Tag: drop in center denver

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I became houseless at a very young age, and, not unlike most houseless people, I ended up in a lot of Rescue Missions. Apparently there were a lot of people whose mission it was to rescue us. They tried their best, too, by shouting on and on about how Jesus loved us, but they never showed us love. We got, “Jesus loves you,” running out our ears, but we didn’t have any person who loved us.

After a few years of that, I had enough “Bible” and more than enough “Jesus loves you.” One night at a Rescue Mission, I was listening (to use the term loosely) to a preacher talk about God’s so loving the world and so on. I’d heard it so many times, it had no meaning, so I read To Kill a Mockingbird. The preacher saw me reading and interrupted me with the question, “Is this not relevant to you, do you not need God’s love?”

I was afraid to answer because fried chicken night is no time to get put out of the mission. Reluctantly, I began to answer, “Well, sir, you came here tonight to preach God’s love. When you got here, you silently pushed through a crowd of people to get into the building, didn’t greet anyone but the house manager, looked at us as if homeless was contagious, and then got up to tell us how much God loves us. If you are an example of God’s love then, no, I don’t need it.”

He made a comment about how the devil likes to disrupt church. I read on in To Kill a Mockingbird.

The night ended with fried chicken, and I went to my squat. It took me a long time to marinate on what had happened that night; before I realized it, that was the night I gave up on love. If God’s love ain’t nothin’, then no love is real.

Then I met Doyle and the rest of the gang at Sox Place. They didn’t preach about God’s love. They didn’t have to. They lived it. They gave it to us; they loved us dirty little cast offs for no reason at all – just because. They were kind when they didn’t have to be, they fed us when we weren’t their kids; they LOVED us. They loved ME – unlovable, unwanted, thrown away me. They didn’t tell me about God’s love. They gave it to me. They taught me you don’t have to be “good enough,” you just have to take the love that is offered. It’s free, no strings. Just like our Father intended. So, thanks to Doyle and everyone else at Sox Place. Many thanks to the families that sacrifice time with them so that we can experience a family too.

– Holly, former street youth and good friend of Sox Place

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The following blog is written by Grace, our summer intern:

I have only been interning at Sox Place for two months, but everyday holds surprises. Sox Place strives to form relationships and be a place of comfort and encouragement. I started my internship this summer hoping to help do that for others but I didn’t know that it would happen to me. When I met Lynne and Shea, on Thursday, July 12, God worked through Sox Place to form a relationship that stretched across the country.

It is early afternoon. I’m hanging out in the drop-in center playing pool and talking. A well-dressed lady walks up behind me and her adorable dog catches my eye. A lot of people have dogs at Sox Place so I wasn’t too surprised but I stopped to ask her dog’s name. After petting him for a minute, I turn back around to my pool game. Then a man walks up to where I’m standing and introduces himself to me.

Lynne and Shea are caring people and love to give back, but they also have a deeper story that binds their lives to the lives of many street kids, and now, also to my own life.

Earlier that day, the drop-in center isn’t open yet and all the staff are upstairs getting ready for the afternoon. Jordan stops into the office where I’m working and mentions that someone just contacted him and wants to meet me. Immediately, I’m confused. Jordan explains that he didn’t catch the whole message and just knows that this guy and I share a mutual friend and that he has a connection with Sox Place.

The guy was Shea, and his daughter, Andrea, an avid poet, a journalist, and a lover of animals hung out downtown and identified with other street kids. She found comfort and refuge in Sox Place and knew Doyle well.

In 2010, their daughter Andrea, aka “Rinu,” died from the “choking game.” The “choking game” is a game that young people play to get a sort of high by blocking the oxygen flow to the brain and causing them to get dizzy or pass out. This dangerous game turns deadly when the person playing is not able to stop the choking quick enough to get a breath.

Andrea’s parents have been visiting Sox Place regularly since she passed two years ago, donating journals, socks, deodorant, and bandanas, striving to keep Andrea’s legacy alive and inspiring other street kids to write and make their stories heard.

After the death of their daughter, Shea and Lynne not only kept in contact with Sox Place, but they also reached out to other organizations and joined an online support group that connects families and parents of those who have died from the “choking game.” Through this support group, Andrea’s parents met others grieving the loss of a child yet striving to raise awareness and bring hope to others. One of the other parents that Shea and Lynne happened to connect with was Kelly, Jay’s mom.

I’m from a small town in Tennessee, over one thousand miles away from Denver. I attended the local public school and had class with many of the same kids for seven years. Jay was one of those kids. He was involved in school, well-known, and liked by his classmates. One of the first of our classmates to die, Jay left an impact on all of our hearts. The summer after graduation, news spread through Facebook, the news, and word of mouth that one of our friends and classmates had passed away. We were off to college, finding jobs, and starting families, but in a way Jay’s passing brought our high school class closer together. Today, almost three years later, I was brought back to that summer, those friends that I have lost touch with, and the faces I haven’t seen in years.

When I first talked to Shea, he began explaining the links that brought us together. After reading the recent newsletter, and recognizing the name of my home town as that of Kelly and Jay’s, Shea and Lynne took a leap of faith and contacted me.

I believe that many miracles have happened at Sox Place and that God is present in every person who walks through the door. I don’t know exactly what Lynne and Shea saw in me that day, or what they were feeling, but in them I saw a glimpse of something powerful. I saw a connection to my past, through Jay and his mother, and a connection to Andrea, a friend that I’ve never met, yet an angel that has brought people together.

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Last week, we sent out an email letting our supporters know that we were running extremely low on food and socks.  Within a week, our pantry and sock crates were overflowing!

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This picture is the food from just one church, Eastern Hills Community Church in Aurora, who donated.

