anchor-house-ministries-7285edf7

Best in Humanity

Tue, 29 Apr 2025 19:55:06 GMT

By: Korinne Harris

“We have the opportunity to see the best in humanity and the worst in humanity”

I’ve been a part of this organization for 9 months now, and I believe that observation made by Dr. Davis best summarizes the fullness of my experience while working at Anchor House.

In my role, I have the opportunity to know each boy that comes into our care personally. I get to see what makes them most excited, I get to hear about all the activities going on in their day, and I get to learn the best ways to connect with them. However, with that role also comes the task of reading the horror stories of their past situations. When I learn where a child comes from, I can no longer label them the same way the world does.

The world sees an aggressive teenage boy, but I can see someone who is dealing with inexpressible anger over not understanding why mom left.

The world sees a stubborn kid who refuses to listen, but I can see the trauma of being beaten every time you try to speak, manifesting into the inability to trust.

The world sees a rebellious child who steals, but I can see a trained behavior to shove your pockets full so that you can eat that night.

I believe that the broken parts of humanity have stolen these children's ability to be kids, but I also believe that humanity has not stolen their hope.

I also get to see the best of humanity at my job.

I get to meet strangers who will write checks without batting an eye when they hear about who we help.

I get to work with staff who will sacrifice their time, energy, and income because of how strongly they believe these kids need to be loved.

I get to meet young adults who will come back and say that their time spent at Anchor House shifted the trajectory of their life and the decisions they now choose to make.

I believe that the Lord is moving through Anchor House as it is the home for stories that are marked by the evil in humanity, but also by the goodness and hope in humanity instilled by a redeeming Savior. To each of our donors, supporters, and volunteers: thank you for opening the door for these kids to see the type of hope found only in Christ.

50th Anniversary Spoken Word

Tue, 29 Apr 2025 19:45:57 GMT

By: Korinne Harris

50 years ago, there was a door that was opened for hope to walk in.

But the road leading to that entry consists of stories marked by scars scratched deeper than anyone can see, pain inflicted by fists that are supposed to protect, and neglect that has left muffled cries echoing back unanswered far too many times.

It's the same story that I could tell you a thousand different ways.

So what do you do when your heart breaks for every child who is hopelessly walking through life in search of someone who will care?

Well, that's when you begin to build.

You start by acknowledging that you will never understand the pain, the trauma, and the fear that comes from walking a day in their shoes, but that you will stack brick on top of brick because you refuse to be the one that walks in the other direction.

You build 4 walls to show that security should no longer have to be a fight, but it is a right to rest in the comfort of stability every time they close their eyes.

You furnish a kitchen table because wondering if the clock would once again skip past meal time is no longer a threat, and there are seats at the table that aren’t going anywhere.

You plant flowers outside, because life should no longer look like broken windows and torn-up carpet, and there is a beautiful shift when a little boy can see that he is worthy of an environment that actually feels like home.

And lastly you add a door, because something powerful is carried with them when walking out. Every conversation started, every hour invested, and every skill taught are moments where hope seeps through the cracks. And it’s easy to pass them off as ineffective, but they plant the potential for growth in a young adult who is searching to know what love looks like.

Anyone can build a house, but if you’re only objective is to complete a construction project, then you’ve missed the mission.

If you want to build a home, then you anchor it in love

We say yes to building not because we’re experts, but because we serve a God whose heart is deeply moved to reach the one that the world looks past. He sees the 13-year-old boy curled up in the corner, sobbing softly night after night, too scared to take up space and too familiar with being told he’s easy to replace.

So when we ask God to break our hearts for what breaks his, his response is to tap us on the shoulder and point us towards that cry that needs attention. As His body, we are tasked with having a heart tethered to his mission of meeting needs in the messiness, while his love compels us to pick up the tools.

Because how can we not?

50 years ago we started to build and we’re still building today because we are anchored on our foundation of changing lives by restoring hope.

Yellow Butterflies

Tue, 29 Apr 2025 18:10:19 GMT

By: Jazmine Williams

Butterflies are known for their effortless beauty. But their journey is not without struggle. The process is as challenging as it is miraculous.

When I first started working at Anchor House, two of my coworkers told me how they spend their 15 minute break walking the driveway into our main campus. As we walked, I marveled at all the butterflies that swarmed around us, seeing up close the beautiful creatures that typically greet my car in the morning.

