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272 ˜ A Work of Hospitality, 1982–2002
the morning of April 16, 1986, Willie stood in our shower line. Gentle Norman
Heinrichs-Gale came up to Willie and asked, “Would you like to live with us”
“Yes,” Willie replied.
Eighteen months later Willie, whom I love so deeply, sits beside me as we
do an interview for this article. “The Open Door” I ask. “It’s as much of a family
as family can be,” he says. “I like it because I need it,” he concludes.
Willie is running the ball again. He is at home here, and we are at home
with Willie. He seldom leaves the house, for the dragon still waits for him behind
the concrete wall. Willie works each day, giving us love and hope as he answers
the phone and door, or as he sorts the checks and addresses the thank-you
letters.
Willie London—Black man wandering in this world, broken and healing—
is a sign of joy and hope among those of us who have the holy privilege of sharing
life and fighting death among the homeless.
Horace Tribble: An Attitude of Gratitude,
by Murphy Davis
M a y 1 9 8 9
Horace Tribble is my teacher. Every Tuesday morning like clockwork, Horace
appears in our kitchen, and before long he is busily slicing oranges and
counting eggs for Wednesday morning’s breakfast. Later, with a friendly word
for each person, he hands out sandwiches to those who come to eat with us.
Many other days, too, Horace joins us to stuff newspapers, to help in the
kitchen, to visit with folks in the living room, and generally to pitch in with the
life and work here.
I first met Horace Tribble on the picket line at the Empire Linen Company.
The workers—most of them black women—had been on strike for several
weeks, and the negotiations were wearing on. People were getting tired. With
my three-year-old daughter, Hannah, and her friend Christina, I had started
taking lunch to the strikers several days a week. One day, as we sat on the wall
after lunch, I saw a tall man get off the bus and walk, leaning on his cane, up to
the line. I met Horace as he worked his way up the line greeting folks and sharing
an encouraging word. Then he sat down quietly. He didn’t seem to need to
be noticed or thanked. He was simply there to lend his support. His presence
was the gift.
And so it is often with Horace. If there is a vigil during an execution, Ho-