In addition to Eastern Hills, we would also like to thank Englewood Fist Assembly of God, Grace Community Church, Boulder County Community Church, Kevin and Carol Bohren, and all the individuals who gave so generously to help meet our needs to help the homeless and at-risk youth of Denver!

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It is rare that homeless kids get brand new clothes to wear, but thanks to Shane and Patty Rose of Utah, they will!  Take a look at all these new clothes for the homeless youth of Denver!

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As I stood on the tile beside the door, getting my mind ready for the blast of cold and snow that I was about to encounter, I looked down at my boots.  My ugly boots.  My old, dirty, ugly boots.  I’d had them since high school – about ten years now.  Ten years is a long time to have a pair of shoes when you’re only 26 and female.  They were a sort-of faded black – I couldn’t remember if they had always been that color or if they had faded over time – with dirt on the top of one of them that I couldn’t seem to get off.  They were size almost-too-big.  Clunky was a good description for them; I sounded like a 300 pound drunk man when I walked across the floor.  And they were plain.  Completely plain, except for the drawstring around the top to keep the snow from getting inside.  They were my old, dirty, ugly boots.

Trekking across the yet-to-be-plowed parking lot toward my bus stop, through snow drifts up to my ankles, I was almost thankful for those ugly boots.  But just almost.  When I sat down on the bus, my feet were dry and warm, which is important to a cold-natured person such as myself.  But they were still my ugly boots.  I couldn’t help but frown down at them, no matter how subconsciously thankful I was for unfrozen toes.

With my feet under my desk at work, I didn’t have to think about my unsightly boots too much.  I went to work, getting done what I had planned to finish that day in no time.  This made it so I could help out in the drop-in center for most of the day, hanging out with the street youth that come into Sox Place.  Between getting warm socks for the kids and cleaning up coffee spills – cold, numb hands don’t attach well to warm cups of coffee – it was easy to ignore the sound of big-foot coming from my own boots.

Not long after we opened, a girl came in almost unnoticed among the extra-large crowd that Sox Place attracts on snowy days.  But she stood out a little more than the others – at least to me.  The coat she had on looked warm enough, but it was obviously too small.  Small tufts of blonde hair poked out of her too-tight hood just enough to see that neither a comb nor shampoo had touched it in weeks.  Her nose was running and her face was red.  Her lips looked as if she were to try to smile, they would start bleeding in about ten places.  She had her sleeping bag draped over most of her body so as to keep the flying snow away as she walked.  The legs of her jeans were wet half-way up to her knees from being dragged through slush.  And her non-waterproof boots looked as if someone had soaked them in a bathtub of ice water overnight before giving them to her to wear.

She came up to me and asked, barely audible, “Can I go downstairs to get shoes and some dry clothes?”

“Absolutely,” I responded, as I led her to the donation room.  I pointed to the piles of shoes and coats while she removed the load from her back.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice a little stronger.  “I got here as fast as I could.  My feet are so cold.  I tried to run, but I couldn’t feel my feet.  I almost fell.”  She looked down at her sloshy boots and took a step.  “Oh!  They hurt so bad!”  She walked closer to the shoes.  “Oh, they hurt!”

I didn’t know what to tell her.  Frostbite was the first thing that came to my mind, but I didn’t want to tell her that.  Surly she didn’t have frostbite.  “Maybe you should take off your wet socks and shoes, and I’ll go get you some dry socks.”

She began to take off her shoes, and I went upstairs to grab some thick socks.  When I came back, she had picked out some boots in her size (good thing she had small feet – they were the last pair of boots we had) and was headed toward the pile of coats, cursing her feet as she went.

I handed her the socks, and she sat down with a curse, “They hurt so bad!  Why would they hurt so much?”

I looked at her bare feet as she rubbed them between her hands before putting on the socks.  They were wrinkled, as if she had been in the shower too long.  And red.  So red it looked like she was overheated, but I knew it was just the opposite.  “I don’t know,” I answered.  “Maybe it’s like after you’ve been playing in the snow, then you come inside and wash your hands in warm water, and it hurts a lot because your fingers got so cold.”

She didn’t respond to my answer.  I’m not sure if she thought it was as dumb as I thought it had sounded or if she was thinking about it.  Either way, she finished her business and put on her new-found, fitting coat and warm, waterproof boots.

As I watched her toss her old, soaked boots to the side, I couldn’t help but look down at my own feet.  Maybe it was the lighting in that basement or the fact that I was standing on a crumbling concrete floor, but for some reason, my boots didn’t look quite so ugly anymore.

By Kara Knight

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Sox Place is a drop in center for street kids that provides a safe haven for them to call home. But it’s not just a drop in center, it’s a church. Doyle and the supporters of Sox Place are dedicated to changing lives one relationship at a time in the heart of Denver. Surrounded by prostitution, heroine use, and meth addiction Doyle dives into the mess of people’s lives and loves them where they are at.

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Compete for the Street supports Sox Place by spreading awareness, and developing fundraising opportunities through, endurance sporting events. Shawn-the founder of Compete for the Street–catches up with Josh to get the full story on the happenings at Sox Place.
Find out more about Compete for the Street http://www.facebook.com/competeforthestreet

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After living in Manhattan, seeing a homeless person becomes as normal as hailing a taxicab or going to a Yankees game. While most of us walk by, going about our daily routine, or snarl and roll our eyes at what we presume is the drug addict or alcoholic, have you ever actually stopped and asked them what their story is? That is exactly what Doyle Robinson does everyday in Denver, Colorado.
Read the Article

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For a decade, Doyle Robinson has offered help to homeless kids at Sox Place, a sprawling room in downtown Denver that is equal parts retreat, counseling center and raucous family den.
And it all began with Robinson handing out free socks from a plastic bag — plus respect and kindness from deep in his heart — to street kids most folks treated as pariahs.
Read the Article

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