On the way back from my first day joining them, we ran into one of our new youth, Jakob. I had only started working the week before, meaning Jakob and I were learning about this place together. I introduced myself to him, expressing that I was also new around here. I began to ask questions about his tattoos, which led to a bigger conversation about his life and how he ended up here.

Jakob shared heartbreaking stories from his childhood—accounts of the pain he endured growing up. He had a physically abusive father who only showed up when it was convenient, and two older siblings he took care of. When Jakob was removed from the home, he was placed with a family who had a son, one who took advantage of him sexually for years. This led to a long series of moves across the state, bouncing placement to placement. He said he had no idea how many homes he’d been in before this one—telling us it was “too many places to count.” My heart was heavy as the big, tough teenager became so small. He told me the reason he kept getting moved was because he would run away. I quietly asked him if he planned on doing that now that he was here at Anchor House. His head immediately lifted and he told me “What? No way. This is the best place I have been. ”

When a butterfly breaks from its chrysalis, the struggle of fighting its way to freedom is actually what allows it to survive. The process strengthens them and equips them with the skills they need to be independent. It is part of the butterflies' development. Although I haven’t been here very long, I’ve quickly learned that this is exactly what Anchor House is. A place where kids are free to figure out the struggle. It is a place where lives are changed, and hope is restored.

These brief, 15 minute walks quickly became my favorite part of the day. I still find myself getting excited for the boys to get back from school, eager to hear about their day—their triumphs, struggles, and even just the small, everyday moments. It’s in those after-school conversations that I see glimmers of their growth. There’s something special about those walks, yellow butterflies dancing around, and the real-life stories of transformation happening right beside me. A place where yellow butterflies, like Jakob, can grow to be healthy and free.

Here at Anchor House, we're in the butterfly business. Teaching kids that they really can break through the chrysalis.

 That their past is not their future, and that butterflies, and children, were meant to be free.

"I Had Decided to Become a Statistic"

Mon, 24 Jun 2024 15:38:26 GMT

By: Jazmine Williams

“I had decided to become a statistic."

Before our transitional homes existed, aging out of foster care often meant one thing: homelessness. Tyler was a statistic waiting to happen, just like so many others in the system. When he walked through the doors of Anchor House at seventeen, he carried that weight. “I had decided to become a statistic,” he told us. Bright, gentle, and deeply wounded, Tyler arrived with no expectations—no hope, no plan, no sense that his story could change.

What he didn’t know was that a miracle was waiting for him.

It was the miracle of Anchor House.

“I just kept waiting for people to treat me like garbage, because that’s how I felt about myself,” he said. But the staff at Anchor House did the opposite. They saw him. They listened. They loved him—not because he earned it, but because they believed he was worth it.

“I didn’t understand it,” Tyler admitted. “I kept waiting for them to treat me badly, but it never happened. They cared for me, and I could tell that it was real.”

The turning point in Tyler’s life came just before his eighteenth birthday. He had started to imagine what it would feel like to be completely alone—no home to return to, no bed to sleep in, no one waiting for him. The thought was heavy, and it was beginning to settle in. Then one day, out of nowhere, Misty Linville—our office manager—asked him a simple question: “Where will you go when you turn eighteen?” Tyler looked down and quietly admitted, “I don’t know.”

What she said next stopped him in his tracks.

“Well,” she said gently, “would you like to come live at my house? With my family?”

Tyler was stunned. He had no words. How could someone who had only known him for a short time care so deeply? He went to his room and wept—silent, shaking sobs that lasted for over an hour. Not because he was afraid, but because, for the first time in his life, he felt wanted. He felt loved. He had a place to belong. Fate had been interrupted by love.

Tyler has now graduated from the University of Florida. His whole life has changed. And yes, he did become a statistic—but not the kind he once feared. Instead, he’s part of a growing number of young men whose stories have been rewritten at Anchor House. Boys who once felt forgotten are finishing school, going to college, finding jobs, and building lives filled with purpose. Over 95% of those in our transitional programs complete high school or earn their GED, and half go on to college. These aren’t just numbers—they’re names, faces, futures. They are living proof that hope can be restored, and lives can be changed.