Baltimore group fights addiction, homelessness with gentle touch — and soup

Standing on a sidewalk in Southwest Baltimore one overcast winter morning, Evelyn “Nikki” Jones listened to a woman in an oversize Orioles hoodie describe how her life had fallen apart.

Bethannie Stafford shivered as she told Jones about getting caught squatting in a vacant building. She also acknowledged she now needed help for a fentanyl addiction that had taken over her life more than five years ago.

For Jones, an outreach manager at Helping Up Mission, convincing people like Stafford to get off the streets and into substance use treatment is her calling. The group is receiving millions from the city’s recently established opioid restitution fund, which officials hope will be transformative in the fight against the worst overdose crisis in the nation.

But even when the alternative for people like Stafford is sleeping in tent encampments or abandoned homes, Jones’ work isn’t easy.

Within Maryland, homelessness is most pronounced in Baltimore, and many live with addiction and other mental health problems or disabilities that make their rehousing complicated.

The Trump administration is pushing for involuntary substance abuse treatment and transitional housing to address homelessness and drug addiction, a strategy they believe will work because of the “black robe effect,” said Adrienne Breidenstine, vice president for policy and communications at Behavioral Health System Baltimore, a nonpartisan nonprofit that oversees mental health and drug treatment on behalf of the city.

When people are put before judges, Breidenstine said, it can sometimes help them “wake up” and take their recovery more seriously. And some view involuntary commitment as the more humane option.

“We know there’s a really high risk of mortality,” said Devon Kurtz, director of public safety policy at the Cicero Institute, a right-leaning think tank based in Texas that supports banning street encampments and shifting money toward addiction treatment. “Where we will not save lives is letting people die on the street.”

But harm reduction and street outreach have also been effective, Breidenstine said, especially when considering long-term outcomes.

“Any approach that is recovery-oriented and that promotes community-based care is a more compassionate approach,” she said. “People are more likely to engage in services if it’s their choice.”

That’s why Jones is part of a team with Helping Up Mission that goes to the same spots week after week, rain or shine.

The faith-based organization, founded in Baltimore by a Christian missionary in the 1880s, crisscrosses the city three days a week in a bus recently purchased with the help of winnings from Baltimore City’s lawsuit against opioid companies.

Starting last year, community groups like Helping Up Mission began to receive tens of millions of dollars from the city’s opioid restitution fund to combat an ongoing overdose crisis. City officials have said they are tracking how the money is being used and will publish that information in annual reports and an online dashboard.

On that cold day in February, the bus was laden with gallons of chicken and rice soup, made from Jones’ own recipe. It also carried crates of body wipes, overdose reversal medication Narcan, and hand warmers.

By the time the bus pulled up in front of Southwest Baltimore’s Wilkens Avenue Mennonite Church, a small crowd with many familiar faces had already gathered, including the woman in the hoodie.

Stafford, 32, was looking to enroll in a treatment program, she told Jones. But it was complicated. She wasn’t willing to leave behind her boyfriend, who was also unhoused and addicted to drugs.

Jones pressed Stafford to consider how far she’d let her boyfriend’s actions dictate her own.

“I want you to love yourself more than you love him,” Jones said, wrapping her arms around the younger woman, who had begun to cry.

Jones gave Stafford a business card and told her to call the moment she changed her mind. Though she had no phone, Stafford accepted the card, walked into an alley, and disappeared.

Jones, like many outreach workers, rarely meets someone who is immediately ready to start a new life.

The decision to enter treatment is often not straightforward, experts say. Many programs, especially ones that offer housing like Helping Up Mission, have strict rules. They often restrict clients’ time, movement and communication, which can disrupt relationships and jobs. People have also raised concerns about the quality of some treatment programs.

Jones believes her work can make a difference. Because she was on the other side.

Before she got sober in 1998 with help from her church, Jones said, she sold drugs, shoplifted and engaged in sex work. She now leads Helping Up Mission’s choir, in-house hair salon and dance ministry.

Jones sees herself now as a servant of God. She knows some people she meets are nowhere near ready to make a big change and could use a friendly touch.

One day in Southwest Baltimore, a man she recognized from childhood approached her. He asked for her card.

“Call me,” she told him.

“I love you,” he said. They embraced. Her old friend walked away, and she headed to the next stop.

Her boss, Daniel Stoltzfus, acknowledged that the group’s religious underpinnings won’t serve everyone. There are some who resist yearlong commitments. Others may connect better with a different approach. So Helping Up Mission refers them to secular organizations, said Stoltzfus, Helping Up Mission’s CEO.

Most of their shelter caters to men, though it offers beds for women and young children, too. On any given night, it houses about 600 people.

Unlike most treatment programs, Helping Up Mission doesn’t bill insurance, and instead primarily relies on donations and grants.

Baltimore City approved $5 million from its opioid restitution fund for the nonprofit over nearly four years to fund the new outreach bus and other services. Stoltzfus said the new vehicle’s private restroom, food service window and clinical space offer a step up from their old 1987 converted school bus.

Helping Up Mission was one of 22 programs designated to receive $87 million from settlement agreements. So far, the city has won nearly $580 million, which officials plan to spend on harm reduction, treatment, education and prevention efforts over 15 years.

Previously, some City Council members expressed concern that a sizable portion of the opioid restitution fund had been allocated to organizations through secret settlement negotiations.

During a January City Council committee hearing, Councilwoman Phylicia Porter questioned how the organizations were selected and what the city could do if there were concerns about their spending.

Elizabeth Tatum, deputy director of the Mayor’s Office of Recovery Programs, responded that the city had worked closely with the settlement’s designated programs on their spending plans before disbursing money — so far, more than $39 million. City staff will conduct quarterly performance meetings and site visits to monitor each program’s work, she said.

Community organizations can also compete for some of the funds. Mayor Brandon Scott announced last week that 11 groups will receive a total of $2 million from the first round for street-based medical care, rapid drug-checking services and support for senior apartments.

For his part, Helping Up Mission outreach director Peter Griffin finds the most challenging work at encampments, like the one near Patapsco Avenue and Potee Street in South Baltimore.

“We come here to offer hope, not to judge,” Griffin said after packing a backpack full of hygienic kits and snacks to bring to the site.

He returned to the bus a short time later with one person from the encampment. The man wore sandals and stepped inside. His feet were caked with dirt.

“Oh wow, we got somebody?” asked outreach team member Michael Cropsey.

It doesn’t happen all too often, Cropsey said — maybe once or twice a week. “But even if we don’t,” he said, “we planted the seed.”

The man on the bus eventually departed without enrolling in treatment. He left with socks and a small cup of soup.

At times the seed can sprout into something more.

Back at the church in Southwest Baltimore, where Jones had tried to convince the woman in the hoodie to seek treatment, a latecomer walked by just as workers were starting to pack up.

After getting food from the bus, the man sat and rested on the curb. He placed a wooden plank studded with nails beside him.

Ian Bloomer, a case worker, settled next to him. The self-defense stick, Bloomer told The Banner, reminded him of tense nights he had spent unhoused as he tried to quit drugs over 15 years.

Bloomer had spoken to the man once before. And this time, the man agreed to accept a ride to a hospital to be treated for a wound. The next step, with luck, would be treatment.

“Seeing him take that step,” Bloomer said with a smile and a fist pump. “It was like, ‘Let’s go!’”