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  Denver, listening in the back seat, shot back, “Mr. Ron! I lived on those streets for years! You think I can’t find my way home?”

  I delivered Ron and Denver to their hotel, making plans to see them later at Kim’s house for the reception with sponsors. I was panicked by the thought only one of the authors would show up, but I trusted Ron to deliver Denver.

  Two hours later I was unloading boxes of programs for the luncheon to the hotel ballroom where True Blessings was going to be held. I noticed Denver out in front of the hotel, with Ron nowhere in sight. My palms started to sweat.

  How could Ron have left Denver alone to wander off again?

  I hurried over to make sure he didn’t escape. Denver was leaning against the hotel’s stone facade, and he did not appear to immediately recognize me as the same woman who had picked him up hours earlier at the airport.

  “White folk look alike,” he would say.

  Cloaked in a black shirt, black sport coat, black slacks, and signature black hat, he looked ominous. I took it as a warning sign he was preparing to slip into Charlotte’s downtown and avoid the tedious meet-and-greet schedule ahead of him. I needed to think quickly to keep Denver from disappearing.

  “Denver, you need a ride somewhere?” I asked.

  He studied me before answering. “You got homeless people here?”

  “Sure, do you want me to take you to the Urban Ministry Center?”

  Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

  Of course I should show Denver the Urban Ministry Center; it was the perfect plan. Inspiring scenes from his book Same Kind of Different As Me ran through my head. I imagined taking him to the soup kitchen where Denver would surely motivate some grateful Charlotte homeless person. Denver would be motivational. Transformational. And I would get to witness it.

  Denver stepped toward my minivan. As he opened the door, I reached in to move the thick folder of notes and lists filling the passenger seat. With this herculean task of lunch for one thousand, I had put my organizational skills into overdrive, filling two pages of a yellow legal pad with to-do items to check off by category and day.

  As I got behind the wheel with my lists in my hands, I felt Denver examining me. I looked from his stare to my overly exact schedule and back. My anxiety clearly outlined in those lists looked a little ridiculous to me now.

  “Denver, I have every minute of today scheduled, but this ride is not on the schedule,” I confessed.

  Denver nodded as if he already knew that, and then he flashed a grin I had not seen since he arrived.

  “We are going for a ride!” he exclaimed, emphasizing ride in a long, southern drawl.

  We arrived a few minutes later at the Urban Ministry Center in the middle of the afternoon. As we walked toward the buildings, I explained all we were doing for Charlotte’s homeless. I was sure Denver would be impressed.

  He wasn’t.

  Leading Denver on a tour of the center, I proudly gave a monologue about all of the UMC’s innovative programming. In the art room dozens of paintings by homeless artists were on display. The works were vibrant in color, rich in texture, and layered with meaning.

  Denver passed them without comment.

  The Neighbors weren’t flocking to Denver either. I had been certain Neighbors would somehow recognize this formerly homeless man, now celebrity author, and swarm us when we arrived. But everyone ignored us, intent on their own mission—surviving the day. In his dapper sport coat and hat, no one seemed to consider Denver had anything in common with them, least of all a shared history of homelessness. For his part, Denver wasn’t even trying to connect his story with the homeless waiting in line.

  Where was the wise man from the bestselling book?

  The visit became increasingly uncomfortable. As my tour dragged on, we passed photos of our soccer team hanging on the walls. All our players competed locally and internationally while still enduring homelessness. Visitors always would remark about the players’ commitment to the team in the face of this obstacle. Again, Denver had no visible display of emotion as he studied the players’ proud smiles in those photos.

  Moving outside the building, we came to our vegetable garden. It was at the end of the season, but Neighbors were tending collards and kale alongside volunteers. Witnessing this side-by-side interaction usually sparked conversation, but Denver peered only briefly over the fence before walking back into our main building.

  Trailing behind him, I couldn’t understand why Denver didn’t think what we were doing was as extraordinary as most visitors did. It was maddening to think I had imagined a much different scene, sure that Denver would change someone’s life at the UMC. My fantasy had been to see him wrap his arm around one of our Neighbors and whisper something utterly profound. In all honesty, I was also hoping to receive some message as well. Some praise for my ten years of dedicated volunteer service here.

  Denver’s silence was disturbing. Was there a message in that? Was he communicating by not speaking? I remembered one of Ron’s favorite Denverisms:

  If you really serious ’bout helpin’ somebody, crawl down in the ditch with ’em, bandage up their wounds, and stick with ’em until they is strong enough to crawl up on your back and get out.

  Weren’t we helping? All of our art, soccer, and gardening programs as well as our services were designed to build relationships with Neighbors and restore their dignity. Most cities just had soup kitchens and limited services, but in our thirteen years the UMC had developed extensive programming far beyond this basic first-aid response.

  Yet Denver had not asked a single question, made one comment, or expressed a word of admiration about our innovations.

  Frustrated, I turned to leave.

  That’s when Denver finally spoke.

  Motioning to the stairway in front of us, he asked, “Can we go upstairs now?”

  I was beyond frustrated. Angry even. I couldn’t believe Denver was finally showing interest when there was nothing to see. “There’s nothing up there. Just offices.”

