Among the Unhoused: A Night of Miracles in Rock Island

When I crossed the threshold of the Martin Luther King Jr. Community Center at 9 p.m. last night, the Project NOW coordinator counted me as part of the unhoused community. I had slipped in behind Marshall and one of our unhoused friends as they guided a blind senior citizen—unsteady on his feet—toward his cot. They supported him with such gentleness, one on each side, easing him down and helping him orient to the unfamiliar room.

I bent down and tucked his belongings beneath the cot.

“I put your things right under your bed,” I told him softly.

He lay there looking up toward the ceiling, though his cloudy eyes couldn’t see it. His ankles were thin and bare above tattered shoes, only one of which had laces. His cheeks were still cold. Tears and snot ran down his face—not from emotion, but from the winter air he had been walking through just minutes earlier.

Though he didn’t arrive with our group, a new system of support for him had already emerged in the 30 minutes people waited in line together.

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On the community board at The Third Place QC, bold lettering announced the shelter and transportation plans:

Friday 9 p.m. – Monday 7 a.m.

Shelter at MLK

Meet at the Holiday Inn at 4 p.m. for dinner and transportation

Going to a temporary shelter is a big deal. On paper, it sounds straightforward—go inside, stay warm—but in reality, it requires immense trust and psychological readiness.

While there is relief in the potential safety, there are also many human considerations: leaving your comfort zone, being around unknown people, trusting that your belongings will be safe, wondering if you have the energy for the journey, fearing you may experience withdrawal symptoms, and fearing you might be turned away and stranded somewhere unfamiliar.

Preparation and gentle conversations help smooth the transition. The community of unhoused people at The Third Place engaged their natural networks to spread the word and locate vulnerable members, ensuring everyone knew the plan. Folks rode off on bikes to tell people who might not know, returning with word of their location and preparations. Barriers to shelter—concerns about belongings, pets, or medications—were worked out ahead of time in an unpressured environment.

A conversation overheard again and again this week was: “What’s your plan to stay warm this weekend?” followed by, “You need to consider the emergency shelter at the MLK Center.”

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By the time folks began gathering at the Holiday Inn—making the journey down 3rd Avenue with their belongings in tow—the stress of the week and the pre-travel jitters had begun to settle. A calm, steady group arrived at the hotel, guiding bellhop carts loaded with garbage bags and loose blankets, backpacks and totes, suitcases and plastic sacks filled with everything they owned.

They made their way up to the conference room, past a lobby full of college wrestlers, for a Thank You Dinner. A place to stay warm for the 5 hours between warm spaces.

The Holiday Inn staff was welcoming, warm, and nonjudgmental toward a group more accustomed to being shooed away than invited in celebration.

“This dinner is in honor of you,” I told them. “Your stories, your faces, your vulnerability brought attention to the humans impacted by homelessness. You made this shelter happen because you are loved by this community, and this community wants you to survive this brutal weekend.”

A quiet cheer rose—clapping, a few “woo-hoos,” shy smiles. An acknowledgment that Jakline should be here too. Then everyone settled into their seats, bowls of soup steaming, sandwiches passed down the tables, the hum of friendly conversation growing like a warm tide. When the food ran out, Rock Island Township brought more.

A ragtag team of volunteers, including Bob, Miriam, Dieonika, Robb, and Marshall, offered support throughout the evening. A repacking station with heavy-duty garbage bags, waterproof totes, small bins, labels, and permanent markers helped people feel more prepared for the weekend.

Cloey and Christie, the Co-Directors of The Third Place QC, followed their community to the Holiday Inn when their space closed at 4 p.m. I’m still not entirely sure whether they came to support their friends or to support me as I prepared to host an event for a group of people who are so often misunderstood and mistrusted. In truth, it was probably both.

They offered quiet guidance throughout the evening—small notes about each person’s quirks, what helps them feel safe, how to approach them under stress, and a few gentle “don’ts.” Their presence anchored the room. I’m fortunate to have spent time at The Third Place these past months, watching what real leadership and care look like in this community.

It is an art form:a gentle presence, clear but compassionate expectations, simply being with people.

The tone Cloey and Christie set in their own space followed us into the hotel. The volunteers picked up on it naturally, mirroring their grounded calm. Because of that, the evening unfolded beautifully—peaceful, warm, and without incident.

A small miracle in itself.

A young woman approached me, avoiding eye contact, speaking softly with a slight stutter.“Do you maybe have headphones?” she asked. “I have real bad social anxiety and I’m trying not to leave, but I have a hard time with the noise.”

My husband brought a pair over from the house. She placed them in her ears, took a deep breath, and her shoulders fell into ease.

“I think I can make it at the big shelter if I can block out sound,” she said.

As someone who has worked in the mental health field for over two decades, I recognized that many guests at the dinner were likely friends on the autism spectrum.

I was relieved to see my buddy Michael enter the room.“Where’s Darlene?” I asked. He was looking for her, trying to reconnect for the night and see if she was going to shelter. His face and hands were covered with soot, giving him the surreal look of someone just back from a tropical vacation.

