Finding Family at St. Anthony’s 

February 18, 2025

For Harry, belonging didn’t arrive all at once. It grew slowly through open doors, familiar faces, and the steady assurance that he mattered. 

Born and raised in San Francisco’s Chinatown, Harry spent much of his early life on the margins. English was his second language, and a heavy accent followed him well into his twenties. “People couldn’t understand me,” he says. “And when people can’t understand you, you end up alone.” He learned early how to take care of himself, finding comfort in long walks and time outdoors, especially in Golden Gate Park. 

Years later, after building a life and a 34-year partnership with Wayne, Harry faced a new chapter of challenges. Wayne experienced multiple strokes and, more recently, a cancer diagnosis. Around the same time, Harry began losing his vision. “I can see, but everything is blurry. I don’t have peripheral vision,” he explains. Independence took more effort. Isolation began to creep back in. 

It was during this season that Harry found his way to St. Anthony’s. 

At first, it was practical; help navigating technology at the Tech Lab, a reason to leave the house after the long isolation of the pandemic. But what Harry encountered went far beyond services. 

“At St. Anthony’s, the door is open. Wheelchairs, canes, bags—everyone comes in. No one asks you to explain yourself. They just ask, ‘Are you hungry?’” 

That openness stayed with him. Harry noticed how guests looked out for one another, often people carrying their own heavy burdens stepping in to help someone else. “I see angels here,” he says.  

Over time, St. Anthony’s became more than a place Harry visited. It became a place where he was known. “They know me in the Dining Room. People say hello. Some guests come out just to greet me,” he says. “This is my second family.” 

Belonging, for Harry, also means being able to speak honestly. When his vision loss wasn’t fully understood early on, he chose to advocate—not out of anger, but out of care. “If I see injustice, I’ll say something,” he explains. “Not just for me, but for the next person.” Those conversations led to learning and change in 2023, reinforcing something Harry believes deeply, that belonging doesn’t mean everything is perfect, but that people are willing to listen and grow. 

That trust—and the care Harry witnesses every day—is what led him to make a generous donation to St. Anthony’s. 

“I don’t need my money to sit somewhere earning pennies,” Harry says. “I’d rather it be here, where I can see what it does.” He points to the Tech Lab, the Dining Room, the simple but powerful act of opening the door to everyone. “You all do more than I ever could on my own,” he says. “And I know the money will help people long after I’m gone.” 

Today, Harry balances caregiving at home with showing up in community—offering help when he can, noticing kindness wherever it appears. “Sometimes the person you least expect will ask, ‘Can I help you?’” he says. “That stays with you.” 

To those who hesitate to visit the Tenderloin, Harry offers a gentle invitation: “Don’t let fear stop you. Come see the kindness. Come see the angels.” 

At St. Anthony’s, belonging isn’t an abstract idea. It’s a meal shared, a name remembered, a voice respected. For Harry, it’s the difference between getting through the day and feeling part of something larger—a community rooted in dignity, compassion, and love made visible. 

St. Anthony’s continues this work every day in the Tenderloin, grounded in our Franciscan tradition of accompaniment and belief in the inherent worth of every person we walk alongside every day. Join us in that work and make a gift today.