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I am VOA. Have you ever taken a personality test? I took one called a “soul” test one time and found out: I’m a Server, a person who serves others. It’s part of my personality to serve people and find out what I can do to best support them. Growing up as one of five siblings, sometimes we were spread thin. There was always food on the table, but a new winter coat was usually out of the question. Hand-me-downs were common and everything was shared. Food insecurity wasn’t something my family struggled with, but we lived simply, and I can understand when things like COVID-19 strikes a family and they suddenly don’t have enough. I try to understand who I’m serving and what their needs are, then do my best to help solve their troubles. Managing the operations for our food distribution means I am always finding ways to support our food bank coalition partners and get nutritious food to as many families as possible. I am a Server. I am VOA. ----- Dean Johnson is the Director of Operations for Hunger Prevention and has been with VOA since 2015. A native of the Boston area, Dean finds western Washington one of the most beautiful places he’s seen, both in scenery and in community generosity. His story appears here as a part of our #IAmVOA campaign.

Dear Self, Hey you, I know you are going through a lot right now but I just need you to hear this. From starting off the year totaling your brand-new car, surviving another neck surgery and then somehow surviving a traumatic fall down cement stairs just weeks after surgery. Scans are good but doctors have nothing to say but “give it time”. Some say you should “be happy you survived” and that just makes you wonder if things would have been easier for others if you didn’t. Days turn to weeks and weeks into months the constant pain that is accompanied by the medications’ mental fog of indifference. Now you have been living for months on pain medication that makes you miss out on the joys of life, not to mention the loss of independence. No camping, no fishing, no running, no board games with friends. I want you to know it is okay to not be okay. It is okay to ask for help, your friends want to help. You have helped so many over the years and now the hardest part is telling them that the pain is deeper than the diagnosis. Your constant mental isolation from the amount of medication that it takes to numb the pain. Your inability to provide for your family and constant struggle to find anything reason to wake up day after day after day. Sleepless nights where you feel more like a burden than a husband, father or friend. I only say this so that you truly understand that I get it. I want you to know you are loved and appreciated by all of your friends and family. Things will get better. Things will improve. You are stronger than you realize, and you have so much joy to look forward to in the future. I cannot promise the pain will go away but I can promise you that the joy will come back. Sincerely, Your Future Self Jasan's Letter to Myself is part of our "It's OK to not be OK" campaign to recognize September as National Suicide Awareness month. If you or someone you know is struggling, visit imhurting.org for 24/7 chat support or call 800-273-8255.

Dear Kristi, I know you are in pain and very scared. I know the excruciating headaches, debilitating vertigo and not knowing when it will get better have you out of sorts. You are simply not yourself right now and thoughts of how to end the suffering have suddenly crept into your mind. But in all of the chaos, you did the right thing. You were a responsible gun owner. You knew that asking to have your trusting firearm removed from the safe under your bed and stored in another undisclosed location while you recovered very well could have saved our life. I can’t thank you enough for realizing what had always brought you comfort and security suddenly turned dark with temptation. There is nothing braver than asking for help and I am so very proud of you. It is wonderful to see 2-years post-surgery that you are stronger than ever and once again at peace with your handgun back at home, under the bed. Love, Post-Aneurysm Craniotomy Kristi --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kristi's Letter to Myself is part of our "It's OK to not be OK" campaign to recognize September as National Suicide Awareness month. If you or someone you know is struggling, visit imhurting.org for 24/7 chat support or call 800-273-8255.

Everyone said we had so much ahead of us, that we had so much potential to be anyone we wanted to be. And yet we still felt like we were never going to be enough. We smiled and pretended, we threw on so many faces and disguises to the point where no one even recognized us. We lied so much so that the people we loved wouldn’t feel like somehow, they were the reason we were like this. We self-harmed, we kept everything to ourselves. We worked harder, did more, achieved more, became more and yet it still wasn’t enough, and it was never going to be enough. And we crashed hard. We had thoughts of dying years ago when we were 11, made meticulous plans too. And when our situation changed, we were still angry, depressed, anxious but we weren’t planning our death anymore and that was something. We crashed so hard in college; it all was too much. We felt like we weren’t doing enough, saying enough, being enough. We felt like we weren’t a good enough daughter when our dad never even told us that and we felt so much guilt because of it. I’m not going to say it gets better just move on, because that’s not how it happened. We worked on ourselves, we went to therapy, we had that awfully awkward conversation with our aunt and dad. We admitted to so much. And then little by little it got better, we still have bad days, we still fall apart but we can put ourselves back together now. And here we are now; a job we love, a passion that fuels us, people who support us, a future that is so beyond anything we ever dreamed of, and it is all here because you were stubborn and angry and decided not to give up. And so, it got better; and I know it’ll keep getting better too. Sincerely, Sam age 20 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sam's Letter to Myself is part of our "It's OK to not be OK" campaign to recognize September as National Suicide Awareness month. If you or someone you know is struggling, visit imhurting.org for 24/7 chat support or call 800-273-8255.

