I hated everything about my life.

After twenty-three years in a loveless marriage with little respect, my divorce was now final. I had to leave my dream house in Anderson, South Carolina, and move to a dilapidated rental house on a dead end street. Even worse, I matched that awful house. Staring at the dingy floor, I felt ugly, used up, and broken. So many years of my life gone. Wasted.

Dropping to my knees, I traced a huge split in the linoleum as I prayed, "God, help me. If you get me out of this, I'm yours. Whatever you want. I just need three things—a job, a new life, and to be loved."

With no college degree and little employment history, my options were limited. Then word of a job opportunity came through my previous mission work. I'd be managing My Sister's Place, a shelter for homeless women and their children. The position would provide a place for me to live and a salary. I didn't think I had much left to offer, but at least I'd be needed and loved. It sounded too good to be true.

On a scorching September day in 2004, I moved to a small town in northern Georgia. I'd given away most of my belongings in order to travel lightly. At least I was dressed right for my new job: khaki cut-off shorts with a T-shirt. As I crept through the run-down neighborhood, I prayed I'd missed a turn. Then I saw it. Peeling white paint with screaming blue shutters. No roses such as I'd had back home, just two scraggly bushes in the tiny front yard. Shacks leaned sadly on either side.

God, this can't be happening. I wanted a pretty home. Something close to what I lost.

I considered sneaking away, but one of the women spotted me. She peered out the window and grinned, exposing a missing tooth.

Swinging open the front door, she hollered, "Hi, Hon!" Barefooted, she ran and grabbed my suitcase. "My name's Gail." She raked her raggedy nails through her chopped off hair. "I don't usually look like this. My boyfriend whacked my hair." (Later she confided that he'd locked her in a bathroom for days and had given her the haircut as some sort of punishment.)

Gail escorted me into the cluttered den where eight women waited for me. Three sat clumped together on the tattered sofa; the rest of the motley group had gathered around the kitchen table in mismatched chairs. After I introduced myself, Gail led me to the back of the house. She never stopped smiling.

I opened the creaking doors and peered inside the residents' bedrooms. Both were bleak—four single beds with threadbare chenille spreads. My room wasn't much better—small with dated mauve drapes.

My first day on the job, I ran myself ragged. After leaving at 7 A.M. to drive one woman to work, I drove a second lady to her job at Burger King. Two hours later, another had a court hearing. Then one developed a kidney infection, so off to the clinic we rushed. Late in the afternoon, I picked up a rape victim at mental health, finally returning to gather the first two after their jobs. That night I slumped into the rickety recliner feeling like the "Old Lady in the Shoe."

My Sister's Place took in addicts, alcoholics, mentally ill, single and divorced women with children, and some who never learned to manage money. House rules were simple:

I didn't demand perfection, but somehow after I arrived, housekeeping dropped off. Chores were forgotten and duties half done. After a month I awoke to discover dirty dishes in the sink, ants crawling over the countertop, beds unmade, and cups covering the coffee table. God, you tricked me—put me in charge of bunch of women who act like spoiled teenagers.