A safe night's shelter

When the lights go out, most of the women are already on their cots, under two blankets.

Two lie awake, waiting for sleep. Another is already snoring lightly, intermittently. A fourth pads softly across the basement floor, whispering goodnight to her temporary roommates on her way to wash her face.

These sounds mix with the other noises of the church basement: the whirring of the heater, the rustling of mattresses and pillows, the occasional sniffle, sneeze or cough, the low whispers of volunteers.

It's just past 11 p.m. on a recent night at the women's Extreme Weather Shelter at Vineyard Christian Fellowship of Yakima. The doors are locked, it's quiet and those staying here are guarded against the elements and other dangers.

Homeless women are among the most vulnerable. According to the National Institute of Justice -- the research arm of the U.S. Department of Justice -- they are two to four times more likely to experience violence of any kind than American women in general.

This shelter is one of three in Yakima operated by Sunrise Outreach, a ministry at Vineyard that contracts with the Homeless Network of Yakima County to manage the shelters. The network represents about two dozen organizations that advocate for the homeless.

But it takes more than 200 volunteers, church members, restaurants and other groups to cover shifts and provide meals.

The shelters, part of a 3-year-old grass-roots community effort to help those who have nowhere else to go, offer sanctuary from early November through early or mid-March, when temperatures typically dip below freezing.

Two are for men. One is for women and children.

"Nobody wants to be homeless," says 51-year-old Loretta McGowan, one of the women who has been staying at the shelter. "It's scary. You don't know who to talk to, who not to talk to."

A survey conducted last year counted more than 1,000 homeless people in Yakima County, although many advocates believe the actual number is three times greater.

Most nights, some 50 people -- most of them men -- take advantage of the three shelters. The two men's shelters are slated to close for the season on the morning of March 16. The women's shelter is set to close Monday morning.

On a recent evening, guests at the Vineyard begin lining up in the gray light of late afternoon. Doors don't open until 5:30 p.m. But women start arriving as early as a half-hour before that. It's first come, first served, and there's only an hour to check in before doors close at 6:30.

On this evening, 58-year-old Debbie Peterson is the first to show up. She arrives carrying two bags of belongings, one in each hand.

"I had a place of my own, and I got behind on my money," she says. "Even though you have to get up early here, you have a place to rest, get good food. It's clean and comfy."

"The people are great."

Debbie has been sleeping here every night since November. "It's nice to have someplace to be and stay," she says.

Across Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, employees are filing out of City Hall, headed home to families and dinner. But for the women of the shelter, it's the beginning of a long night. There are no in-and-out privileges, other than the occasional supervised smoke break on the sidewalk. The women hunker down for 12 or 13 hours.

It's Rita Watterson's first night here this winter. One of the shelter's newest and youngest volunteers -- 18-year-old Lauren Lame Bull, a senior at Zillah's Christian Worship Center Academy -- is checking in guests. She sits behind a table in the entry way, armed with a clipboard, attendance sheets and copies of the rules. She asks if Rita's hungry.

"I have not eaten today," she replies.

"There's hot coffee," Lauren offers. Dinner won't be arriving for another 30 or 40 minutes. Meantime, the teen asks to see all of Rita's prescription medications, checking to make sure they all have their labels and that her name is on them.

"I have to," she says.

It's the rules. Others include: no alcohol, illegal drugs, weapons or gambling, and no loud noises or disruptive behavior.

Guests' belongings are also placed in a locked closet overnight. Lauren gives Rita a large, plastic garbage bag for her things.

"This is all I own anymore," she says as she begins filling the bag.

She also has a couple of questions. "Do you have a toothbrush?" she asks. And, "Can we take showers here at all?"

There are no shower nor laundry facilities, just food and shelter.

"It gives you a new perspective," says Lauren, who usually volunteers three days a week after school from about 5 to 9 p.m., depending on homework.

"I didn't know what to expect," she says. "I was like, 'Should I even be here?' Then I started talking to the women, and it was awesome. They're people, too, just because they didn't play their cards right or weren't dealt a good hand. ... I wish I could do more."

Dinner arrives just after 6, thanks to members of the local Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Soon, everyone -- the five guests, six LDS church members, three shelter volunteers -- are sitting down to eat. On tonight's menu: a veggie platter, cookies, milk, orange juice, baked potatoes with chili and cheese and other toppings: sour cream, salsa, olives and ranch dressing.

