Last week, we honored two incredible community members for their service to Nest Community Shelter. The first man was Ed Merrion, and the second was Fred Weiss. Both men were presented with awards named in their honor at our annual appreciation and recognition dinner.
Fred’s son, J. David Weiss wrote a beautiful essay in honor of his father’s achievement, and with his permission, we’d like to share it with all of you today.
The Last Word: Fred Weiss – Man of the Evening
August 1, 2024 – David Weiss (with Debbie Weiss Reagor and Deon Weiss Bishop)
Fred Weiss was among the first to arrive at the Nest Community Shelter Appreciation Dinner in downtown Michigan City. He slipped quietly into a seat at an empty table in the back of the room. That was his style. Aim to be early. Happy to be there. Happy to support the shelter. Just as happy to be unnoticed. He didn’t realize he was the man of the evening. *
But we did. Invited by Harry, the shelter’s executive director, Deb, Deon, and I (David) had gotten there fifteen minutes before our dad. Deon had driven 180 miles and I’d driven 475 miles to join Deb (who lives right in Michigan City) so all three of us could be present tonight. But Dad didn’t know that either. So, you can perhaps imagine his 87-year-old mix of surprise and outright confusion as he squinted through the lavender lighting to the front of the room and saw, first Deb, then Deon, then me. Who? What?! How?! Why?!
We walked back to greet him. Of course, he was happy to see us. But the sheer surprise of our presence left him almost speechless. “Hi, Dad.” “What—are you all— doing here?” he stammered, head turning left to right as though trying to confirm that each one of us was actually there. “Well, we know the shelter means a lot to you, so we thought we’d just show up to join you at the dinner tonight—besides which, Harry suggested we sit at that table up there at the front. The one marked as ‘reserved.’”
“What is all this?” He was still shaking his head in disbelief as he got to his feet and followed us to the front table. Once seated he opened the evening’s program—and the proverbial cat was out of the bag. At the inside center, left of the staples, in large font and bold print: The Weiss Award. And right below: “Named in honor of tonight’s recipient.” That’s when it hit him. He was, in fact, Fred Weiss: Man of the Evening.
First, however, there was some chit-chat (or “networking” as the program called it). The four of us chatted with the other two persons who had joined us at our table, learning about how they came to be Nest Community Shelter supporters. Then a fine catered meal, after which Harry took the stage and offered a “Year in Review” of the shelter: accomplishments, challenges, and goals. Then to the awards …
Our dad received the inaugural “Fred Weiss Award,” created to honor individuals who’ve demonstrated exceptional service to Nest Community Shelter. Harry took a few minutes to explain why this award was given to—and named for—Fred. What I offer here is a mix of Harry’s remarks with some extra context for those not familiar with the shelter history.
Early in 2002 a couple of “church ladies” at the local Presbyterian church began to explore how they might engage their congregation and other local congregation in a
mission to ensure that homeless men in Michigan City had a safe warm place to be during the winter months. Very quickly St. Paul Lutheran and Fred Weiss (along with Pastor Reshan and a handful of other congregants) became involved. When the PADS (Public Action Delivering Shelter) project launched in the fall of 2002, St. Paul Lutheran was the shelter site on Friday nights. And Fred Weiss was among the initial and most faithful volunteers to help staff it.
Faithful is perhaps an understatement. For nineteen years, from fall 2002 through fall 2020, on every Friday night from October through April, Fred was at the men’s shelter in the basement of St. Paul Lutheran. Harry said Fred never missed a night. Fred says he did miss “just a couple,” adding that he always found his own replacement, so the shelter wasn’t put in a pinch. Still, that’s about 535 Friday nights at the shelter, most of them covering the 10pm-1am shift and the hardest-to-fill 1am-4am shift. (His grandchildren recall how, when visiting from out of town, Friday nights always included “quiet time” so Grandpa could rest before going down to the shelter. Never seen as a limitation on their fun, it was simply the way the rhythm of service shaped time at their grandparents.)
