Shower Day at St Luke's Episcopal Church today. A very nice day, smooth, just the right number of people - 32 women for clothes and 15 for showers which took us to almost 1PM. There were many more men, there always are, but they were kind men, no raised voices, advocating politely for their women ("Please could you let her have a shower? She really needs one!").

Standing at the gates, writing down the names of the women and handing out tickets for the clothes and showers, a funny thing happened. A young woman comes up with the name Miesha. She had to spell it out for me. "That's an unusual name!" I said, "I've never met anyone with that name before!" And then. THE VERY NEXT PERSON IN LINE... "What's your name?" "Myesha!" She spelled it out with a Y instead of an I. Meanwhile the first Miesha is going nuts! "You have my name!! How can you have my name? She said [meaning me] I was the only one!!" I'm laughing - "It's ok, she spells her name differently, you are still the only one!" She was mollified, but barely.

A young woman stopped me in the parking lot after I added her name to the list. "I need to apologize," she said, her hand on my arm, "I'm so sorry. I've yelled at you and the other ladies, I've cussed and used bad words when you try to get me out of the shower. It's been weighing on me, how I've yelled at you. Makes me feel bad." She's right, she's known to take forever to get out of the shower, which leads to quite a bit of frustration and yelling on both sides. But for her to recognize it and feel bad about it, and apologize yet, is both rare and touching. I give her a hug and thank her for saying sorry. And when it was her turn, she was positively speedy. She flung open the bathroom door and asked if I'd tighten her bra straps for her. I was happy to help. I felt like her mom.

The young woman with her beloved skateboard who gives off a tough as nails vibe started screaming bloody murder when she was getting dressed. Turns out there was a spider - "A brown recluse!!" - and she was practically standing on the toilet. So there's me, who's not thrilled about spiders myself, wetting a paper towel and trying to throw it over the spider who is trying to jam itself under the baseboard. When I saw how hard it was trying to make itself small, I relaxed - clearly it was far more frightened of us (with cause! "Kill it!! Kill it!" shrieks the young woman) and I did catch it and take it outside and toss it in the flower bed, far from the showers. It was a rare moment of bravery - this young woman has dealt with horrors I can't even imagine, but hey! I could save her from a spider.

There is a woman who comes regularly who now has a place to live, but still comes for the clothes and the hot lunch. She has had a nasty open sore near her eye for months now. I always ask her about it - last time she was supposed to be having it operated on - today she confesses she "got scared." She promises she will get it seen to "before Christmas." She's sitting with a friend who tells her, "You get scared, I'll come with you, I'll sit with you." The friend continues, "I have things I need to see the doctor about, operations probably, but what's the use? I'm living on the streets, who will take care of me?" She says it with a shrug. She's not angling for her friend to take her in. This is just how it is, the reality of life for the homeless.

By 11 o'clock, the other volunteers for the women's side have left, the clothes cupboard is closed and I'm just waiting for the last of the shower people to finish up. And a woman shows up, dead face, expressionless eyes. "I've driven down from Skid Row, I just got here, can I have some clothes and a shower?" I say, no sorry, it's too late. She turns away without arguing. I overhear a man tell her, "Sometimes if you're nice, they'll take pity on you and let you get some clothes." So she comes back, this time with a little smile. "I know I'm too late, but if I could just have a clean pair of pants?" I tell myself not to be mean, what else am I doing after all, but just waiting around? And she is making an effort and it bothers me no end that she should have to make nice to get around me, the authority figure, who is enforcing arbitrary rules that prevent her from simply getting clean clothes. I open the closet and pull down a container marked 'pants'. There are two pairs left, one black, the other a cheery pattern of red, white and blue. Another woman moseys in, "Could I have a pair of underpants?" We only have enormous sizes left - she is half their size. She takes a pair. "Will they fit?" I say frowning. "I'll manage. I peed in my pants, I need a clean pair. These'll do." She turns to the first woman and nods at the patterned pants, "Those are nice. You should take them." So she does. Underpants lady wanders off. First lady asks if there's a T-shirt to match the pants. "I like to wear clothes that match," she confides. "They make me feel better on the streets." And then a striped white and gold shirt catches her eye. It's way up high, I struggle to get it down for her. I grumble a bit in my head about this. And then she confides, "My mother's favorite color is this golden yellow. Today is her birthday. She's 83! God gives us 70 years. She's been given an extra 13. She has been blessed. Life is good to her. She lives up in Glendale. I don't have enough gas to get up there to see her, but I can wear gold for her birthday." I am ashamed of my unkind thoughts. I give her a shower kit, soap and body lotion, toothbrush and a towel, and although it's too late for the showers, I tell her to go in the restroom next door and wash up in the sink. She does so.

Solomon the dog is not here today - "too hot in the van for him" says his owner, she doesn't say where he is. His owner, she who loves boxer shorts, shows me her various scars. Her knees are in shocking condition - deeply scarred - as is her upper arm where she was shot (a glancing shot but still, "I almost lost my arm") and puncture wounds from a stabbing in the other arm. All these wounds from the same incident. When she was walking down an alley at 3 o'clock in the afternoon in San Pedro about ten years ago, with her head phones on ("I never wear head phones now, you can't hear anything"). Two men jumped her from behind. They wanted her backpack in which was a good camera and some DVDs and she couldn't remember what else. They dragged her by the arms down the alley and tore the skin off her knees to the bone. She was wearing Levis - the Levis didn't tear -"I should write to the company and tell them the story, it's a great recommendation for their jeans." The doctors told her she wouldn't be able to walk again. She spent three months in hospital. But she recovered "thanks to my strong German and Jewish heritage - I come from survivors."

All these people are survivors, doing the best they can.

Let me leave you with this: picture a wiry man holding a (what? Boombox? Do they still have those? something bigger than a phone anyway) blasting out a lively Gospel song with the lyrics, "I am blessed." He's singing along and dancing and weaving around the courtyard, he's got a whole routine going, and everyone stops what they're doing to watch and smile and share his joy. And just for the moment, it's enough.