Recognizing the Homeless
Harold Ford
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Marcia Ford
* Publishing consultant
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* Author of 30 traditionally published books
Email: ford2200@gmail.com
LinkedIn profile: https://www.linkedin.com/in/marcia4d/
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Associate editor, The Editorial Department
Member, ACES: The Society for Editing; Editorial Freelancers Association; Religion News Association
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For Outsider’s Church, Sept. 24
Recognizing the Homeless
By Marcia Ford
Harold was a something of a fixture around the Jersey Shore—just not the Jersey Shore most of us
know. It's unlikely that you'd find him hanging out on the beach with the beautiful people during the day
or in the hottest hotspot with the usual clubbers at night. In fact, it's unlikely you would find him at the
shore at all during the summer.
In the warmer months, Harold liked to travel to the city, New York City. He would arrive at Grand Central
Station with his backpack slung over his shoulder and settle in for a spell—"spell" meaning however long
he felt like staying. Sometimes he'd cross back over the Hudson for a change of scenery and stay at
Newark's Penn Station. He would come and go as he pleased.
When the weather turned cold, Harold headed back to the Jersey Shore, where he was born and lived
for 52 years. There, he would do odd jobs and reconnect with friends who helped him find food and
warmth and shelter. This past winter, Harold found the first at a local soup kitchen and the latter two at
Mariner's Cove Motor Inn in Point Pleasant Beach, New Jersey.
It was there that Harold lost his life in a spectacular fire* one morning, along with three other residents,
nearly a decade ago..
If that's all you knew about Harold, you might imagine him as just another homeless street person, a
nameless, faceless drifter like so many other invisible vagrants who live in the shadows.
But Harold Ford was also my brother-in-law, so I know some of the backstory to what appeared to be his
miserable life. I wish I knew more, but the last time I saw Harold was at least four decades ago. He stood
outside my house, yelling at me and vowing to walk away from the family that loved him. He kept that
vow and dropped out of sight. Once we left New Jersey, that was that.
That is, until the day after the motel fire, which I had watched on the national news from my home in
Colorado. Within days, we found out that Harold was among those who were left homeless by Hurricane
Sandy eighteen months earlier. During the winter, the resort-area motel opened its doors to Sandy
survivors. Harold survived Sandy and moved to the motel. But he did not survive the fire.
Since then, we’ve been able to piece together the last year and a half of Harold’s life. We don’t know
where he was living before Sandy, only that his place was destroyed. He went to stay with a relative, but
not for long. Harold, whose anger and bitterness over some long-ago misunderstanding, was still alive.
But he wore out his welcome and found himself homeless once again.
But then, something happened to him that no one foresaw. Through the homeless community at the
shore, Harold got involved with an Episcopal church, first by attending their weekly hot meals, then by
getting food from their pantry, and finally by helping out by shoveling snow and doing various chores to
show his appreciation for their generosity. A relative served him meals from a the church’s soup kitchen
but did not recognize him. After he died, church workers talked about the fire and Harold’s death. Only
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then did she realize that the man she had been serving was her former brother-in-law. She doesn’t know
if he recognized her. If he did, he never mentioned it.
Her failure to recognize a one-time relative is more common than you might expect. You may think that
you would certainly recognize a down-and-out relative, but the odds are not in your favor. In one of
many studies about homelessness, people from different walks of life were hired to dress and act as if
they were homeless and sit in front of a relative’s place of business for a week or more. Not one person
recognized their “homeless” relative. Harold’s former sister-in-law was shaken to the core when she
realized she had failed to recognize him, but that failure was nor unusual.
But back to Harold. After years of anger and bitterness, he had become a “gentle soul,” which is how
people at the church described him following his death. They asked that his remains be interred in their
cemetery.
Perhaps most surprising, Harold was happy. Living on the street, refusing to panhandle or accept
government help, finding whatever work he could, wandering from the city to the shore—Harold loved
his life. Best of all, he had found a good friend who always had his back, and vice versa. Albert Sutton,
who was also homeless, imparted the wisdom of his 66 years to Harold while Harold, fourteen years his
junior, did the heavy lifting for Albert.
Both men died in the fire. Accounts vary; some witnesses said they saw Harold go back in to the motel
to get Albert, others say Albert went in to get Harold. But those who knew them best agree that the
details don’t matter. Either man would have given his life for the other.
The moment I learned the circumstances of Harold’s death, one thought came to mind: "Greater love has
no one than this, that one lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13 NAS). I wasn’t surprised that I
thought immediately of a Bible verse, but I did realize how astonishing it was that I associated a Bible
verse with Harold. Now I can’t think of him without recalling those words of Jesus.
While Harold’s role in the tragedy was an act of sacrificial love, my role—our role as a society—is more
complicated. There’s the obvious lesson of valuing every human life, even the lives of the vagrants
whose backstories are unknown to most of us but which may prove overwhelming once we discover
those stories. I for one have been overwhelmed by everything I have learned about Harold since his
death.
There’s another lesson, though, one that strikes a deeper chord in our lives. That’s the lesson that we
should never give up, never lose hope, and never write off anyone, no matter how miserable their lives
may appear to be.
At the end of his life, Harold, the homeless vagabond whom countless commuters ignored as they raced
through Grand Central Station, had found peace, love, and happiness and died a hero—despite all
predictions to the contrary.
* The Newark Star-Ledger reported on the fire, and the friendship between Albert Sutton and Harold,
here . If you have had interaction with a homeless individual, whether a loved one or not, please tell your
story in the Comments section below.
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Harold Ford for Outsider's Church.docx
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