Churches, community groups and local restaurants take turns providing dinners as well as
take-away lunches for the next day. Mel's Diner does Mondays. Tuesdays, it's West Valley Church of the Nazarene or the employees from the downtown library. Wednesdays, the LDS group supplies the meals. Santiago's takes Thursdays. The Olive Garden has Fridays. Saturdays, it's the local Zonta Club or West Valley Church of the Nazarene. Sunday, Holy Family Parish helps.

As this meal winds down and cleanup begins, the guests decide to take a smoke break, chaperoned by Sheryl Hall, 56. They stand in a semicircle on the sidewalk. Rita wants a smoke, but doesn't have a cigarette so fellow guest Sonja Spingola shares one with her, handing her four more for the road.

Sonja, 39, calls the shelter "a godsend. I wish it was open 24/7."

Loretta does, too. She's been trying to get back on her feet since being evicted in January. This is her 10th night at the shelter, but she's spent others at the Union Gospel Mission or simply walking around town until she's too tired to go on.

"I've never felt uncomfortable here," she says. "I feel really safe."

"They don't have a lot of hard rules. They don't ask a lot of us. They make you feel welcome, very cared about."

In the basement after the smoke break, things are quieting down. Sonja sits on a cot talking on a cell phone. From the dining area, other guests can pick up pieces of the conversation.

"I'm at the shelter tonight, so you don't have to worry," she is telling someone.

In the other room, Rita shares her story. She's 47, a grandmother and a widow. Her husband, Curtis, died nearly five years ago after suffering a heart attack at work. He was 50. A former hairstylist, Rita suffers from a series of health problems and is unable to work.

"This is my eighth month of technically being homeless," she says. "I'm trying to figure out where I belong. I don't want my granddaughter to see me without a home and be humble and ask for help."

She had "bounced around from couch to couch, floor to floor, wherever I could," including a friend's garage and a friend's hotel room, before coming here tonight.

"Most days I have my dignity and pride," she says. "But some days I have had to eat out of Dumpsters. People treat you like you are the scum on the bottom of their shoe."

"You are who you are where you are," Sonja offers.

"I feel very lonely," Rita says.

Sonja is celebrating her fifth month of sobriety. She had been living in a clean-and-sober house with several roommates.

"Then, I made a bad choice," she says -- and spent some time in jail. She was slated to move into her own clean-and-sober apartment the next day.

Tonight, she's preparing a present for her daughter, who lives with her dad, Sonja's ex-husband. She places a stuffed animal and scarf in an empty cereal box, wrapping it in a pillow case secured by another scarf.

Sitting nearby is her copy of the complete text of Alcoholics Anonymous as well as her Bible. They, along with a small prayer book, are held together with rubber bands.

"This is how I roll," Sonja says. "God first, AA second. Without my sobriety, I have nothing. ... At one point in my life, I chose alcohol over everything, even my child. I gave up for awhile. I checked out of society for awhile. I'm starting to acclimate back into the society."

Sonja is the last one to turn in. Rita is second to last. Loretta and Debbie turn in early. It's lights out at 11.

The coffee is back on by 4:45 a.m. Sheryl starts making scrambled eggs, heating them and some hashbrowns in the microwave. She's been volunteering here almost every night since the shelter opened for the season.

"I'd like to see the shelter open year-round," she says. She'd also like to see more volunteers.

At 5:30 sharp, Annie Kraft, 61, one of the volunteers, turns on the lights. Sonja is the first one up. She toasts a couple of pieces of cinnamon raisin bread. Other guests begin coming in for breakfast and getting ready for the day.

"Does this outfit look all right?" Loretta asks Sonja. "I'm going to go see about an apartment."

With the shelter closing soon, Debbie also says, "I will try to find a place I can afford."

Meantime, many of the women will spend the morning at South First Street's Green PC Academy, which opens at 6:30 to give the homeless a place to go, use computers and participate in an optional Bible study until about 10.

The rest of the day, they might grab a cup of coffee somewhere, hang out in the downtown library or simply walk around town. They might stop by South Naches Avenue's Yakima Hygiene Center for Homeless People, which provides showers, laundry facilities, clothing, and personal hygiene supplies.

Just as the shelter is about to close for the day, the women gather in the center of the dorm and bow their heads.

"Guide our feet in the right directions," Loretta prays.

Annie stands behind all four of them -- Loretta, Debbie, Rita and Sonja -- offering support. And at the end of their prayer, she adds her own.

"Bless these women," she says. "Keep them safe."