“Unwavering dedication,” Harry called it. In fact, not content to show up at 10, Fred made a point to head in early at 9pm so he was around for a bit before “lights out.” And he came bearing gifts. A couple 12-packs of pop and a couple boxes of sweet treats (Hostess or Little Debbie items) to give the men a little snack at the end of the evening. He did this not to be noticed, but to be kind. But noticed he was.
As Harry tells, before long many of the men, who would often doze in the evening after the meal, would set their alarms for 9pm in order to be sure they woke up when Fred arrived.
Always bearing treats—and dignity—in abundance. Freely offered. Thus, in truth, it wasn’t on July 30 at the dinner, but over those 535 Friday nights across nineteen years that Fred became “man of the evening.” Heralded not with applause or a plaque, but with grateful words and smiles from men who knew that Fred’s kindness and respect was genuine.
At other times Fred went (on his own) to several local retailers to collect returned clothing items—especially socks and underwear—that the men appreciated. Over the years Fred and his wife, Carol, made many financial gifts to PADS, then ICPADS (Interfaith Community PADS) and finally, to Nest Community Shelter, when it moved into its now permanent location in the former Sacred Heart Catholic Church on the city’s west side.
Much of Fred’s time at the shelter was unnoticed. From lights out at 10pm until the cook arrived at 4am, Fred was on his own reading news magazines or working sudoku puzzles, occasionally listening to one of the men who couldn’t sleep. Unnoticed, but deeply impactful, helping the shelter do its work while offering the men a quiet presence of stability and a foothold on hope.
As Harry summed up, “Fred’s service has become our gold standard, a shining example that inspires staff and volunteers alike with his compassion, consistency, and advocacy for the shelter’s cause in the community. He’s left an indelible mark on our shelter community, and this award, known henceforth as The Weiss Award, will serve as a lasting tribute to his legacy and inspire future generation of volunteers to follow in his footsteps.”
Along the way, Fred was treated (I’m sure to his bemused embarrassment) to four rounds of applause. I guess, finally, it’s hard to go unnoticed when you’re the man of the evening.
Afterwards, we three kids joined Dad back at the house, where he commented repeatedly about how “overwhelmed” he was by the evening: the unexpected award and our unexpected presence. We asked if he could recall what had sparked his initial involvement with the shelter.
One factor, no doubt, was that around the time that Dad started volunteering at the shelter, he and Mom also began offering shelter to our older brother, Don, still trying to maintain sobriety after years of battling alcoholism. It was in a bedroom they provided to him in his early forties that he finally came to hold his addiction at bay, though a lack of job and health coverage led to his early death from COPD at age 46. But in 2002—and for all the years since—Dad must’ve known that there were a lot of Don’s in Michigan City without family to help them find home again. And his years at the shelter were one way of extending their back bedroom into the St. Paul Lutheran basement.
But the story he told us kids on Tuesday night went back a lot further than that. He was himself a little kid, walking along Franklin Street with his mother, just a block down from St. Paul Lutheran. On the sidewalk in front of the old Warren Building a man missing both legs kept a small stand and sold wooden pencils. Dad’s mother (our grandmother) always stopped to buy a couple. One day young Fred whispered to her as they walked away, “Mom, we already have plenty of pencils at home.” And even as a kid, he knew they didn’t have money to spare. But she replied, “Frederick, if his need isn’t genuine, that’s his sin. But if his need is genuine, and we don’t respond, that’s our sin. So, I always buy a pencil or two.” That struck home with Dad.
In some ways you could say my dad spent those nineteen years at the men’s shelter “buying pencils.” In more ways, you could say that describes his whole life. Which is why all three of us—Deb, Deon, and myself—couldn’t have been happier to spend Tuesday night with our dad, Fred Weiss: Man of the Evening.
There were actually two men of the evening. Ed Merrion was also recognized for his lifetime of service to the shelter with an award named in his honor, but this piece reflects simply on our experience of the evening with our dad.
Also, one of Dad’s favorite news magazines, The Week, always concludes with a piece called “The Last Word,” often a poignant human-interest story. My title suggests that this is the type of story worthy of The Week.
J David Weiss is a theologian, writer, poet and hymnist. Read more at www.davidrweiss.com where he blogs.