  Denver looked from the stairs to me and then back again. All these years later I still hear his question, and the ones that followed it, as clearly as I did that day.

  “Where are the beds?”

  “The beds?” I asked, utterly confused.

  As I started the long, complicated explanation of how Charlotte has several shelters, Denver’s dark face silenced me.

  Clearly, I wasn’t getting his point.

  “You mean to tell me you do all this good in the day and then lock them out to the bad at night?”

  His accusation left me gutted.

  Denver patiently allowed me my discomfort. He watched me silently wrestle with my new awareness before he quietly asked his next question.

  “Does that make any sense to you?”

  Of course it made no sense. I was flooded with shame.

  Denver’s next question would change the trajectory of my path forever. It was the question I had been waiting for and looking to answer ever since my dad died nine years before.

  “Are you going to do something about it?”

  I wanted to look behind me to see exactly who he was talking to, but there was little doubt. Denver was staring at me and only me. I had come here for Denver to talk to someone else. To be prophetic to someone else. To transform someone else. I was going to witness that miracle.

  Now Denver was talking to me—just me.

  “Do I need to say anything else?” Denver whispered.

  My no was barely audible, but we both heard it loud and clear.

  Steering the car back to the hotel, I tried not to look at Denver, but his words were still ringing in my ears. I had totally forgotten why we went to the UMC—to keep Denver from wandering off before the cocktail party.

  Instead, he had wandered into my life and hijacked my conscience.

  From the passenger seat Denver was studying me.

  “You know, you don’t have to be scared.”

  He kept t
alking, adding cryptically, “They already know they are coming.”

  “Who?” I asked, still reeling from the magnitude of his assignment.

  At that moment we arrived at the hotel’s circular drive.

  Denver stared at me with utter certainty as he said, “The people who are going to help you—they already know they are coming.”

  And with that, Denver opened my car door and walked away.

  Denver showed up for the reception that night and acted as though nothing had happened. I did too. Maybe we could just forget the whole thing.

  The next morning I arrived in the hotel ballroom early with all of my lists to set up for True Blessings. My daughters were out of school for the day so they could help, and my sister Louise had flown in that morning from Washington, DC. There were dozens of volunteers assembling centerpieces and putting out programs when Dale entered the vast ballroom. Full of excitement for the day, he headed straight for me.

  “Dale, I took Denver on a tour of the UMC yesterday . . .” I began.

  “What did he think?” Dale looked eager to receive the same affirmation I had wanted.

  “Well, that’s the thing. He really wasn’t impressed. He thought we should be doing more.” I hesitated as Dale’s face fell. “He told me we should build some beds and talked about locking them out to the bad at night.”

  As I floundered to find the right words, Dale tried to track my point. “Beds?” He was trying to connect the dots. “Do you mean housing? That’s not what we do, Kathy.”

  “But maybe we should? If you had heard him yesterday, Denver was so . . .”

  We were interrupted by a volunteer, and I didn’t try to circle back. Dale and I would need to talk later because hundreds of guests were beginning to fill the room. My biggest concern now was whether Denver, who was supposed to inspire the crowd to give to the UMC, would tell a thousand people we actually were not doing a very good job.

  Ron Hall spoke first and entertained the crowd with stories of his unlikely friendship with Denver. He was a masterful storyteller who spoke as if the thousand guests were simply friends on his living-room couch.

  As Ron finished, Denver mounted the stage with all the fervor of a Southern Baptist preacher. Once more he was dressed in his signature black outfit, including his hat. Denver began softly and built to a crescendo that was part prayer and part song. The crowd had gone reverently silent as we all were now in Denver’s church, and he was delivering a sermon.

  Denver was his best self, stepping off the pages and bringing to life quotes from their book and gospel songs. His preaching peaked when he bellowed, “Charlotte, y’all need to do more! Y’all need to build some beds!”

  I’m glad I couldn’t see Dale’s face in that moment. Some in the crowd seemed a little confused. Beds? Had Denver just said we should build beds? The many UMC volunteers in the room knew we didn’t have a single bed. Those who were hearing about the UMC for the first time, however, seemed to take it in stride, not understanding this would be an incredible mission shift.

  A longtime donor, Dave Campbell, seated next to Dale, leaned over and asked, perplexed, “Are you launching a capital campaign?”

  Dale whispered back truthfully, “I have no idea what he is talking about.”

  Denver continued preaching, even though our event timekeeper was frantically signaling that his time was up. Denver dismissed her saying, “I see you, but I’s got more to say!”

  It didn’t seem to matter that Denver ran on a little long because as the one thousand guests exited, they were buzzing about what felt more like a tent revival than a fundraising lunch. It didn’t take long to realize everyone gave with such generosity that the Spirit must have moved the audience as well.

  A small group of us led by Angela gathered in the next room we had set up as “the bank” to open piles of pledge envelopes. We gasped as we pulled out checks for $500, $1000, and even one pledge card promising $50,000.

  Angela showed me another check she was holding, and we both teared up. It was one of the largest we received, and it was signed by Charlie.

