For Lora Warkentin, helping the homeless is personal
Lora Warkentin, a longtime Buffalo advocate for the homeless, cannot escape the horrors of her own childhood. For years she buried memories of war, homelessness, death and famine —memories of the years when World War II exploded across Europe, as she, her parents and eight siblings fled from war-torn Crimea to Canada.
“There were many times I could have been dead,” said Warkentin, now 70. “I know what it means to go to bed hungry and fear the place you sleep each night.”
Warkentin, an Amherst resident, lived her teen years in Canada, training herself to speak without a Russian accent to avoid ridicule. After high school graduation, she went on to gain degrees in nursing and medical care.
After education and some volunteer work, Warkentin’s life came full circle —this time assisting the homeless.
For 15 years, she served as director of Buffalo City Mission’s Cornerstone Manor before retiring June 26.
At Cornerstone she helped thousands of displaced women transition from abusive relationships or job loss to new beginnings and newly enriched lives.
But in 1993, she had no intentions of helping the homeless. In fact, it was the furthest thing from her mind.
Warkentin was looking to open a private practice. Finishing up her master’s degree at Ohio State, she had to complete a graduate studies project. That project brought her to Buffalo, where she volunteered at the Buffalo City Mission, a residence for the homeless.
It was there, in an encounter with one little homeless girl, that her memories resurfaced.
The girl, about 6 years old, and her parents arrived at the shelter late one night in the middle of a thunderstorm, their thickly drenched clothes clinging to their bodies.
Warkentin rushed to aid the family, kneeling with a towel to dry and warm the little girl with the long, braided hair. One look into this girl’s big, brown eyes and she was riveted—suddenly transported back to her own sixth birthday.
It was in Germany, June 22, 1944— two weeks after D-Day.
On that day, there were no presents, no cake, no ice cream. No celebration or joyous congratulations. Not even the off-key carol of “Happy Birthday.” Instead she heard the sound of bomb blasts in the distance alongside steady gunfire.
Bitter memories
Then, Warkentin flashed back again, to the death of her brother John, who died of starvation when he was 9 months old.
“I was crying. All of my life was turned backwards. That day, I did the only thing I knew I could do — I yelled at God,” she said. Looking upon the shivering child, “I screamed, ‘You know what? This still stinks! It makes no sense!’ I was angry. I was sad. I didn’t know what to do.”
The little girl responded in an unexpected way. She told Warkentin she would sing to cheer her up, and the words softly flew from her lips: “Jesus loves me! This I know, for the Bible tells me so. Little ones to Him belong; they are weak, but He is strong,” the girl sang, smiling at Warkentin. With tears rolling down her flushed cheeks, Warkentin smiled back.
When the song ended, Warkentin asked the child where she learned such an uplifting melody.
She said she learned it at Cornerstone Manor. For Warkentin, it was a turning point. Volunteering quickly turned into a full-time career, and eventually a life legacy. She started working there and within a year, she stepped into the job as director, determined to make a difference.
In the 15 years since then, Warkentin tripled the capacity of the Manor, from about 40 to 122 people.
While working with the women who arrive there, she has seen children who blame themselves for situations they had no control over.
“When I look into the eyes of these kids, as I have since the little girl, and see the fear in their eyes, I can’t just sit back and do nothing. I want to—no, I have to do something responsible,” Warkentin said. “I have to find a way to connect with them. They feel responsible for their parents’ actions, sometimes because the parent is guilting them into thinking what has happened is their fault. That’s not the case.
“Homelessness is a symptom caused by some unforeseen activity. What we do is ask, ‘What brought you here?’ and ‘How can we take care of that? What’s the solution?’ We need to find a way to help them physically, emotionally and mentally.”
Finding hope
What Warkentin and Cornerstone Manor provide is a recovery program, structured to those who have had their lives broken, those who have been traumatized.
Warkentin’s goal is to instill the one thing that helped her in her journey: Hope.
It is hope that kept her spirits up in dire times, she said, like when her family had no means to put food on the table. Hope is what pushed her chin higher and soothed her when she could not sleep.
“I have a passion for these women and children even more so because I know what they feel,” Warkentin said. “I know what they’ve been through. I walk with them in their pain every day because I, too, have been homeless. I was a homeless refugee child.”
Peggy Johnson, who acted as Warkentin’s secretary for 13 years, said Warkentin is the type of leader who would not ask the staff to do anything she would not do herself.
Nothing was above her, Johnson said — Warkentin cleans the stainless steel dinner plates and rids mattresses of bed bugs.
She doesn’t pull any punches — a straightforward woman who asks everyone to own up to their wrongdoings.
“She believes in tough love, but has a heart of gold,” Johnson said. “She won’t let you blame it on someone else or have 100 excuses. That’s how these girls grow from their bad choices. This is her mission. It’s not going to be the same without her.”
‘She is a Godsend’
It is Warkentin’s life mission to bring an elevated sense of possibility to each person’s life she touches.
Laura Pede knows. She has checked herself in at Cornerstone Manor multiple times over the past decade.
Pede, like other residents, can stay as long as a day, a week or even two years. Pede’s latest stay was her longest, a two-year stint under Warkentin’s supervision.
She struggled through alcohol and drug addictions since she was a 13-year-old in West Seneca, the only girl with four older brothers.
“I was the black sheep in the family, the one who didn’t grow up,” Pede said. “All of my brothers, they grew up and learned to be responsible. I was never forced to be responsible. I wasn’t punished. I never had to learn that self-responsibility, not until Dr. Lora, that is.
“She has been my mother, my sister and my friend, and with a compassionate but firm hand, Dr. Lora has taken me under her wing. The way she goes about things — so humble —has helped me realize there is hope in my life. Before her, I felt like I was not worthy of anything. She is the one that keeps my hope alive.”
Warkentin continues to volunteer as she once did as a graduate student. She walks the hallways, constantly busy, with a quick question or two from staff members or a full embrace from a woman or child she has helped.
“That to me is huge. That’s where life is at,” she said, as she waved at a woman down the hall. “I was going to just retire, and say I am done. But I can’t imagine myself at home twiddling my thumbs. I just love what I do, and I know this place. I can’t just say goodbye and I’ll see you tomorrow. Not this time, not yet.”
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