ABOUT MERCY HOUSE
© Elana Ho
The story of Mercy House is a story of care.
Inspired by Dorothy Day and Jane Addams, Ann Arbor resident Peggy opened up the doors of her own home to serve as a house of hospitality for the homeless.
Located at 805 W Huron St., within walking distance from U-M’s campus, it’s easy to spot as the gray-blue house with the peace sign flag in front. Mercy House offers shelter, companionship, shower and laundry facilities, and they serve dinner from 6PM - 8:30PM on Mondays and Wednesdays and community breakfast from 10AM - 2PM on Saturdays.
But more than a house, it’s a home - in the truest sense of the word.
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Walking into Mercy House on a Saturday morning feels like a big family reunion. People eat breakfast together, crack jokes, there’s always music playing, and there’s a good chance you’ll find someone singing (or even dancing) along. As I’ve volunteered with Mercy House in the past year, I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know some of the faces, names, and stories of the residents there.
Mercy House is a place where I’ve:
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Learned to make pancakes, perfecting the perfect flip with each community breakfast
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Learned how to moonwalk (albeit very badly), taught by Alonzo, the most enthusiastic dancer I know
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Engaged in discussions about everything from entrepreneurship to faith to the latest U-M football games with people who are always eager for a good conversation
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But most of all, Mercy House is a place of radical care. It’s a place where compassion is readily exchanged and received, where people know your name, and go out of their way to help in any way they can. I could talk for hours about my experience at Mercy House, but here are some moments of care I’ve witnessed that I want to share with you.
MOMENTS
My moments at Mercy House
Note: Some names have been changed to preserve privacy
1. Making Coffee
© Elana Ho
In the midst of the Mercy House kitchen, on the side of the kitchen countertop lies a coffeepot. Above it, on a shelf, you have your coffee filters, Maxwell coffee grounds, scoop, stick sticks, as well as a host of other things that don’t belong there - mustard packets, straws, tissues, and crumpled up napkins. When the coffee pot is empty, a small congregation forms in the front of the kitchen: there’s Robert, sitting on the kitchen barstool (his laugh is loud and fast but his eyes sparkle bright) and Beth, beside him.
While they wait, they share stories - Robert offhandedly mentions how he’s been sober for 2 months (not a small feat after his best friend died - “what do you do when you see your best friend’s brains get blown out?” How do you see the world after?).
Beth congratulates him and commiserates with the struggle on mental health - “Yea, just last month I put a knife to my veins and wanted to kill my self.” Robert looks her straight in the eye: “Don’t do that.” The clock ticks by. They are both waiting - waiting for a cup of coffee, waiting for something warm, something to keep them going, something they can hold to their face and feel the flush of blood as it rises to their cheeks, something that reminds them that they are yet still alive.
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This is my first time being here on a Wednesday night. This is my first time making coffee. And I think: Who am I to be making this coffee? To bear witness to such a moment? What little can I offer?
I set the pot down in front of them.
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As the night goes on, I see Robert and Beth laugh and hug each other.
Before he leaves, Robert looks at me with a twinkle in his eye and tells me I did a good job making coffee. And in that moment, though such kindness is wholly unnecessary, I can’t help but feel something inside me settle. And suddenly, it all makes sense - the mustard packets, straws, and tissues - things that don't really need to be there, but are yet present, bearing witness. And I feel warm, I feel alive, and I feel grateful for simply having been there, bearing witness.
2. Birthday
“Who’s good at singing?”
No one responds and yet, 3 seconds later, we all burst into a cacophony of happy birthday. Today is Amy’s birthday. Amy is a resident at Mercy House. With silvery-white hair, she looks to be in her fifties or sixties. In many ways Amy is the mom of the house (or the cool aunt depending on who you ask) - she helps make sure things are stocked for Mercy House's meal service, and all in all, keeps people in check.
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There’s no exchange of gifts but I can’t help but think that the gift we offer is all of our presence here, ourselves. Some of us are longtime friends of Amy, some of us are strangers, yet we are all here: celebrating her existence.
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Birthdays are one of those sweet, sentimental yet expected routines we often take for granted. And yet it’s not lost on me how special this is: The average life expectancy of someone experiencing homelessness in America is a mere 50 years old. And yet, Amy is here, standing with us today.
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After singing happy birthday, we distribute cake, handing slices out on paper napkins, and continue serving Mercy House’s standard Saturday breakfast service.
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But in the midst of all the mundane, there still hangs an air of celebration: the joy of a birthday, the joy of being present and alive, the joy of eating cake with breakfast, as if you were 9 years old, the whole world still ahead of you, the only thing on your mind being the sweetness lingering on your tongue.
3. Winter Garden
On a frigid October morning, I wander out to the backyard of Mercy House, and for the first time, notice the garden, complete with soil beds and metal trellises. I am surprised that in the middle of fall, with winter fast approaching, that anything still grows but here it is: a stalk of kale rising right before my very eyes, perhaps a little frostbitten, but no worse for the wear. A little miracle of life on this Saturday morning.
© Elana Ho
Two hours later, this same place is where we hold a memorial service for those Mercy House has lost over the years. Due to COVID, Mercy House hasn’t had a memorial in over 2 years, but today, the backyard is packed with people.
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When I ask Gracie, Mercy House manager, how many they’ve lost, she simply shakes her head and says, “too many.”
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During the memorial, people go around sharing stories of those they’ve loved and lost: stories of fathers who though they were flawed, showed their son how to love and let go; stories of friends who, in the midst of homelessness, made you feel like you were going to be okay and there was indeed a way out; stories of people who spoke their mind and gossiped and hugged and despite everything that was taken from them, were so full of life.
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© Elana Ho
But out of all the names and stories shared, the one that really sticks out to me is Rachel's. A frequent face at Mercy House, she was someone who would literally give you the shirt off her back. She would help in any way she could. When she heard that Mercy House was building a garden, she was so excited she sold her food stamps to buy seeds.
I don’t know if Rachel ever got to see the garden planted - to see the fruits of her labor - and yet I can’t help but think of the hope she had when she first bought those seeds - the hope that every gardener has. The hope to get prepared and make way for something new. The hope that somehow all this waiting and nurturing and patient plodding, isn’t just for nothing. The hope that no matter how long the winter, spring always comes.
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Apparently, kale is one of the only vegetables that can survive winter. In fact, it thrives and can even become sweeter in the frost (Wikipedia).
Now, whenever I see the garden, it takes on a whole new meaning. A story of a woman who in the face of pain, didn’t withdraw, but instead kept giving and giving - as if she knew life was far more abundant than most of us realize.
A reminder that yes, you too, can become sweeter in the struggle.
The
Call to
Care
In a world where empathy is declining, problems are becoming increasingly complex, and suffering seems to multiply all around us, it can be easy not to care - to withdraw, to throw up our hands and say: “what’s the use anyway?”
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The experiences I’ve had and moments I’ve witnessed at Mercy House remind me how important it is to care. The people at Mercy House are not any less burned out or wearied than the rest of us. Rather, out of all people who might not care, you would think that the people who come to Mercy House have an excuse to be lost in their own sufferings and problems.
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And yet, time and time again they show me the opposite. That where there is great pain, there is also great compassion. They understand that care is worth it - dare I say, a necessary part to our survival.
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They show me that care doesn’t have to be a grandiose act but can be as simple as a cup of coffee, a slice of birthday cake, or a few seeds planted in a garden in the hope that someday, life will come to be.
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They show me that care, no matter how small, is never wasted.