Over 100 unhoused people died in San Francisco last year. On Thursday afternoon, a few of the city employees, volunteers, and friends who knew and worked with them gathered inside St. John the Evangelist Episcopal Church for a memorial service.
The ceremony was organized by members of San Francisco’s Homeless Outreach Team, who regularly wander the city’s streets, looking for people who need a bed. They also provide case management to those who have been in and out of the shelter system.
It’s a tough job for those who got into this line of work to aid people. “We do our best to get through obstacles,” said one veteran outreach worker, addressing the group. But sometimes the obstacles win.
The person you’re assisting may reject addiction treatment, or prefer to sleep on the street. At the same time, there never seems to be enough beds to meet demand. “Sometimes,” he said, “you get someone to housing and they still don’t make it.”
It was important to remember, he said, that even a small act, like handing someone a bottle of water, can make a difference in their life.
Losing someone you’ve been trying to support can harden your heart, said Lydia Bransten, to the group of about 40 people gathered inside the airy church. But, she added, that loss can also open it. Bransten is executive director of the Gubbio Project, a nonprofit operated out of the church that offers a place to sleep during the day.
A woman wearing the neon green uniform of the Homeless Outreach Team read a poem she’d written: “May the earth be gentle with those who were denied gentleness in this life.”
Over 100 names of people who died in 2025 were read aloud, and I found out after the ceremony that I’d known one of the men by a different name.
We met a year and a half ago when I was reporting on a sweep of a homeless encampment in the Bayview. Police were coming to remove the tent he’d been living in, but he was was cleaning the sidewalk — both so that Public Works employees wouldn’t have to, and so onlookers wouldn’t have more to criticize.
He introduced himself to me as “Pineapplez,” took me around to meet the encampments’ other residents, and helped me connect to a free public WiFi network so I could file dispatches.
Pineapplez talked about how much he loved fashion (we squeezed in a photoshoot) and how he put together outfits for others with treasures mined from Goodwill bins. A friend who came to help clean described him as “immaculate.” He had a shelter bed, but preferred to sleep on the street, saying he wanted just “a little bit of privacy.” I found out he’d moved from the Bayview to the Mission shortly after the encampment sweep, when I saw a silky green dragon-print scarf he was fond of fluttering in an alleyway a few blocks away from the Mission Local office.
He had joined a treatment program for substance abuse earlier this year, outreach workers told me, but they stopped hearing from him a few months ago. They hoped for the best, before finding out that he had died. Sometimes, they said, people disappear and reappear healthier than ever. Other times they never come back.
At the end of the memorial, a moment of silence was held for everyone who would never return and whose names were not known. Then, everyone was asked to make a peace sign, raise their fists, and say “peace.” It echoed to the church’s exposed wood rafters.