Before I ever stood behind a desk as a director, I stood in line at shelters. From the age of sixteen to twenty-nine, my life was defined by homelessness and addiction. Generational poverty, dysfunction, and trauma shaped my path. My father often told me I was a mistake who would never amount to anything. My mother tried to counter with hope, but when abuse, bullying, and divorce tore my childhood apart, I numbed the pain with substances.
Even in those years, God gave me glimpses of the gifts He had placed within me — creativity, persistence, resourcefulness. Addiction twisted those gifts into survival strategies that never lasted. After years of emptiness and suicidal thoughts, I reached a breaking point. I was tired of trying to die. I wanted — for once —to try living.
That decision brought me to Owensboro in 2011. I entered a long-term recovery program where God began reprogramming my mind through peer support, accountability, and grace. Nine months into sobriety, I became a peer mentor, carrying a caseload, teaching classes, and — most importantly — living proof that change was possible.
A year later, I walked through the doors of a local men’s homeless shelter. At first, I resisted. I knew the stigma, and I carried my own judgment of what it meant to be “homeless.” But when I finally said yes, God’s Word pierced my heart through Ezekiel 36:26: “I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you.” In that moment, I realized my own years of homelessness had prepared me for this calling.
From those humble beginnings — volunteering, AmeriCorps service, overnight shifts — God led me to become interim director within two years. I wasn’t qualified by human standards. I had no degree, no nonprofit résumé. What I had was faith, humility, and willingness. And God used that. Since then, I’ve pursued education — not for titles, but for tools — earning four degrees, including a Master’s in Social Work.
Meanwhile, the shelters have grown from fragile overnight programs into a network of facilities bridging gaps, serving men, women, families, veterans, and expectant mothers. Hundreds of volunteers and dozens of staff have poured themselves into thesemissions.
Here’s what I’ve learned: the true heroes of these facilities are not the directors. The real servants are the overnight volunteerswho give up sleep to keep watch. The case managers who sit patiently for hours, helping clients navigate impossible systems. The volunteers who cook meals, fold laundry, or simply sit and listen. The board members who give generously of their time. The community partners who say “yes” when asked to step into the gap.
And of course, the clients themselves — who show courage every day by walking through our doors and daring to hope again.
Homelessness is not a statistic. It’s a father trying to reconnect with his kids, a mother protecting her children, a veteran wrestling with memories of war. Behind every bed in a shelter is a story that matters.
The servants of our shelters step into that reality not because it is easy, but because they believe people matter. They believe in the worth of every soul. They believe that no one should be left outside when hope is possible.
But make no mistake — this work is costly. It demands long nights, emotional sacrifice, and faith that God will provide. I’ve worked two jobs to keep doors open. I’ve prayed desperately over budgets. I’ve carried the weight of heavy stories. And in those moments, God has reminded me: “None of the pain and trials in your life were in vain. Trust Me. Put My people first.”
That is the heartbeat of homeless ministry. Leadership is not about prestige; it is about service. It is about choosing the towel over the title, just as Jesus did when He washed His disciples’ feet.
So why do we keep serving, even when it’s hard? Because we believe the promise of Isaiah 40:31: “Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.” That hope sustains us. That strength keeps us showing up.
As a community, we are all called to be servants of the most vulnerable. Maybe you aren’t called to run a shelter— but you are called to care. You can bring a meal. You can write a check. You can volunteer a few hours. You can sponsor a bed. You can share a Facebook post to raise awareness. You can pray.
And you can encourage others — your church, your coworkers, your friends, your family — to do the same. The work is too big for one agency, one leader, or even one generation. It takes a community, linked arm in arm, to remind our homeless neighbors they are not forgotten.
When you choose to serve, you don’t just meet someone else’s need — you may discover your own purpose in the process. I know this firsthand. I walked into a shelter thinking I would help others. In reality, God used that place to reshape me.
So I invite you: come see for yourself. Visit St. Benedict’s Shelter or the Daniel Pitino Shelter. Meet the men, women, and families whose lives are being transformed. Meet the staff and volunteers who give so faithfully. Step into the story of what God is doing right here in Owensboro.
Homelessness will never be solved by programs alone. It is healed by people — ordinary servants who choose to love their neighbors. And in serving, you may find—as I did — that the people you thought you were helping are the very ones who change you the most.
