This Easter, we remember that hope is not a feeling, but a promise made real. The story of Jesus rising from the grave is the clearest example I know of hope returning where there was none.
For me, and for the people we serve, that promise shows up in small, ordinary ways: a hand offered when someone is falling, a meal shared at a table, a volunteer who refuses to give up. As we mark this season of new life, I see resurrection in the everyday work of our shelter’s lives, nudged back toward dignity, faith renewed, and a community learning to be the hands and feet of that promise.
Fourteen years ago, I arrived at a low point — hopeless, worn down, and unsure if anything could change. Then hope found me. It came in small, steady ways: a stranger who asked if I was okay, a volunteer who stayed to listen, a donor who quietly covered a bill so I could eat. Walking through the doors of the shelter to serve, I discovered even more hope. Seeing the men who kept trying, watching donors give out of compassion or gratitude, and feeling the community rally around people in crisis lit something in me that I hadn’t known was possible. That hope propelled me forward, shaped my faith, and became the reason I show up every day.
Fourteen years ago, I stepped into this work carrying my own history of homelessness like a quiet shadow. I didn’t talk about it much in those early days. I wasn’t sure how people would receive it, or whether they’d see it as a liability instead of the strength it has become. Over time, I learned that lived experience isn’t something you hide. It’s something you stand on. It’s the bridge that lets you meet people where they are without judgment, without fear, and without the need to pretend.
When I first started at the shelter, I had nothing more than a GED and a desire to rebuild my life. I was 32 years old when I walked into my first college class. What began as an attempt to better my own situation slowly turned into a calling to better the lives of others. One class became one semester. One semester became a degree. And it didn’t stop there. Not at one degree, or two, or three, but four, ending with a master’s degree that allowed me to become the agency’s first social worker.
My education wasn’t just about books or credentials. It was about becoming the person I needed when I was struggling, and the person our clients deserved.
After 14 years of walking beside people who are homeless, I’ve learned that most folks don’t need to be “fixed.” They need to be believed in. When I was homeless, the thing I needed most wasn’t advice or a list of what I should’ve done differently. I needed someone to look at me and see more than my circumstances. I see that same need in our clients every single day. People rise when someone believes they can. Can you see those experiencing homelessness beyond their circumstances?
I’ve also learned that survival mode is not a character flaw. I remember what it felt like to live day‑to‑day, hour‑to‑hour. You don’t plan. You don’t dream. You survive. I see that same look in the eyes of the men, women, and families who walk through our doors. Survival mode isn’t laziness or lack of motivation. It’s the body and mind doing whatever it takes to stay alive. Coming out of it takes time, safety, and patience.
One of the most concerning trends we’re seeing today is the number of very young people, 18‑ and 19‑year‑olds, becoming homeless. When someone that young comes through our doors, we move quickly. Every day they spend on the streets is a day closer to becoming complacent, or worse, finding comfort in homelessness. They meet new people, including individuals who have been chronically homeless for years, and those influences can shape their mindset fast. We work hard to interrupt that trajectory before homelessness becomes part of their identity instead of a temporary crisis.
We are also seeing the opposite end of the age range: older adults being evicted from nursing homes and assisted living facilities with nowhere to go. Many of them are medically fragile, socially isolated, or unable to navigate the world on their own. When someone in their 60s or 70s arrives at our shelter with a walker, oxygen tank, or a stack of discharge papers, it’s a stark reminder that homelessness does not discriminate by age. These individuals often fall through the cracks of systems that were never designed to catch them, and they require a level of care, patience, and advocacy that stretches far beyond a bed and a meal.
Over the last 14 years, I’ve also learned, firsthand, how disability and communication barriers shape people’s paths into homelessness. I’ve worked with clients who are physically disabled, living with serious mental health conditions, deaf or nonverbal, limited in English, or separated from services by generational mistrust. Those barriers change everything about how we respond. Meeting someone with a hearing impairment or limited speech taught me the importance of communication access; arranging interpreters and using assistive technology isn’t optional, it’s essential. Helping a client with mobility needs meant coordinating medical equipment and transportation. Supporting someone with cognitive or mental health challenges requires steady, patient casework and strong partnerships with behavioral health providers. For older clients raised to distrust institutions, I learned to slow down, listen more, and earn trust one conversation at a time.
Practical changes we’ve made because of that experience include accessible intake forms, plain‑language materials, interpreter services, staff training in disability etiquette and trauma‑informed care, and formal partnerships with health and disability agencies. These steps aren’t extras; they’re how we make equity real. When we remove barriers, people can engage in services, keep appointments, and begin the slow work of healing.
Over the years, I’ve seen how hard it can be for people to offer hope — and how many obstacles blunt even the best intentions. Naming those barriers helps us respond more effectively.
- Stigma and mistrust — People experiencing homelessness often expect judgment and test systems for safety before they engage. We respond by modeling nonjudgmental presence and teaching volunteers and staff to ask one open question and listen.
- Resource scarcity and broken promises — When beds, funding, or services are inconsistent, hope becomes fragile. We respond by being honest about capacity, offering alternatives and warm handoffs, and advocating for predictable funding.
- Communication and accessibility gaps — Deaf clients, non‑English speakers, low‑literacy individuals, and those with cognitive differences are often excluded by standard intake processes. We respond with interpreters, plain‑language forms, pictorial guides, and on‑call ASL or video interpreting.
