I knew who he was but didn't feel I should take up space. That was 2023, in a cinder block hallway at Anniston First: pastors' offices on one side, mine on the other. Shannon Jenkins was meeting with Kyle and Tammy. I was the music director. Shannon stopped. Shook my hand. Asked my name.
Around 2018, when I was pastor at Weaver First UMC and we were dealing with homelessness issues , a friend told me about him. "He's really helping our county reduce the duplication of resources downtown," she said. "You should really connect with him." I filed it away.
Some time after that, maybe a year, we bumped into each other at a gas station in Golden Springs. Brief exchange. Both moving on. About a week later, he sent me a Facebook message.
"I had been dealing with some not so pleasant things that morning," he wrote, "and just seeing your familiar face helped."
Shannon grew up in rural White Plains, Alabama, where his family grew their own food. "We didn't know we were poor," he said.
He went to Jacksonville State for marketing. "I thought I was called to professional ministry," he said. "It was a difficult experience, and I realized it wasn't for me."
Worked at Movie Gallery as a college student, renting out VHS tapes. Then took over a graphic design business from his wife. She had started it before print shops had a graphic designer on staff. His computer was an early Apple, first model, something like eight megabytes of memory. He laughed. "I realized working at home was not good for me," he said. "I had to get out of the house."
"I knew the director of United Way," he said. "He was a member at our church." He asked for the chance. The director hired him for two falls, about twenty-five hours a week for three months, helping with the annual fundraising campaign.
That's when his eyes opened. Poverty in the city, right there, and he'd missed it. United Way made it visible. "I had no idea about what kind of poverty was out there," he said. "Honestly, I was actually ashamed."
He never left.
Twenty-two years later, he runs an organization with thirty-two staff and programs of its own. Nine social workers on staff now. He had none when he started. "That was a huge relief," he told me.
One of those programs is Martha's Hope, a center to end homelessness in Anniston. United Way purchased the building from Anniston First UMC: a two-story complex the congregation called the Bridge, gym and kitchen and meeting rooms and a literal bridge connecting it to the education wing. Same campus where Shannon and I first crossed paths, back when he was in conversations with the staff about hosting a warming station.
Before my leave of absence, I ran into him at Full Belly Deli, right next door to the Freedom Riders National Monument. I was afraid of losing the farm. He stopped. Turned. Looked dead at me and took his time: "Don't be afraid to dream."
Don't be afraid to dream.
In June 2024, I was going through my first depressive episode. Shannon was one of the few people that kinda kept up with me: checking in, encouraging me to seek psychiatric help, telling me it was going to be okay.
I told him I didn't want to squander his time. He wrote back: "Honoring my time doesn't mean you have to act or be any certain way. I am happy to just provide the company — no expectations of any deep conversations. Time with a friend is never time wasted."
I resigned while I was manic. I didn't know it yet. At Called Coffee, I was throwing ideas at him. Nonprofit concepts, church plants, a flood of them. "These are great ideas," he said. "I just want to make a suggestion. When you share this with people, don't give it to them all at once. It could overwhelm them and they may have a hard time believing you. But these are beautiful visions. If it's okay with you, I'd like to take this and read over it some more."
I got better. After months of hiding from the public. I started the web design work. I'd built websites for the church and the flower farm, realized I was good at it. A year later, we were back at Called Coffee.
As we sat at Called Coffee, I told him about the mania, the depression, the farm, the hospital, and recovery. About my new work. I asked if he knew Donald Miller. "The guy who wrote Blue Like Jazz?"
He had found Miller years earlier at Family Christian Bookstore: Blue Like Jazz. "It had that warning sticker on the cover," he said, "so of course I picked it up immediately."
"It was a book about deconstruction," he said, "before deconstruction even had a name. It totally changed my life."
He now trains his United Way staff on Donald Miller's StoryBrand framework, the same tool I use in my web design work.
Morning light through the windows. Tammy was at the table next to us, leading a Bible study with a couple of church members.
"Just seeing your familiar face helped." Sent to a guy who didn't feel he should take up space.
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