WARRIOR FOR WASHINGTON'S HOMELESS

Early evening last Sunday, Sister Maureen Foltz, one of the Carmelite Sisters of Charity who care for 40 homeless women at Mount Carmel House, sat in the community dining room remembering a story. "It goes like this," she said. "A person died and stood before God. God asked, 'Where are your wounds?' The person answered, 'What wounds? I have none.' God said, 'Was there nothing worth fighting for?' "

If there's anyone who has nothing to fear should that question ever come up -- in the herenow or hereafter -- it's Sister Maureen. She has wounds: from a decade of fighting for the needs and rights of women who have lost almost everything in life except the awareness that behind the door at Mount Carmel is a group of nuns who know how to love. This weekend, the sisters planned to be on the streets of Washington as part of the Housing Now March to protest the nation's lack of affordable housing.

In 1981, the average age of Mount Carmel's guests was 35. Now it's 27. "This means," Sister Maureen says, "that women who never finished high school are being hit earlier with the reality that the economy has no place for them. We have women here who work at two minimum-wage jobs -- fast-food places -- and save every penny they earn, but they still have to live at a shelter because they can't afford rent. It doesn't take long to feel worthless."

I have known Sister Maureen since Mount Carmel House opened in 1981. For information and enlightenment on how America treats its destitute, a few hours with this remarkable woman surpasses anything to be found in the stream of reports on homelessness from professionals.

An early lesson from her came one morning years ago when I arrived at Mount Carmel's foyer with a carload of clothes and food that I had collected. I was Mr. Largess bringing deliverance -- and clearing out in 10 minutes. "Many thanks," she said. "We're always glad when people in the suburbs remember the homeless. But if you're serious about contributing something, just go over there in the corner and talk to that lady who's sitting at the table alone."

"That's all?" I asked. "Just talk to her?" The woman -- vacant-eyed and disheveled -- had come in from a day on the streets, with the inevitable satchel of belongings at her feet.

For a few minutes, Sister Maureen ran me through the basics. It's the absence of human contact that is often the deepest excruciation felt by homeless people. They can go for days with no one speaking to them, much less asking the simplest of questions, "How are you?" We fear the answers, the nun said, because we might have to act on them. Love, she believes, is not an emotion, it's a command to action.

As a cause, homeless people are safe. As human beings, they are threatening. Unlike other issues on the national agenda -- pollution, drugs, capital gains taxes -- they talk back. We'll feed and clothe them, send checks to shelters and, when summoned, march in demonstrations with them. But accept the challenge of a conversation? You do it, Sister Maureen.

It isn't easy even for the nuns. Sister Maureen recalls an unruly opening of a talk the other evening with three new arrivals at Mount Carmel: "One was calling the other 'woman,' the second was calling the first 'girl' and the third called both of them 'bitch.' Finally I said, 'If you don't want to call each other by your names, that's fine. But for me I need to know your names so I can call you something other than woman, girl or bitch.' That's what life on the street had done to them."

The women at the end of the decade at Mount Carmel differ from those at the beginning in three ways. They are younger, sicker and more addicted to drugs.

The illnesses of the women are similar to ones a decade ago, with one difference: a lack of past institutional medical care. A decade ago, psychotics and schizophrenics had usually spent time in hospitals. Once released, they were accustomed to following house rules and taking medication. "For the first time," Sister Maureen said, "we have to interview the women before we take them. Some are too disruptive. It used to be that anyone could come in if we had room."

Some of the disruption is caused by crack users, addicts who are more violent, less likely to recover and more vulnerable to prostitution and AIDS.

Sister Maureen, 36, is a nurse who graduated from San Jose City College in 1973. She joined the Carmelites of Charity the following year and is currently studying for a master's degree in human services. In the tradition of prophetic witness, she has been arrested eight times for civil disobedience at military bases, the State Department and other shrines of state power.

"I respect and love the women who come to us," she says. "People don't understand the fragility of life. It doesn't take much to put you over the edge. It could happen to you or me just like that."

And who talks with us then?

Articles appear as they were originally printed in The Washington Post and may not include subsequent corrections.