- Complex health and behavioral needs — Untreated chronic conditions and mental health issues accelerate decline and make engagement harder. We respond by building coordinated care pathways, a clinic at the shelter, telehealth options, and case managers who navigate systems for clients.
- Transportation and logistics — Without reliable transport, people miss jobs, appointments, and opportunities to stabilize. We respond by partnering with local transit, providing ride vouchers, and scheduling services around transit realities.
- Volunteer and donor fatigue — Emotional investment without support leads to burnout. We respond by offering training, supervision, debriefs, and clear impact reporting so supporters see the difference they make.
- Cultural and generational barriers — Older adults or people from communities that distrust institutions may avoid help; younger people may not know how to ask for it. We respond by using peer navigators with lived experience and creating youth‑friendly approaches.
- Low‑cost actions anyone can take — Show up consistently. Bring essentials: socks, hygiene items, and healthy snacks. Learn one phrase in another language common in your community. Invite friends to a shelter for a tour so more people can see the work firsthand.
Over the last decade and a half, we have also lost many people who were homeless at the time of their death. I don’t say homelessness killed them outright, but I do believe it played a role. Being homeless is a crisis that wears on the body and mind: constant stress from worrying about safety and survival, poor nutrition, overexposure to the elements, and living in a near‑constant fight‑or‑flight state all accelerate health decline. Those factors compound chronic conditions, weaken immune systems, and shorten lives. Losing people this way is a reminder that our work is urgent not only to provide shelter, but to reduce the daily harms that make recovery harder and mortality more likely.
I’ve also witnessed humanity at its best. I’ve seen what loving your neighbor looks like in practice — true, nonjudgmental care that reflects our mission to be a place where people are seen as Christ would see them. Donors give because compassion moves them or because they’re grateful for where they are. Strangers who have never experienced homelessness find their lives touched and changed. Volunteers and staff invest emotionally, and that investment transforms them as much as it transforms the people they serve. Across all walks of life, I’ve watched lives be radically altered simply because shelters existed and people showed up.
My first few years here in Owensboro were a turning point for me personally. Hope was created in me by the love others showed for my well-being, strangers who later became like family, people who supported the personal mission I believe God gave me, and those who helped me become a believer and a spreader of hope. I can honestly say that every day when I leave the shelter, I am filled with joy, hope, and the conviction that lives are being radically changed. That conviction is rooted in faith: I see God at work through the hands and hearts of volunteers, donors, and staff. We can learn from one another how to create hope for those around us. We can ask what being American really means to our community and to the people within it. If we are to live up to that ideal, we must be the hope that each person experiencing homelessness needs to see. Life is uncertain and frightening for adults; for younger generations, it can be even more so. Our response matters.
The smallest of things makes the most impact. A little time, a little money, a head nod, or a smile — these are not trivial. Hold the door open. Give a hand up. Offer a few honest, encouraging words that remind someone they matter. I’ve seen how a volunteer’s consistent presence builds trust, how a modest donation keeps someone fed for a week, and how a simple “I believe in you” can change the course of a day. When we normalize small, compassionate acts, we create a culture of hope people can step into and carry forward.
I’ve learned that trauma doesn’t disappear just because someone gets a bed. Housing is essential, but healing is a different journey. People carry storms inside them long after the rain stops. Sometimes, the hardest work isn’t finding someone a place to stay; it helps them believe they deserve peace once they get there.
And I’ve learned that small things are not small. A ride to work. A clean pair of socks. A hot meal. A staff member remembers your name. A donor giving because they believe in second chances.
These things look small from the outside, but on the inside, they can be the difference between giving up and holding on.
Community, I’ve learned, is built one moment at a time. People don’t heal in isolation. They heal when someone sits with them, listens to them, remembers their birthday, or asks how their court date went. Connection is the medicine we don’t talk about enough.
But maybe the lesson that has shaped me the most is this: hope is contagious. I’ve watched people who once slept under bridges become employees, parents, students, and leaders. I’ve watched men who thought they had nothing left become the first ones to help someone new. I’ve watched women who survived impossible things become fierce advocates for others. Hope spreads. And once it catches, it changes everything.
After 14 years of doing this work, walking beside people who are homeless, learning from them, growing with them, and seeing hope rise in places most people overlook — I believe the mission of St. Benedict’s Shelter and the Daniel Pitino Shelter is something our whole community deserves to witness firsthand.
This Easter, join us in turning the season’s promise of new life into action. Give in honor of hope by supporting Daniel Pitino, St. Benedict’s, or another local shelter, whether that means a financial gift, a few hours of volunteer time, or a bag of essentials. Donate to help keep beds, meals, and casework available. Volunteer to offer a steady presence and practical help. Bring essentials like socks, hygiene items, and healthy snacks to reduce daily stress for someone in crisis. If you’re moved by faith, consider a gift or service in thanksgiving for the new life Easter celebrates.
Your support is more than charity; it is a sign that our community refuses to let people be defined by their worst day. Small acts, consistent time, a modest donation, a kind word become the hands and feet of resurrection for someone who needs it most. See it for yourself. Tour the shelters. Volunteer for a few hours. Donate items that meet immediate needs. Connect with someone who works here and ask how you can help interrupt a life of homelessness before it becomes permanent.
This Easter, be the hope someone can see and hold. Contact Daniel Pitino Shelter or St. Benedict’s to learn the most urgent needs and how you can help.
Written by Harry Pedigo
