One evening, during a Code Purple — when temperatures in New Castle County drop below 20 degrees and emergency overnight shelters open — I had the chance to meet several people experiencing homelessness. Their stories were raw, deeply personal, and profoundly moving. I walked away not just with a new understanding of their struggles, but with a sense of connection. I felt like I had made new friends.

Wilson: “There’s no housing crisis — the city owns plenty of houses.”
Wilson doesn’t believe Wilmington has a housing shortage; he believes it has a housing priority problem. “The city owns plenty of houses,” he says. “They board them up and let them deteriorate, then they sell them to developers instead of making them affordable.” He’s seen countless programs that overlap, offering the same services, but not enough real solutions.

Wilson came to Delaware from North Carolina after his sister died. He said he entered a housing program but was forced out when he couldn’t pay two months’ rent upfront;  St. Vincent de Paul offered to cover one month, but the program still insisted on two, which left him on the streets.

His struggles run deep. He suffers from bipolar disorder and PTSD, haunted by the memory of witnessing his wife and children die in a car accident — one he believes he should have been in. He explained that he sought help due to his medical condition and signed the required papers to release his medical records to a program in Delaware, but nothing ever came of it.

His first nights of homelessness were spent in a tent provided by St. Vincent de Paul. He eventually abandoned it to care for a young woman also living on the streets. Later, he’s back in a tent under an overpass — until authorities decided he was an “eyesore” and moved him. He points back to our earlier conversation, saying, “Here, it seems like there is no place to go.”

Still, Wilson is fighting for change. He recently applied for a job paying $18.50 an hour, but he knows the cost of a room will make it hard to save.

Our conversation ended with Wilson saying, “There are people out here that need help. We’re just like anyone else — I was raised right. Yes ma’am, no ma’am. But out here, you learn survival mode. And that can make you dangerous.”

Jeffrey: “It’s been a minute.”
When I ask Jeffrey how long he’s been homeless, he just shrugs. “It’s been a minute.” That “minute” has been two years.

He isn’t scared — at least, that’s what he tells me or maybe, himself. He picks a safe-looking spot to sleep, preferably somewhere with cameras nearby.

Jeffrey got out of prison and had nowhere to go. He came to Wilmington because his children live here, but without ID, money, or a support system, he was trapped. “You can’t get a job without an ID, and you can’t get an ID without money.” It costs $40 to get identification — an impossible amount when you have nothing. He discovered Friendship House, which helps unhoused individuals get an ID for $5, but scraping together even that much is a challenge. “I’ll save it up, but then the weekend comes, and I’m too hungry to wait for Monday.”

He watches landlords build high-dollar housing while abandoned homes sit empty, just out of reach.

Malcolm: Jump Rope and Hustle
Soft-spoken and gentle, Malcolm is an artist — a jump rope dancer. You might see him on Wilmington’s Riverfront, performing his rhythmic routines, hoping for a break. He shares his talent online, creating videos for YouTube and hoping that someone will notice.

But talent doesn’t guarantee a roof over your head. Like so many others, he keeps pushing forward, holding onto his craft as both a passion and a lifeline.

V: “You gotta do the work.”
At 62, V has seen a lot. He believes in hard work and that you get out what you put in. But even he is frustrated watching high-rises go up while abandoned homes stay empty.

I ask him if he prefers the term “unhoused” over “homeless.” His answer is simple: “No. Why? It means the same thing.”

He has noticed that more and more women — especially those with children — are experiencing homelessness. And when women and children are on the streets, men like him feel the weight of responsibility to protect them.

Kim: “Women can’t put up a wall like men can.”
Kim, 61, has been homeless for about a year. In her experience, homelessness affects women differently. “We’re nurturers,” she says. “And now, that part of us is gone.”

She spent time in Pittsburgh, later New Jersey, where she graduated from a university. She has worked in retail, landscaping, and gardening. She had a home and a beautiful garden that people admired. But when she opened her doors to some people she was trying to help, they took everything — all of her savings that was hidden in the house. Unable to recover financially, she lost her home.

Now, she doesn’t even have an ID. “I have an expired driver’s license, but nobody will accept it — even though my picture’s right there.”  Without an ID, she can’t get a job.

Despite everything, Kim has a heart for others. “I hope I can say the right thing at the right time to help somebody.” She wants to set a good example for her children and grandchildren, scattered across the country, none of whom can afford to take her in. She refuses to be a burden.

Yet, among all the challenges she faces, one of the hardest is something most of us take for granted. “Finding a place to go to the bathroom.”

If she could send one message to the world? “Love one another. Do things for people — not for money, but to be kind.”

Samyra and her son, Conyers: Laughing to Keep From Crying
Samyra clutches her son, Conyers, as they take refuge from the cold during this Code Purple evening. He is one year old.

She’s been unhoused for a couple of months — some of the coldest months of the year. But she has a caseworker who is fighting for her. She goes to an online college, working toward a degree as a Medical Administrative Assistant, set to graduate in July.

She also has a nine-year-old son, living with her grandmother in New Jersey. Once she finds stable housing, she says they’ll be reunited.

Every night, she cries. “I’m afraid of losing my son,” she confesses. But during the day, she forces herself to smile. “I laugh to keep from crying. I don’t want him to see me cry.”

She believes in God. She believes in hope. She believes she will get through. And, she wants other single mothers to know they will, too. “No matter what you’re going through, you can get through it.”

Even in the harshest of circumstances, her love for her children keeps her going. “Every morning, I look at Conyers, and he brings me joy. Even when everything else is hard.”

A Crisis in Plain Sight
Each person I spoke with that night had different circumstances, different dreams, different pasts. But they all shared the same struggle — finding stability in a city that they feel often overlooks them. In the following section, the Rev. Patrick Burke addresses the growing demand for shelter in Wilmington and explores how we, as Christians, are called to respond.

This isn’t just a housing problem. It’s a human problem. And it’s happening in our own backyard.

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A heartfelt thank you to Carynn Kelley-Katz for her incredible dedication during Code Purple and for introducing me to the individuals seeking shelter one evening. Carynn’s deep care and compassion shine through in her volunteer work with the Code Purple ministry. As she shared with me, “They are like family to me, and all I want to do is show them that they matter.” Her words reflect a genuine love and respect for each person, reminding us all to look beyond the surface and truly see one another. Her offer of warm ‘good-nights’ and heartfelt hugs to each person at the end of the evening are a powerful reminder of the impact of simple, genuine love.