Dear Jess, I have entered a mystical and wonderful time writing machine in order to reach you exactly 10 years ago. I know things are still incredibly confusing, and you are only beginning to settle into the Truth that is, “it’s ok to not be ok.” In your avoidance of this truth, you came very close to losing not just your name, your sovereignty, but your literal life. It is ok to hurt so deeply when he died. It was not ok to blame yourself. He was unreachable, but you still have a chance to reach yourself. These people in the hospital are trying to help you, I realize some of their methods are bizarre, but this is a place to lean into the “being not ok.” It’s what this place is for. You are lucky to be here and not in the dark places you were before the ambulance came. That night is not who you are, it is just one night when you faced extreme darkness. I can let you know that you will never face trauma like that again. You will heal. Slow is the way, and those who love you will guide you there. You are seeking healing of the soul, and you will find it. It will come through the brilliance of leading your inner child out of the darkness inside you that you are too scared to face. Your dad will assist you, I know this surprises you to hear. His dementia will build a bridge between you, where he can help you and you can reach him. You will hold hands often. You will help him bear his pain the way he is helping you right now. His last year will be the most beautiful time of your journey. Enjoy every second. Even the hard ones and remind him too: it is ok to not be ok. He will need to hear it over and over. I must be closing this time loop soon, before I do, one final urge. All the love you give to others, all day long and also in your songs, put a bright mirror on it and send it to yourself. It is truly the glue that will hold your soul to your body and your ligaments to their bones. When in doubt, circle around a fire with badass women. I love you so hard, from age 44, where life is very lovely. Some days are not ok, but there is peace within those days that you have worked hard to achieve--be so thankful you did. The universe is conspiring on your behalf. All my deepest love, Smiley (your new name) --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Jess' Letter to Myself is part of our "It's OK to not be OK" campaign to recognize September as National Suicide Awareness month. If you or someone you know is struggling, visit imhurting.org for 24/7 chat support or call 800-273-8255.

