Lawrence, a father of two, points to substance abuse, his parent’s tough love and the death of his grandfather while Lawrence was in jail as contributing factors to his homeless life on the streets of Sacramento.

When he was released from jail, Lawrence did not go home. Instead, he went straight to using, becoming untethered from his family. He drifted through the streets, bouncing from shelter to street, and then back again. His drug use, which numbed his pain and the loss of his grandfather and his support system, ushered Lawrence further into complete homelessness.

While at a mission, someone suggested Lawrence try to get into Guesthouse, which could allow him to gain a spot on the Palmer List, a waitlist for the Palmer Apartments program.

“When I went to Palmer, my head started to clearing up and I started looking around at my life. I wasn’t taking things too seriously and my spirit was down. I never would have made it this far without the harm reduction program,” Lawrence says.

According to the transforming lives and cultivating success website, “Palmer is a short-term interim housing and harm reduction program for adults who are experiencing homelessness.”

Lawrence points to the hard work he did in AA, coupled with Palmer’s harm reduction program as key factors in helping him get clean. Palmer is aware of the likelihood of relapse and is equipped to help those experiencing a relapse like Lawrence did.

I asked Lawrence to imagine going back in time. What advice would he give to his 19 year-old self?

“Learn to be more responsible,” Lawrence says, “Think about what you can do tomorrow and plan your future. Don’t depend on someone else to handle it for you. The number one thing is…don’t get into drugs.”

While living unsheltered on the levee in Sacramento County, Ashalana battled dark whispering voices daily during her five-year crystal meth drug addiction.

Today, her radiant smile, joyful demeanor and infectious happiness mute the brutal, hard-hitting and at times unbearable journey she traveled to rise above her drug addiction and find peace and contentment in her life.

“The biggest thing I had to overcome were the voices. I was on drugs, I was not eating right, I was not sleeping right and there were a lot of voices coming at me.” Says Ashalana, “I called out to God and if He can’t help me then I’m in trouble, so I started calling on Him. After I stopped using, it took almost 7 months for the voices to go away.”

Ashalana relied on services at Mary’s House during this difficult time. She used the showers, was able to get hygiene products and other necessities. When she stopped using drugs, she came to Mary’s House to use their resources.

While living on the levee, Ashalana saw the Sacramento downtown street team cleaning up. She asked them about their job and if they get paid. In her transition to get sober, she followed up with them and now works for the downtown street cleaning team.

Today, Ashalana lives indoors at the Salvation Army and has been employed for three months.

“I was getting pulled in one way or another, I was going to stay in the dark or come to the light and after five years, I am walking in a different light,” says Ashalana.

Gregory, who will be 65 years old in September, tells me he grew up in James Town, North Dakota. We talk about how much he loved his grandmother’s cabin on Spirit Wood Lake.

Gregory experienced absolute freedom on the crystal clear waters of Spirit Wood Lake, 18 miles north of his hometown. The emerald, sapphire and gold colors of the summer months were filled with swimming for hours on end, learning to sail and fishing with his Grandpa.

“I felt like that was my home,” Gregory says. “They had to force me to go to town. My father was concerned I wouldn’t go to college because we were having too much fun at the lake cabin. I came home after my first day of school and said, ‘When I get out of college I’m going to quit school!’”

He tells me about how the deep blue-green waters of Spirit Wood Lake were the perfect escape from each imminent school year. The natural beauty of his surroundings and a growing sense of his own independence pushed school from his boyhood thoughts.

Gregory goes on to tell me he made it through three years of pre-med studies in college, but a horrific car wreck put an end to his college career.

“I shattered the windshield with my head, and the people didn’t have insurance. I didn’t walk for a year and the doctors told me I had to accept the fact that I might never walk again for the rest of my life.”

“I didn’t accept that. I was going to find a way to walk and I did,” Gregory says.

A slim, girlish figure cautiously steps toward me. I shake her hand, look her in the eye and direct her to sit in the blue and white metal chair.

I walk behind the camera and steady my gaze.

She sits down slowly, turns her body counterclockwise toward the camera, lowers her head and looks sideways into the lens.

At that moment, I take the shot.

I look at the back of the camera and zoom in to check focus and the light pattern falling on her face.

“My name is Teresa,” she says.

Teresa speaks in a low, raspy voice and tells me how she likes reading, writing, and photography. She likes to read science books, particularly medical books and tells me about a leveling and mapping system she is interested in called Hierarchical Pattern Mapping.

“I’ve been out here about a year. I was living in a house and there was violence and a criminal case, and we couldn’t go back there,” Teresa says. “I own the house too. It’s in Oak Park, but I can’t go back.”

I study the image we just made on the back of the camera. To me, Teresa looks like a young woman ready for school, not a 55-year-old mother of five living alone in a tent on Ahern Street. In this way, she is so very similar to many of the people I meet at Loaves & Fishes.

Teresa stands up slowly as our conversation winds down. “I have to do something else, I can’t be outside anymore.”

She pauses and then tells me, “These are all the seconds of my life.”

I see James sitting on a green wooden bench in the shade. His backpack obediently stays next to his right leg.

He recognizes me. We shake hands and catch up a little bit.  

“Hey, can I get that other photo you took of me?” James says. “The one with my hand on my hat?”

He pulls a photograph out of his backpack. It’s the portrait we made last week and I can see that the surface is scuffed and the corner is bent up a little. “I like this one,” he says, pointing at the 4×6 black and white print, “but I’d like the other one, too.”

“Sure, I can get you a print next week,” I say as I sit down and we start talking.

James tells me he was born in 1954, grew up in San Francisco and worked concessions and ticket sales at Candle Stick Park before he was drafted into the Army. James saw two tours of duty in Vietnam. I don’t ask about the war.

“What’s the toughest part about being out here?” I say.

“Toughest part is dealing with the rest of the homeless,” he says.

James talks about his Mom. He tells me she passed away last year from cancer. He mentions Mother’s Day and shares a few fond memories of her.

“She was a tough woman. She gave me money and put a roof over my head,” James remembers. “She made me omelets before I went to school and packed brownies in my lunch. We got along really well.”

“What my Mom did for me in my lifetime? I can’t put the words in the right perspective.”

James looks to the sky and says, “She gave me the opportunity to be myself.”