The first time I met Steve in 2013, he was giving out “Backpack Beds” — forest green weatherproof backpacks that turned into small tents for the night. I remember thinking: who is this middle-aged man who looks like he just came out of a business meeting but has endless energy for outreach? We decided to grab coffee and we hit it off, but I still wasn’t convinced he was committed.
The next year (and every year after that), I would learn that he was.
After our first meeting, we stayed in touch, and in the spring of 2014, we heard that Metro police officers were trying to close the campsite of one of our mutual friends, Papa Smurf. The residents of the camp had nowhere else to go, and even though we petitioned for more time, the city pushed ahead with the closure.
Steve and our team stood in solidarity with the residents while we helped them with housing — willing to be arrested if needed. We held the camp open for nine months until all the residents had temporary or permanent housing except for Smurf, whose white fluffy hair was held back by a Willie-Nelson-style bandana. Smurf was a woodworker and free spirit who told us he would never “survive in a box.” He wanted to move to upstate New York to support his aging mother, but wouldn’t leave his woodworking tools and art behind. Steve knew what had to be done, so he rented a trailer, hitched it to his car and drove Smurf and his belongings to New York.
That was Steve. Always willing to go the extra mile — or hundreds of miles — for others. After risking arrest with us, he joined our board and connected us to his community at GracePointe Church.
I could tell you a hundred stories — both miracles and tragedies — that we experienced together over the years. But one of the things that stands out was Steve’s presence with us and our friends on the streets during the winter.
Before there were city-led efforts during extreme weather, outreach teams like ours held that responsibility (and still do to some degree). On the coldest nights, we send out canvassing teams who give out life-saving supplies and help people get indoors. Steve was a constant in this work. When the city shut down during snow and ice storms, Steve drove to my house and picked me up in his four-wheel-drive SUV. We packed his car with propane, emergency blankets, food, and sleeping bags and hit every camp and sleeping spot we could. There’s no telling how many miles we trekked on snow-covered railroad tracks and footpaths that threaded in and out of the underside of our city.
When I had to step back from leading winter canvassing teams because of health issues, Steve stepped up. He led our downtown canvassing team for years — training countless volunteers and saving and touching countless lives. Every night he led a team, he stayed out well past midnight to check on everyone he could.
Steve also knew how transformational relationships could be. He journeyed with some of our friends like Bobby, Ray and Smurf for over a decade. He took them to appointments, helped them with their housing, and stayed connected during the hardest times. He was a rock in the lives of so many. Solid, dependable, constant. A couple years ago, he and Georgette went to New York and visited Smurf, who is miraculously five years sober. They had a ball and Smurf introduced them to “Myrtle the Turtle”— his pet box turtle that his daughters gave to him for Father’s Day.
Steve also supported members of our team through some of our most difficult times. When the 2020 tornado plowed through my home, he was one of the first people on the scene to help us salvage what we could and move things into storage. When we rebuilt, he helped us move everything back in and helped me plant our back garden beds. He came to my husband Andrew’s dissertation defense and was a source of constant encouragement through the highs and lows we faced after having kids. He was the kind of friend you cherish and the kind of person you want in your corner.
Steve’s motivation ran deep and was driven by a kind of contemplative spirituality that understood that his liberation was intertwined with the liberation of everyone who was struggling. Instead of numbing out, disconnecting, or becoming cynical or apathetic, he acted. Even though he had the privilege to sit back, he leaned in.
He was always reading the news, listening to podcasts and trying to discern his role. In addition to being an advocate, activist, mentor and outreach worker, he was also a teacher, entrepreneur, writer and beloved father and grandfather. He was a two-time cancer survivor who travelled, loved and lived fully.
Getting to know Steve’s beloved partner Georgette was also such a gift. She brightened any room she walked into and exuded a kind of compassionate care and warmth that made you feel welcomed and loved. She shared Steve’s heart for service and justice, attended protests by his side, and wrapped us in hugs during our annual fundraisers.
One of Steve’s favorite prayers was “The Romero Prayer” (copied below in an adapted form). This prayer was written in honor of Archbishop Oscar Romero who was assassinated in 1980 for speaking truth to power and standing in solidarity with the oppressed people of El Salvador.
“We cannot do everything,” reads the prayer, “and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that. This enables us to do something, and to do it very well.”
Steve and I talked about this prayer the last time we spoke earlier this year. “I keep coming back to it,” he said. It reminded him to do something, even if it was imperfect or incomplete, and he did.
The (adapted) prayer concludes with: “We may never see the end results, but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker. We are workers, not master builders; companions, not messiahs. We are prophets of a future not our own.”
In some ways, Steve will never see the impact of his life’s work. Like his beloved grandchildren growing up, the housing milestones and sobriety anniversaries of his friends, his plays and stories published, a world where justice reigns.
But as the prayer says, we trust that the seeds he planted will grow. And we trust the mysterious belief that those who pass on stay with us, guiding us, encouraging us and equipping us for what is ahead.
We are all better people and this world is a better place because of the lives of Steve and Georgette. For that, we give thanks.
THE ROMERO PRAYER
Adapted for outreach workers by OTN Staff
It helps, now and then, to step back and take a long view.
Collective Liberation is not only beyond our efforts,
it is even beyond our vision.
We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction
of the overarching work of mercy, justice, and love.
Nothing we do is complete, which is a way of saying
that Collective Liberation always lies beyond us.
No single outreach visit brings wholeness.
No single policy changes the system.
No single program accomplishes our mission.
So this is what we are about:
We plant the seeds that one day will grow.
We water seeds already planted,
knowing that they hold future promise.
We lay foundations that will need further development.
We provide yeast that produces far beyond our capabilities.
We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation
in realizing that. This enables us to do something,
and to do it very well. It may be incomplete,
but it is a beginning, a step along the way,
an opportunity for grace to enter and do the rest.
We may never see the end results, but that is the difference
between the master builder and the worker.
We are workers, not master builders; companions, not messiahs.
We are prophets of a future not our own.