  I was stunned. In all the planning I’d forgotten to discuss with him what our personal pledge would be. Charlie and I had never given a gift like that to any charity. It was beyond generous. Considering our four girls and mounting tuitions, it was a little crazy.

  After I picked up the phone to call him, I could hear him smiling on the other end. Although he hated receiving surprises, Charlie excelled at giving them. “I was proud of you,” he said simply.

  Everyone involved with planning True Blessings was realizing our gamble had paid off. Our free lunch raised over $350,000 in one hour.

  It was astounding. In the thirteen-year history of the organization, the UMC had never held a fundraising event and never received pledges of that magnitude. Nonprofits all over Charlotte held fundraisers regularly for the arts or for children’s causes but not to help homeless people. What exactly had Ron or Denver said to inspire so many? In all my nervousness I couldn’t remember a word that had been said.

  But like everyone there, I had felt the effects.

  I had expected to feel a sense of relief and enormous accomplishment at the end of True Blessings. But exactly the opposite was true. At 9:00 p.m. that night, I was restless.

  More restless than I had ever been in my entire life.

  I had not mentioned my conversation with Denver to anyone except Dale, mostly because it felt crazy. Why was I continuing to hear the words of a formerly homeless man from Texas tell me that I should become personally responsible for housing the homeless in Charlotte?

  It sounded as unlikely as building an ark, and I definitely wasn’t Noah.

  It was time to confess. Charlie, Louise, and I were in our den recounting True Blessing’s highlights. If one of them could understand the prophetic conversation with Denver, I thought it would be Louise—the family minister. At age thirty-two, Louise had shocked us all with the revelation that she was going into the ministry and was accepted to Harvard Divinity School.

  I imagined Charlie’s reaction would be one of rational cynicism. What would Charlie say if he knew I thought the entire purpose of this True Blessings event was for me to meet Denver? Because of my family history of mental illness, it felt mildly dangerous to believe I should listen to Denver’s voice, which I was still hearing.

  I felt the conversation would go better if Louise was in the room to back me up. She had felt a calling once, so she might be able to verify this call from Denver—or dispel it.

  Hesitantly I began telling them the story of how I had taken Denver on a tour that didn’t go as planned. I finished with Denver’s insistence that I build beds.

  They both were silent.

  Louise spoke first. “So you feel Denver had a message for you?”

  To hear her say it sounded crazy. Maybe I just needed some sleep.

  Charlie and I were brushing our teeth, standing side by side at the double sinks, looking at each other’s reflection in the mirror. Silently we finished and held each other’s gaze in the mirror until he spoke first.

  “You know the funny thing? I’m not sure Louise got it.” He paused. “But I did.”

  I wanted to cry with relief.

  If Charlie had called me foolish or made one of his excellent rational arguments, I am sure I would have dropped the whole idea that night. At that moment, the dream of doing something was too fragile. I honestly wanted someone I trusted to talk me out of it. All it would have taken was a little loud logic to silence that brief whisper of purpose.

  Instead, Charlie remembered our evening at the Outward Bound fundraiser and asked the perfect question: “So is this going to be your forty-year thing?”

  I couldn’t sleep that night. Denver’s words more than made sense. They began to create a road map for a forty-four-year-old life that had lost direction.

  The next morning I picked up Ron and Denver to take them to the airport. I was distracted during the drive, trying to
figure out a way to talk to Denver one more time before he left. I wasn’t sure Denver even realized how he had disrupted my life with his charge to build beds. As they got out of my minivan with their suitcases at the airport, I pulled Denver aside before he walked into the terminal.

  “Denver, can I ask you something?”

  He stopped and gave me another one of his intense, unnerving stares. I had no idea if Denver even recognized me as the woman he had taken “for a ride.”

  “If I do this,” I asked, searching for the right words, “if I build the beds, can I name it after you?”

  Denver looked back at me with clear understanding and an obvious memory of our conversation. “I would like that,” he said.

  He then paused to consider before adding, “But you better hurry because I’m old.”

  ten

  HOME TOUR

  I do not at all understand the mystery of grace—only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.

  —Anne Lamott1

  As I drove home from the airport, my mental wheels were spinning. I had just promised Denver not only to do something about the beds but to name the place after him. I was getting in deep, and I didn’t even know what I was promising. What exactly was I agreeing to build? Bunk beds? Dormitories? Houses? I couldn’t even picture what I was supposed to begin creating.

  My sister Louise was not fazed by these questions, and she certainly was not bothered by the fact that in my midforties I was contemplating completely changing my life. The night before, when I was confessing my strange experience with Denver, Louise was remembering her own out-of-body experience, which had sharply changed the course of her life.

  By the time she was thirty, Louise had already established her career as a teacher and modern dancer in Chicago. Then she began to question her own life. She found herself looking for answers in a Unitarian church, which was very different from our family’s Presbyterian roots but at the same time immensely comforting. It was as if she had been on a long trip and finally come home. The sense of peace from the hymns and the thoughtfulness of the sermons left Louise fighting back tears, knowing this place had something to do with filling her emptiness.