Appleton Catholic parishes and other Christian communities come together to serve homeless during harsh winter conditions
Story and photography by Michael Cooney | For On Mission
APPLETON, WI — On a bitterly cold winter evening in Appleton, hotel lobby tables filled with food: chicken sandwiches, cheese sandwiches, coleslaw, pudding cups, noodle soup. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t meant to be. What it was — warm, filling and offered without condition — felt almost sacramental.
“This is what we’ve got tonight,” said Karen Rickert, who surveyed the spread with a quiet smile.
Rickert is part of the St. Thomas More Parish team that provided the dinner to dozens of men, women, and families staying temporarily in a local hotel because the temperature dropped below what human life can safely endure outdoors.
“We’re feeding them tonight,” she said simply. “Tomorrow night, another parish will do it.”
When temperatures fall to 10 degrees or below — or when wind chills make conditions dangerous — Appleton activates a cold-weather response. For the month of January, that response has included housing unhoused neighbors in hotel rooms, coordinating food, laundry, transportation, and pastoral presence day after day.
Volunteer Mike Mailand said the numbers are sobering but manageable. “We’re housing 76 people in about 60 rooms,” he said. “Some have been living in their cars. Some have been camping in the woods. Some have been on the streets sleeping wherever they can.”
Mailand is careful with language. He doesn’t say clients. He doesn’t say the homeless. “We call them our neighbors,” he said. Highly organized, with their clipboards at the ready, Mailand and the other volunteers keep track of everything: people, supplies, and the budget.
This work doesn’t belong to one parish or one denomination. Meals rotate nightly through a sign-up system coordinated by volunteers, drawing from Catholic parishes like St. Thomas More Parish, St. Mary Parish, St. Joseph Parish, Sacred Heart Parish, and St. John Nepomucene Parish in Little Chute — as well as Lutheran congregations and other Christian communities.
“It’s not just Catholic parishes,” Mailand said. “This is multi-faith. First United Methodist Church, Alliance Church, the Salvation Army — they’re all part of the team.”
Funding comes the same way: shared, pooled, quietly sustained. Together, they offer hospitality that goes beyond a bed. Every evening, volunteers deliver dinner directly to rooms. Along with it comes a bagged lunch for the next day. In the morning, the hotel provides a continental breakfast.
But food is only the beginning. During the day, volunteers conduct wellness checks, help with laundry, distribute hygiene items, and connect guests with social services. Staff from Pillars, the region’s year-round shelter provider, meet with guests on site to work on IDs, employment, and housing pathways.
“We see a real change,” Mailand said. “Less stress. Less anxiety. When people don’t have to worry about where they’re sleeping tonight, their mental health improves.”
There are rules, clearly stated and consistently enforced: no alcohol, respect for others, no visiting rooms that aren’t theirs, keeping spaces clean. The goal is dignity — for guests and for the hotel staff who are still serving regular paying customers. And that balance matters.
Melanie Mailand, Mel to everyone here, is often present from morning to night. She knows most guests by name. She tracks needs on handwritten lists. She loads her car with donated coats, sleeping bags, boots, and clean sheets her husband organizes back at St. Joseph Parish.
“We practice abundant hospitality,” Mel said. “But we also practice abundant scrutiny.”
She explained it without apology. “We don’t want to interfere with the hotel’s business. And we don’t want any one of our neighbors to put this partnership at risk. If we lose this facility, everyone loses.”
Volunteers maintain a visible presence in hallways and common areas, clean up after themselves, and keep their footprint in the breakfast nook as small as possible. “And we need abundant gratitude,” Mel said. “Because so many people make this possible.”
One of the hardest parts comes when the temperature rises. “When it gets above the threshold, we have to ask people to leave,” Mailand said. “That’s hard. Absolutely hard.”
For some, leaving means returning to a car. For others, it means a tent, sleeping bag, or hidden spot in the woods. A few may have a couch to land on, but most do not.
Mel prepares days in advance. “If we know Sunday is discharge day, I’ll start asking on Wednesday or Thursday, ‘Do you need anything?’” she said. “Coats, mittens, boots, underwear, sleeping bags.”
But crisis changes how people think. “When you’re in survival mode, you think hour to hour,” she said. “Twenty-four hours is usually as far ahead as folks can see.”
By Saturday, the list grows long. “And then Sunday comes,” she said. “That’s scary.”
Still, the community doesn’t disappear. On Tuesdays, many return for grab-and-go meals at St. Joseph Parish. Volunteers recognize them. Names are remembered. Needs are met again when possible.
This ministry isn’t new to the people involved. Mailand traces it back years to rotating shelter weeks hosted by parishes like St. Mary Parish, where guests would arrive at night, share a meal, sleep indoors, and leave in the morning.
What’s new is the scale — and the collaboration.
“This is a community-wide effort,” Mailand said. “Faith organizations. Social service agencies. Volunteers. Donors.”
St. Vincent de Paul assists with gas cards and bus passes. Volunteers help change tires, replace dead batteries, and make emergency repairs for people living out of their vehicles.
Rickert recalls a recent call: a woman with two flat tires — one with wire showing through.
Volunteers jacked up the car and replaced both tires. “She couldn’t be driving like that,” Rickert said. “So we helped.”
Asked how all of this makes her feel, Mel paused.
“I enjoy doing this,” she said. “It reminds me I’m doing what I’m supposed to do.”
Not every day is easy. Some moments are joyful. Others are frustrating or deeply sad, she said.
“You run through every emotion,” she said. “Especially when we’re doing this 14 or 15 days in a row.”
Still, she keeps coming back. “The Gospel’s pretty clear,” she said. “If someone needs something, you help.”
There are no grand speeches here. No spotlight moments. Just meals prepared, rooms checked, laundry folded, names remembered. In the deep cold of a Wisconsin winter, faith takes the shape of a sandwich, a sleeping bag, a quiet knock on a hotel room door. And for one more night, that is enough.