The following first appeared in The Everett Herald on 8/7/21. When I look at my messages to doctors between February and May of 2018, I remember that I was slowly losing my mind. On Feb. 14, 2018, I doubled my dose of a prescribed pain medication, then I did not sleep that night. I’d been taking Effexor, also prescribed as an antidepressant, to manage chronic back pain since my mid-20s, occasionally altering the dose. That winter was tough, my depression enveloping me early in the morning most weekdays and lasting past noon. I’d asked my doctor to increase my dose, trying to claw back some of myself. From mid-February to May, when I chose to leave the clinic, my records show an arsenal of drugs they threw at me as my insomnia persisted and I grew desperate: Trazadone, Zolpidem, Doxepin, Zoloft, Quetiapine, Ambien and Ambien XR, Clonazepam, Buspirone, Zyprexa and Xanax. As my trips to the pharmacy in Mukilteo grew from monthly to weekly, I filled my red basket with over-the-counter medications: Benadryl, Melatonin, Nyquil. I saw a sleep specialist and strapped on a headband and sensors for an at-home sleep study. I clung to my talk therapy appointments, and chased anything that offered glimmer of hope: cognitive behavioral therapy, relaxing music with headphones, chilled sleep mask, meditation. I searched for answers in online medical journals, Google rabbit holes and Reddit threads. And exercise. Even during stressful periods, I had almost always been able to sweat off the rain clouds, exhaust myself, and collapse on my bed, adrift within minutes. During those months I jogged with eyelids half-closed around the loop of our Everett neighborhood dozens and dozens of times. I tried to keep up during pick-up ultimate Frisbee at Kasch Park, a slower and clumsier version of myself. It did not work. I was north of 210 pounds when 2018 started, and stumbled past spring somewhere shy of 176. I would look in the mirror, stare into those expressionless eyes, and see a man who was dying. When I broke down, unable to remember things or make decisions, I called the Crisis Line. I called Fairfax to inquire about the check-in requirements. I called my mom. I called my sister. But mostly, I leaned on my wife. She is a tenacious, no-BS problem solver, a nurse practitioner who was watching her husband of 12 years slowly disappear before her eyes. I retreated constantly to the bedroom, because there I didn’t have to act like things were OK, didn’t need to burden anyone with the wrong reaction or — more commonly — no reaction. And I left my clinic. Their policy restricted doctors from prescribing ongoing benzodiazepines. Benzos are a class of tightly controlled sedatives that can easily create dependence. I get it, now. I do. But then I was wasting away, panicking, feeling like everything would be gone soon. I would be gone. My brother found me a doctor who rescued people like me. My Wife drove me to Bellevue on a rainy Thursday in April, and the doctor prescribed me a benzo called Clonazepam. And for the first time in 72 hours I slept. And, over the course of that summer, I slowly came back to life. The life ring he’d thrown me stopped me from going under, brought me back to regular nights of sleep by August. Then, within a couple of months, the intense depression and crippling anxiety had abated. But when I wasn’t looking, night after night, that life ring strengthened its grip, constricting ever tighter, so when I wanted to take it off in the winter 2019, I couldn’t. I spent the next five months hovering over a pill splitter every night at 9:30 pm. I was trying to steady my hands, cutting my already tiny benzo tablets slightly smaller every two weeks without crushing them, tapering over months, because any reduction too large would cause a night of withdrawal and its attendant tormentors: akathisia, sweating, a racing heart and jittery eyes, unable to focus even on a screen or a book. Weaning off benzos was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. Once in a while, someone asks me if I ever considered harming myself. It did occur to me, but never in any detailed way; never the clear-eyed thoughts of plans, supplies, a date and a note, the kind of thoughts that make crisis counselors nervous. Mostly, I wanted to sleep. Mostly, I wanted to see colors again, to feel something besides endless despair. Mostly, I wanted my wife to get her life and her husband back, and my kids to have a father who once again found joy in them. Please listen when I tell you that Winston Churchill was right: When you’re going through hell, keep going. If your doctor, medication or therapist isn’t working, get a new one. If the advice you’re getting isn’t working, listen to someone else. Someone, somewhere will help you solve your problem. Someone will help pull you back from the abyss. And please, never forget: You are a blessing with gifts to give to this world. We need you to keep going. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Cory's' message is part of our "It's OK to not be OK" campaign to recognize September as National Suicide Awareness month. If you or someone you know is struggling, visit imhurting.org for 24/7 chat support or call 800-273-8255.

Life is not always full of light. Life can get dark. Life can hold you under the water until you’re ready to give up, until it has taken your oxygen and replaced it with despair and sadness. You are going to experience this multiple times. You are going to barely tread water and at times you will feel as if you’re drowning. You are going to see things, witness things that will knock you off your feet, bruise your knees and cover your happiness with a blanket of sadness and hopelessness. The darkness will always be apart of you but it does not define you. You will lose many but you will gain an understanding of life and its fragile beauty no longer taking it for granted. You will spend many years in therapy learning about yourself and understanding yourself. You will gain a deep understanding of mental health and you will use that knowledge to help others. You will become a beacon of light for those walking through the darkness providing a safe haven for those going through a crisis. But, Nicole, what I’m most proud of you for is the story that you will tell every Thursday. You will create a platform to help change the way people look at mental health disorders. You will advocate for those who can’t and you will work hard to spread awareness about mental health and suicide. People will come out from many places feeling better and thanking you for being a voice, for your telling your stories about Brittany and your own. You will turn your dark story into light by continuing to light a candle for those lost in the dark. So much love, 38 yr old Nicole ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Nicole's Letter to Myself is part of our "It's OK to not be OK" campaign to recognize September as National Suicide Awareness month. If you or someone you know is struggling, visit imhurting.org for 24/7 chat support or call 800-273-8255.

