BREAD OF LIFE MISSION
Nourishing Lives, Making Room For All
From the moment we opened our doors in 1990, Bread of Life Mission began offering a room in our home to people who were living outside on the streets or in the parks of Los Angeles. We had no intake forms, no formal criteria, and no real experience. We simply opened our home as we felt led, trusting that love and hospitality were enough to begin.
Over time, a few of those who came to live with us became long-time residents—staying for many years, until their death. For those who had no living relatives, Bread of Life Mission had the sacred responsibility of laying them to rest. Each was buried by our community at Holy Cross Cemetery in Los Angeles.
What follows are short biographies of these beloved long-time residents.
Chris Cowles
Chris Cowles was born and raised in the elite circles of New York City. He attended private schools and came from a family deeply woven into the old New York establishment: his mother was an heiress from an old New York banking family. His father was a Broadway producer. Yet beneath the privilege, Chris suffered greatly. At his boarding schools he was teased relentlessly, and the sense of not belonging stayed with him. One bright thread in his early life was a girl named Monica, granddaughter of filmmaker Robert Flaherty. Her family welcomed Chris and made a lasting impact on him. When Monica did not return his love, his heart was quietly broken in a way that never fully healed.
After college, Chris traveled through Europe and Israel, searching for a place where he might finally feel at home. He never quite found it. Returning to the United States, he received an inheritance—and gave it away to a church in Mexico. From there, his life moved steadily toward the margins. He drifted around Los Angeles, usually sleeping outside. At times he worked as a caretaker and had temporary shelter, but he often returned to the streets. Through it all, he held fast to a deep faith in God’s presence. He admired figures like Maximilian Kolbe, Viktor Frankl, and Francis of Assisi—souls who embraced sacrifice, meaning, and radical simplicity.
Chris was very intelligent and widely cultured. He spoke English, Spanish, and German. He knew the arts and classical music in depth and believed that the eras of Bach and Beethoven were the high point of civilization—that things had largely declined since those days. When Chris came to live at the Bread of Life Mission, the house was transitioning to serve immigrant families from Central America, and children now filled its rooms and hallways. Chris became their abuelo—the grandfather of the community. He loved and cared for the children, taught them piano, and read aloud to them. He had an eye for hidden treasures, regularly checking trash cans around town and sometimes finding items of real value. He also knew a spot in Los Angeles where guava trees dropped their fruit to the ground; in season, he would gather guavas and bring them back as gifts for the Mission families.
Chris lived at the Bread of Life Mission for twenty-two years. Over time, he became not only a friend but a kind of mentor. The older he grew, the wiser and more integrated he became; he aged with a grace and integrity that left a deep impression on those around him. Chris died on Good Friday in 2023. After his death, two guava trees unexpectedly appeared around the house—one sprouting from a crack in the front porch steps, the other from the soil near the brick foundation. Today, the residents gently “venerate” these trees. Each year, they bear more guavas, a living reminder of Chris and the quiet, generous way he shared his life and his gifts with others.
Max Kaminski
When we first met Max, he had been fasting and praying outside a nearby church, convinced that God had commanded him to stop eating and drinking. A concerned friend suggested he come to the Bread of Life Mission.
From the beginning, Max’s situation raised deep concern. He had gone without water for days and, in his devotion, feared that taking even a sip would mean disobeying God. In my own inexperience, I even tried to offer him holy water, taking him from church to church and eventually to a Catholic seminary just to find it. When we finally did, he still could not bring himself to drink. Max moved into the Bread of Life Mission under these fragile conditions, staying in a downstairs bedroom and continuing his fast for several more days.
Recognizing that his health was in real danger, I sought counsel and ultimately brought Max to a hospital where he could receive proper medical care. He agreed, was treated, and gradually regained his strength. In time, he returned to the Mission—this time to continue his life of prayer without the life-threatening fasting. But as his symptoms resurfaced, it became clear that he was carrying a mental illness far beyond my ability to address. Max shared that he had developed schizophrenia in his twenties while serving in the army and that he had previously been treated at the VA hospital in Los Angeles. I took him there, and they welcomed him back into their care.
Over the next fifteen years, I visited Max regularly at the VA hospital. The severity of his illness would rise and fall; at times he needed to stay in locked wards alongside other severely ill patients. Yet throughout all of this, Max remained a gentle, loving soul—a man whose heart was turned steadily toward God, continually seeking divine help in carrying the weight of his suffering. His life stands as a quiet testament to faith lived in the midst of profound vulnerability.