“I’ve been building fires to stay warm,” he explained. He coughed lightly.“This cold gets me in bronchio-spasm. First time I’ve been sick in two years.”

“I would really love it if you stayed at the shelter tonight. I'm worried about you being in this cold with a cough.” I said.

“No, I’ll be fine,” he replied. “I can’t leave my setup. I don’t want to take a spot from somebody who can’t make it.”

If anyone could survive outside, it was Michael—the man who claims to have lived in the mountains. And maybe he did. One never knows. There was no convincing him, but he ate, charged his phone, and got warm before heading back out into the night.

A man in his early 30s—whose tent I am storing for him this weekend—moved around the room with benevolence and quiet purpose. Despite a broken hand, he helped others carry their bags, filled water cups, and was simply a nice, helpful presence. When we spoke, he reminded me of one of my student interns: warm eye contact, articulate, attentive.

But every now and then, I’d see him having a polite conversation with someone only he could see or hear.

This is the truth of many unhoused neighbors—not dangerous, not addicts, not lost souls. Just people whose minds travel between worlds, still doing their best to survive this one.

I was struck by how naturally the room organized itself. How this community—so often pushed out of sight—created its own structure of support in minutes.

What grew over those five hours was something like grace: peace, mutual aid, rest, warmth, dignity.

People arrived a little anxious. People left ready.

Ready for the next part of their journey. Ready for safety. Ready for shelter.

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After dinner, the group gathered their belongings—backpacks, blankets, carefully sorted totes—and we made our way to the MLK Center. The building glowed softly in the cold darkness, a beacon in a night that felt unbearably long.

As people stepped inside, the intake process began. Belongings were loaded onto a storage truck. Tags were affixed. People held tight to their essentials: a change of clothes, medications, a treasured item or two. Even with reassurance, letting go stirred anxiety. When your entire life fits into a few bags, every item holds meaning.

The Project NOW team guided people gently through the process, one by one, making sure each person felt seen.

While most guests came from the Holiday Inn, several were new faces. One woman walked to the shelter on foot, thin pajama pants whipping in the wind. She looked like an adult but also like a child, and I winced at a world that expects someone so vulnerable to navigate survival alone.

As Cloey and Christie followed our group to the Holiday Inn, several of us (and Cloey) followed our friends to MLK. Familiar faces are stabilizing. In my profession, we call this a warm handoff. As an observer, I can attest to how quiet, organized, and low-trauma the reception unfolded.

One face I didn’t expect to see was my Mayor, Ashley Harris. I watched him greet folks in line, carry belongings, and listen.

As we chatted, the woman in thin sweatpants approached us, visibly nervous.

“What do you need, love?” I asked.

Her body began to shake. She had already surrendered her items and realized she had forgotten her medication.

“I forgot my medication,” she said. “I’m sorry… I shake when I’m nervous.”

“Don’t be sorry,” I said gently. “You’re okay.”

Mayor Harris smiled. “I’ll go get it. Tell me what I’m looking for.”

He headed outside just as flashing lights swept across the parking lot. An ambulance had arrived for a young woman who was too intoxicated to be admitted—the only person denied entry that night.

The moment the lights hit, the woman beside me flinched and folded into my arms, the way my children would.

“I get seizures,” she whispered. “I don’t want to look at the lights.”

I wrapped my arms around her.

“You’re safe,” I said. “Stay right here with me. He’ll get your things, and we’ll get you settled. This is a good place, and they’re going to take care of you.”

She nodded, trembling. In that moment, the enormity of what shelter means—and what vulnerable people risk to seek it—hung heavy in the air.

Inside, volunteers moved quietly between cots, handing out blankets, water, and toiletries. Project NOW staff worked with practiced calm. The MLK team created a space that felt warm, structured, and dignified.

A delicious homemade meal of pasta, meatballs, and sauce from Pizza Joynt was enjoyed by all. Warmth washed over the room. Jacob, a friend from The Third Place, handed me a large pair of bolt cutters and said, “I forgot I had these in my pocket.” I joked that I often forget about my bolt cutters and offered to return them to him on Monday. I said goodnight to everyone.

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And the Mayor stayed.

He wasn’t posing for a camera or making speeches. He was helping—moving bags, calming nerves, fetching medication, letting people know that they are valued.

It mattered. It matters.

There is something profoundly grounding about seeing leadership show up in the dark—not for applause, not for cameras, but simply because people are suffering and it is the right thing to do. Moments like that give me hope for the quiet emergence of a different kind of world, one we might learn to inhabit together with more humility and care.

I didn’t mind being counted among the homeless last night.

In fact, I felt honored.

This is a community we can learn from—a community that teaches resilience, generosity, patience, humor, and survival. A community whose wisdom we rarely recognize, whose humanity we often overlook, but who—when you spend time with them—reveal truths about what it means to be alive, to be human, and to belong to one another.