Even though everything looks fine from the outside, you know you aren’t OK, and it’s OK. It will still be a little while before you understand that you have been struggling with Post Partum Anxiety (on top of existing, undiagnosed anxiety) for more than five years, the whole time you’ve been a mother. Soon, you will get help, and medications, and you will wish you had both much earlier in life. You will mourn the time and experiences lost to struggles with mental health, but you will be both stronger and more sensitive because of your experiences, strong enough to become a vocal mental health advocate. Your body and mind will relax, your fears will recede, and your intrusive thoughts will quiet. You will marvel daily at your new ability to accomplish tasks - both simple (like laundry!) and complex (like volunteer and activist leadership!). You will treasure the relationships built on your vulnerability, from sharing your experiences honestly with others. In five years, you will not believe what are able to navigate (no spoilers!). It’s always OK to not be OK, but it can and will get better. You were (and are still!) doing your best and I am so proud of you for always showing up, and for talking about it when it’s hard. Keep talking, and just keep going. The world needs you, and your people need you. Love, 2021 Erin ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Erin's Letter to Myself is part of our "It's OK to not be OK" campaign to recognize September as National Suicide Awareness month. If you or someone you know is struggling, visit imhurting.org for 24/7 chat support or call 800-273-8255.

“My first day here, I woke up and realized there weren’t any Black people,” laughs Shaquana Dobbins, a Direct Service Professional in VOA Disability Services for Skagit. With her mom and brother, Shaquana moved to the Western Washington area from South Carolina at age 15, where her culture and community had been overwhelmingly Black. Her new hometown stood in stark contrast, but she welcomed the change. “My mom raised me and my brother to think for ourselves and be open minded. So, to not be surrounded by so many Black people – where everyone acted the same and thought the same and did the same things – I wanted to explore other cultures.” Education at Burlington High School was more advanced than her school in South Carolina. As the only Black student, Shaquana clung to the support of her teachers and mentors who realized she was struggling and created a space for her to excel, pushing her to graduate. Unfortunately, life outside of school didn’t afford the same opportunities. “My name has been more of a problem than my race. It sounds ‘ghetto’ to some people, and I think I get judged before people even know me.” Remembering her time as a caregiver at a different organization, a patient saw Shaquana’s elaborate tattoos covering both arms like sleeves and told the manager that she didn’t “want that negro girl working with me.” Ironically, staffing shortages meant that Shaquana was eventually assigned to her. They formed a bond, and after the patient was discharged, she requested Shaquana for home care. Her voice heavy with weariness, Shaquana says, “I just felt like I had to earn that trust first, before she would even give me a chance.” After the death of George Floyd in Minneapolis in 2020, Shaquana felt an urgency to speak out. She created a public Facebook event and invited anyone who would attend. With only her fiancé and grandmother by her side, standing at an intersection in Mount Vernon, “first, the Whites showed up. Then the Natives. Then the Hispanics.” Soon, more than 100 people stood shoulder to shoulder in protest. After Shaquana led a moment of silence, a man approached her and asked who organized the march. “I did,” she responded with pride. For the first time in her life, she felt like a leader. She watched local protests begin to spring up In the days and weeks that followed. “It took me to lead for people to say ‘Okay, we can protest and have a voice.’” Shaquana remembers Black History Month celebrations in South Carolina focusing on heritage: food, vendors, music, and events that celebrated Black life. In the end, she reflects, it’s not about a month. It’s about just being human. Being a person who lives in and loves her community. Being a thread in the fabric of American life.

