What's it Like at Our Lady's Inn?

"Good Morning, Ladies! This is your early morning wake up call! It's time to get up and do your morning chores. And ladies...don't forget to stop by the office to tell Beth your plans for the day."

The booming voice slips under the locked door of my room and buzzes in my ear. I clutch my pillow in protest to the idea of facing reality. I try to catch the last bits of my dream, but it's too late. Signaling surrender with a shudder of my eyelids, a gray haze filters through my lashes until my room comes into focus. After nearly five months of waking up in this bed, I am starting to feel at home within these four walls. As is my ritual, I pull my comforter up to my chin as eyes confirm the safety of my surroundings. The room is fairly small-I'd estimate 7 by 10 feet- but the size feels comfortable to me.

The only window, to the right of my bed, lets in just enough light to give the room a cool, electric feeling, like that of a rainy day. Below the window, there is a wooden desk, which came with the room. It's a little worn, but it does the job. On the edge closest to the window, my little friend Igby swims around to greet me. I envy the simplicity of his world: small clear bowl, blue rocks, and clean water. Some mornings I toy with the idea of joining him just for the day, but then who would do my chores? My chores! I almost forgot! I lurch forward, attempting to sit upright, but heaviness in my core anchors me to the mattress. That's when the reality of my life sinks in. Now I am wide awake. I am sure you think I have been locked up or institutionalized for some reason and that is how I ended up here.

The truth is that I have chosen to call this place home. Outside of my bedroom door lays an L-shaped hallway with twenty-five doors, just like mine. Behind those doors lie twenty-five girls, just like me. I am seven months pregnant and homeless. My residence is "Our Lady's Inn". Once a convent, it has been converted into an institution that is set up to house single, pregnant women, ages eighteen and up, and their children. Those who are in need are given the opportunity to live here rent-free until they have the means to move on. Our Lady's Inn is not just a shelter, however; it is a self-improvement program. In order to live here, you have to accept the established rules and guidelines. Girls in the house are expected to complete their daily chores, attend mandatory meals, and be in by curfew. We are also asked to be present at the nightly classes, instructions used to educate mothers on such things as childbirth, parenting skills, organization and budgeting. Though at times exhausting and suffocating, it is the structure of the program in the house that gives us the opportunity to grow. And it all starts with the morning chores.

After my first failed attempt to get out of bed, I try rolling sideways. Smiling at my success, I sit up and rest my swollen feet on the floor. I place my hands on my belly and stare at the empty crib at the foot of my bed. It is set up as though he will be arriving any day, even though he isn't due for another two months. The dark wood of the crib stands out in contrast to the light hues of the room. I think that's appropriate because it is the reason behind my occupancy. Above the crib is a picture frame stuffed with memories of my friends from college. The photos produce mixed emotions for me. I think of the times we've shared in the past and what they will miss of the future.

A tiny heartbeat meets up with my fingertips, a little reminder of why I am here. That in mind, I do my best to fight gravity and rise to my feet. My pelvis begins to ache as the weight of my child sinks into the frame of my hips. Shifting my weight back and forth, I shuffle over to the sink beside the door. A round face stares out from the mirror. I squint to see if it resembles me, but am disrupted by a light tap on the door. I open it, just a crack, to find two big brown eyes looking up at me. It's my little friend Lawrence from across the hall. He babbles something inaudible and reaches for my hand. I step into the hall with him. Monica, his mother, smiles at me and grabs his other hand as we march together down the hall. The previous serenity of my room is in the past. From now on, it is every woman for herself.

The attitude is thick in the halls. Each girl I pass has a mood all of her own. Some come off as being defensive and angry, others just seem sad. But the truth behind it all is that we are all afraid. None of us know what the future holds; all we are sure of is the path that led us here. Most of the girls that live here have struggled for a long time and this is not their first time in a place like this. For that reason alone, I stand out around here. One look at me and most can tell that I haven't come from financial hardship;

I have created it for myself. I have been given many opportunities to succeed and chosen not to. The new girls look at me with sideways glances wondering, "How did she end up here?" Most girls are blinded by the lightness of my skin and cannot always see that I am no different from them. But eventually we all learn that no matter where we came from, we have all ended up in the same place.

Bypassing ladies that are sweeping stairs and bleaching sills, we round the staircase, and are greeted by the smell of fresh pancakes. I have decided that my chores will have to wait. Breakfast is being served and I am feeding two. We try to dodge the morning buzz in the front office, where the girls receive their medicine and dictate their plans. The secretary scurries to mark off names as the girls shout out their completed chores. Making right towards the dining room, we pass the heat of the kitchen. The steel room is full of ladies cleaning their dishes and shining the counters. Walking past the phone alcoves, I can't help but pick up part of the conversations. Katrina scolds her boyfriend for not calling. Kathy cries to come home. We finally reach the dining room, and I take a deep breath before entering.

Oversized tables replicate down the long room. The noise level becomes overwhelming, as the room is filled with the screams of hungry children and frustrated moms. Over that, you can hear the ladies laughing at another girl who has dropped her plate. About ten kids rush up to me yelling, "Sweet Pea! Sweet Pea!" , which is the nickname I've adopted. Eventually, I make it through the crowd to the serving table.

"What can I getcha?" Evelyn, the cook, is the matriarch of our home. Older in years, she possesses a sort of silver grace. It is like she has seen it all and understands what we are going through. She piles my plate with blueberry pancakes and gives me a wink. I weave through the crowd until I get to the back table. Lisa and Monica have already started eating, so I quietly pull up a chair. Once I'm seated, I exhale and contemplate what I had to go through just to get here-just to sit down and eat breakfast.

Living in a homeless shelter seems like a "no man's land" for so many. But this is my reality. I often wonder how I ended up here, but the truth is that I am glad I did. Our Lady's Inn has given me the chance to live a fuller life. I have made the decision to raise a child on my own. Without their support, it would not be a possibility for me to do so. I have learned the most important lesson here: sometimes you just have to do things the hard way just to get it done. That is how it is done here. This house is run by doing one chore at a time. The ladies in my home are not welfare moms. They are warriors fighting daily to keep themselves and their families alive. Just like me, they wake up everyday, face reality and march through it with their heads held high. In time, everyone leaves and moves on, but it is the house that still stands as a symbol of the humility and strength that resides in Our Lady's Inn.

 

4223 S. Compton, St. Louis, Mo. 63111    (314) 351-4590    www.ourladysinn.org