed clothes. It was early and I do not like getting up early but I had to see him: I needed to know he was okay.

“Why do you say that?” I asked. I had met Eli only two days ago at the “Outreach Wednesday” foot clinic in the park across from the downtown library. I had no idea how much of an impact he was going to have on me. I took him to the emergency room no more than one hour after taking a look at his feet. He had a nasty cut and infection on his left foot. It was so swollen I didn’t understand how he had been walking on it as much as he was. But he didn’t have a choice. He didn’t have a stable home.

Eli turned and looked at me sitting in the cushioned, guest chair beside his bed. “You have two parents who love you and who are still alive. My mom was murdered when I was a baby and my dad has been in prison my whole life.”

My face became warm and I tried my best to hide the tears that welled in my eyes. That was not the response I was expecting. I thought he was going to tease me about how spoiled and privileged I was—as he had done a few times the night before. He went on to tell me how he grew up with his sister in foster care, suffered abuse, and started doing drugs and drinking at too early an age.

The night before I had stayed for a few hours in the waiting room with him until his name was called and he was put in a hospital bed in the hallway. After receiving an ultrasound, they discovered he had a blood clot in his leg.

It was getting late and I decided to leave him that night, hoping that the doctors would keep him overnight. If he was released, where was he to go? He told me he’d sleep in the park that night if he had to. His aunt’s place was too far away.

I went home that night to my parents house in Brentwood feeling exhausted and overwhelmed. The heavy weight of guilt overtook me. I have everything. A big family whose love I have never questioned, a nice car I didn’t have to pay for, a private school education, a closet bursting with clothes for every event and season, a perfect childhood, an incredible church home and foundation. Eli has none of these things. And he is just one story, just one person broken from the world’s injustices.

I went for a walk to clear my head. I prayed for Eli and for everyone who does not feel loved, who does not have a supportive community. I physically felt my heart breaking in half. I began sobbing for the people I’ve met… my brothers and sisters. We don’t choose what we are born into. Why was I born into a loving and supportive family where I never had to worry about where my next meal was going to come from? Why are others born into situations like the one Eli described?

I thought back to a time when I had prayed, “Lord, break my heart for what breaks yours.” It hit me that night as I was walking: that is the most dangerous prayer I have ever prayed and it was happening right that very moment. My internship with Open Table had been one of the most eye-opening learning experiences I had ever had. I have been on a whole bunch of mission trips throughout my life—all over the country and world. But this poverty, brokenness, and injustice is in my backyard.

A part of me is thankful to God for breaking my heart for His children who are lonely, hurt, and discouraged. Another part of me is terrified to feel this way. I want to have this fire lit every second of every day so that I never forget. At the same time, I also want to gently put these feelings into a nice box so I can comfortably watch Friends tonight with a bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.

I will never be the same after this internship. I am thankful for a whole lot in my life but that is at the top of my list right now. I felt God planting a purpose in my heart, a calling to love His children from all different walks of life. I don’t know how that will look for the rest of my life but there is nothing I am more excited to do. I keep praying “Lord, continue to break my heart for what breaks yours. Disrupt my contentedness and make me uncomfortable.” I know now that those are dangerous words—and I repeat them over and over again so that progress will march on.



Family Homelessness in the “It City”

By Becca Dryden


As the Resource Coordinator for Open Table, I talk on the phone often with people trying to navigate the complicated web of social services in Nashville. I talk to folks with all sorts of different experiences and life stories, but lately I’ve been noticing a recurring theme in my work: family homelessness. It seems like every day, I receive a call from another family who has lost their housing because the landlord decided to sell, new management raised the rent, or a vague eviction notice simply provided an “out-by” date. Families who had a home within their budget have been forced out with little opportunity to find a comparable rental property to accommodate both their budgets and the size of their families. In these situations, the only immediate option, the local rescue mission, isn’t even an option for many families. The mission provides a very important service for unhoused folks in our community, but for some families—such as single fathers, families with teenage boys, families with parents who need to be together for emotional or other needs—it isn’t a viable option. In these cases, parents are left without a safe place to take themselves and their children.

Full disclosure, I am a mother of a toddler. This colors my view of the world, and I hope it can be an asset in some situations. A lot of parents joke (though with some truth) about “surviving” parenthood. I certainly have days where survival feels like an accomplishment. For families experiencing unstable housing, displacement, and homelessness, survival takes on a whole new meaning. Survival means not just getting through toddler meltdowns and sleepless nights; it means finding enough to eat, doing whatever it takes to have a safe place for your children to sleep at night, fighting to keep your family together, hoping to avoid illness, and praying that somehow this broken system won’t overlook you and your family.

The reality is that this broken system is overlooking so many families. Our city is growing and flourishing at the expense of families who already live here. They are our neighbors and we, the “It City,” have a responsibility to make sure they aren’t pushed out of their homes. For those who are unhoused, we must ensure there are ample options and resources. Until that happens, my job as the Resource Coordinator for Open Table will continue to be complicated by the lack of actual options to offer to families experiencing homelessness.
I could end on some sort of hopeful note with a story of the resilience and strength of these families, some silver lining so that we can step away without feeling the burden of this reality.  To do so would be a disservice to the seriousness of this issue. When I talk to parents dealing with displacement and trying to find the help to merely scrape by, I can’t help but be outraged. Discomfort and anger seems to me an appropriate response to the reality of family homelessness. I hope we can take that anger and make the necessary changes in our city for the parents and children just trying to survive.