“This place is my last adventure.” Arthur Bacon drives to the Gipson Center twice a week to shoot pool and shoot the bull with his friends. He knows something about adventure. Born to a Pulitzer-prize winning Father and professional cellist Mother, Arthur does not stay in one place for long. Spartanburg, South Carolina, turned into Syracuse, NY, then boarding school in Pennsylvania, before making the wrestling team at Syracuse University. Wrestling came easy, but not the discipline required at college, and Arthur soon flunked out and headed west to San Francisco, to put those lean muscles to work hanging sheet rock. He was dreaming of making enough to tramp through Europe, when a friend convinced him that the real adventure was in South America. Arthur built up a cabin on the back of a 2.5 ton truck, which got him to Panama. From there he hitchhiked to Chile, Buenos Aires and Rio, then caught a ship to Spain to meet a pretty girl in Switzerland. Later, he and a friend posed as Olympic athletes at the games in Mexico City in 1968 to get into events for free. He made his 2nd wrestling team, this time at Denver University, where he graduated with a BA in History. He’s studied photography under Ansel Adams, earned an MFA, won a Masters Judo Championship in Florida, and won another championship – this time in an amateur division of table tennis – in California. He’s rafted the Escalante River solo and bagged two first ascents in Alaska: on Caliban and Xanadu, both challenging technical climbs. And, in 1988, with the scion of Stroh’s Brewing Company, Arthur crossed one of the most dangerous stretches of jungle in the world in 10 days: the Darien Gap, which separates Panama from Columbia. (Photo above, left.) Along the way Arthur worked as a newspaper carrier; a roughneck in the oil fields of Southern Utah; a park ranger; a bicycle messenger; a wrestling coach; a photography professor; a gallery director; a writer; a director; and a cinematographer. He’s worked for the US Census, an Apache Indian Reservation in New Mexico, REI, and over a dozen schools and universities. At his heart – like his Father, Mother, and Grandfather -- Arthur is a teacher, helping students see the world with a new lens. There is more than a tinge of sadness in Arthur’s recollections. When he was young, his Mom left to work as a concert cellist in Europe. “I missed out on learning about real love from my mother, because….she left at a crucial time. I’ve been selfish sometimes, unable to appreciate the love that people have had for me.” For all that he has done and seen – the long list of photography exhibitions, the stories of bushwhacking, vagabonding, and carousing through half the world – he has left people behind. “There are people who have a total understanding of love, that I never have really had.” Arthur had two daughters: one died of Covid last year, and his younger daughter is an aerial artist in New York. He lives with his girlfriend, the painter Aitana de la Jara, and he still writes and practices photography. He found the Carl Gipson Center about six years ago when looking to improve his table tennis skills, and met Howard Grossman. “Howard is a tireless and devoted teacher.” Howard took time to coach Arthur, as he does with all new players at Gipson. And, Arthur kept coming back. “The Carl Gipson Center is the best kept secret in Snohomish County. And, it’s helped so many people.” To shoot pool with Arthur and hear some of his stories, visit the Center on Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons. “It’s the best deal in town.”

Natasha Lindsay once worked at a desk authorizing insurance for Swedish Health Services. “I saw how screwed up the system was.” Story after story from patient after patient reinforced the idea that there was a better way – a more personal way – to be involved with fixing the brokenness she saw. When she began at VOA in July 2020 working in Housing Services, she was on the ground floor when we mobilized a program to help renters who felt lost once the COVID pandemic started to worsen and layoffs began. She enjoyed the work of being the connection between people and resources to prevent homelessness. When Natasha was a young adult, she participated in a self-expression and leadership class that asked participants to design a project that would have a positive impact and make a difference on a broader scale in people's lives. She immediately knew that she wanted to create a place of refuge for women leaving domestic violence, homelessness, and other difficult situations. Her vision was to buy and renovate an old school and convert it into a co-op of sorts with a suite of rooms to live in, a community center with connections to services and education, and childcare options so that single mothers would have a place to live, learn, and thrive. And so, within a few hours of the Maud’s House Program Manager position opening, she applied. It wasn’t just what she wanted to do, it was something she had dreamed of doing. “I enjoy working with transitional living, being the link for people. Clients don’t have to be in survival mode all the time. I want them to look up. Look around. You don’t know what you don’t know, so I’m here to show you that you do have opportunities.” Her goal of working with people in this therapeutic way is part of a larger plan. “I want this to be a linchpin for women to connect with services and to be run so well that this is the blueprint for transitional living, and to have multiple Maud’s Houses.” Without Maud’s House, she believes, some of these moms would be couch surfing. Some would be incarcerated, simply for survival. Most would not have their children with them. Some may not still be here. “We all deserve a fair chance,” Natasha says. “Let’s change the attitude that these are pointless people. Being homeless is dehumanizing. I want to give them the tools they need to be independent, resilient, and successful. I want these women to have a positive impact on the community because then, it’s a domino effect. Let’s change the perspective.” Natasha Lindsay is the new Program Manager at Maud’s House, currently serving 5 moms and 13 children. If you want to help Natasha change the world starting with Western Washington, or just want to say hello, she can be reached at 360.386.9066 or nlindsay@voaww.org.

JackieMcCoy remembers that day at Mt. Zion Baptist Church. “I was mad when they said that God needed angels in heaven like my Mom. And, I thought, ‘How in the world does God need my Mom more than I need her right now.’” I spent a lot of time feeling lost. Six years being mad at God. I was done with God. I was just going to talk to Jesus.” Before Jean Grant died, Jackie was a carefree kid growing up on Beacon Hill in Seattle: playing with friends, riding bikes up and down Beacon, chasing those boys who’d pull her long hair. The youngest of two daughters to Jim, a longshoreman, and Jean, a social worker, Jackie took after her Mom. “I’ve always been the person who takes care of other people in my family.” When Jackie was 12, her Mom told the girls she had breast cancer. She died two years later, on Jim’s birthday, and they flew back to Mississippi for a huge funeral. “My Mom was very sweet and kind. I’d hear stories of her growing up in the South, going fishing, taking care of her cousins.” Her Dad and Sister were devastated, but “…growing up in an African-American family, we didn’t talk about these things.” The carefree girl grew up fast, and as a teenager she needed to make meals for herself and clean the house. “I learned that the world is a scary place, and I would fight or flight.” As a 16-year-old she stepped on a sewing needle, which broke off in her left foot, causing permanent nerve damage. There were surgeries, hours alone, fights at school. For years, Jackie would either battle, filled with blind fury, or shut down. Then she had Rashawn. “He made me grow up.” Jackie was 23, had been seeing Bill, and got pregnant. They didn’t move in together, and chose to co-parent their son. “We always said that if lived together, someone was going to go to jail and someone was going to hell,” Jackie says with a laugh. Jackie did clerical work, served as a care-giver, raised her son and “…kept a lot of other families’ kids out of CPS.” Like her Mom, she spent her time looking after others. But that changed in 2005: she was in a long-term relationship, and they were going to move to Louisiana to be closer to her extended family. Their boxes were packed, but they didn’t account for Hurricane Katrina. So, they waited. Then a knock at the door. Rashawn, then 20, and his 18-year-old girlfriend Crystal, with six-week-old Rashawn William McCoy Jr., called RJ. They needed help. They couldn’t do it. Jackie thought, “Oh my God. Now I’m not going to get to where I need to go.” JackieMcCoy did not go to Louisiana. She stayed to help raise RJ. Her partner left her, uninterested in putting their dreams on hold for someone else’s kid. She remembers trying to potty train a stubborn RJ in the bathroom: he was crying on the toilet, and she was crying on the floor. She couldn’t believe she was back there again. For the last sixteen years, she’s been raising RJ in Everett along with Crystal’s aunt. Today he goes to Everett High School and is a “…sweet young man.” But, he’s still a teen, and he knows that his Grandma is not to be trifled with. He was complaining about last Christmas to his friends, and she gave him that look and said, “You’re going to be able to tell them you got a video game and a neck brace.” The pandemic wreaked havoc on Jackie, and for nearly two years she went all “flight” and no “fight.” She stayed in, only venturing out for doctor’s appointments and physical therapy, until one day two Gipson Center staff came to her apartment complex. Gul & April invited her to the Center, and “…I got up the courage to come here. I find that this is a place that I can meet people. Everyone is nice.” “I am introverted, but I’m like a social butterfly now. This is somewhere I feel safe; it goes back to that 12-year-old girl who was lost. I look forward to coming here every day.” These days it’s hard to keep track of Jackie at the Center. Today she’s in Homage’s Black Seniors Community Outreach Group. Yesterday she was in the knitting group, then in Bingo, and tomorrow it might be coloring and Canasta. “I’m no longer stuck in the house. This Center makes me feel like I don’t have to ‘flight’ anymore.” The Carl Gipson Center is one of VOAWW’s 8 service areas and supports those aged 50 and up in Everett and the surrounding communities. With the help of donors and volunteers, members at the Center can stay active, learn skills, have a meal, and find a place to belong. To donate, visit https://bit.ly/hopeisbrewing-22