Bob Harris
Bob was born in the Midwest, where loss and hardship marked his early years. His mother died when he was young, and his father’s remarriage left him largely without the steady love and guidance most children count on. Physically awkward and shy, Bob entered adulthood without much support. One of his first efforts to build a life for himself—selling books door to door—ended in disappointment when the company took his money for materials and never delivered them. Over time, Bob drifted from place to place and eventually found himself in Los Angeles.
When we met Bob, he was 54 years old and living in MacArthur Park. He suffered from large tumors in his nose that caused constant discomfort and visible discharge, something that deeply embarrassed him. A small group of us began bringing him sandwiches each week and tried to talk with him. Bob rarely lifted his head, but even in his quietness we could sense his kindness and gentle spirit.
About a year after the Bread of Life Mission opened, and after much discussion with other co-workers of Mother Teresa, we asked Bob two questions that would change the course of his life: Would he like to move into the Mission house, and would he be willing to have surgery for his medical condition? To both, he said yes. We brought him to the emergency department of a teaching hospital affiliated with the University of Southern California, where his case was taken seriously and treated with skill and compassion. After surgery and ten days of excellent care, Bob emerged with a greatly improved appearance—the swelling had gone down, and the chronic mucous was gone.
We brought him from the hospital straight to the Mission home and discovered it was his 55th birthday. We told him he could stay and have a room of his own. At first he refused, assuming there would be conditions or strings attached. But as trust slowly grew, Bob decided to give life at the Mission a chance. He would stay for the next sixteen years.
Over time, Bob came to play a quiet but essential role in the life of the house and neighborhood. His “job” became sitting on the front porch as a kind of unofficial neighborhood security guard. He greeted people as they passed, kept an eye on the comings and goings, and made sure the front of the Mission felt safe and welcoming. He faithfully collected the mail each day and distributed it to the residents. Bob knew what was happening up and down the block and was on a first-name basis with most of the neighbors. From his place on the porch, he helped weave a sense of community and trust between the Mission and the surrounding neighborhood.
During those years, Bob’s true character began to shine. We discovered his love for the arts, his thoughtful and in-depth knowledge of current affairs, and his naturally courteous, gentlemanly manner. The Mission bought him a suit and took him to plays and the theater, where he seemed completely at home. It was as if, in the twilight of his life, Bob finally had the space and dignity he needed for his real self to emerge.
Bob became a close friend and a deeply valued member of our community. He passed away peacefully in his sleep at the age of 71. His life was appreciated and his presence was a gift to us all.
David Abbot
David Abbot was adopted as a young child and grew up in Fresno, California. We met him years later when he was living in MacArthur Park in Los Angeles. A devoted Elvis fan—his hairstyle made that immediately clear—David was a small man with a bit of nervous energy about him. He was shy at first, but once he relaxed, he would “chirp in” and quietly join the conversation.
When David came to live at the Bread of Life Mission, he quickly found his place in the everyday life of the house. He especially loved mopping the floors in our old Mission home, a task that reminded him of the work he used to do in the Navy. It was simple, steady work, and he took real pride in it. David never married and had no children. Like many of our friends on the streets, he didn’t seem to have the support or skills needed to build what the world calls a “traditional life” with a steady job and predictable future. Life had been rough for him, and in many ways he felt most at ease among people who had walked a similar road.
Every so often, David would leave his room at the Mission and return to Skid Row for a time. When he came back, he was sometimes bruised and bloodied, carrying visible signs of the danger and hardship of that environment. Each time, he was welcomed back without question. Over the fifteen years that David lived at the Mission, it became a true home for him—a place where he was known, accepted, and safe.
David enjoyed simple pleasures: small outings, shared meals, and familiar routines. He seemed to be a trustworthy friend, steady in his own quiet way. He especially loved the times when we gathered to sing and praise God together. In those moments—mop in hand, listening in on a conversation, or lifting his voice in song—David’s gentle spirit and quiet faith shone through.
Robert Morgan
Robert was living in MacArthur Park in Los Angeles when we first met him. A tall, regal man in his late sixties, he carried himself with quiet dignity. He would politely accept the sandwiches we offered but mostly kept to himself, observing the world around him with a calm, steady gaze. In the park community, he was affectionately known as “the mayor of MacArthur Park.”
As trust grew between us, we invited Robert to come live at the Bread of Life Mission home. He eagerly accepted. From the very beginning, he fit in naturally—ready to lend a hand with whatever needed doing. He especially loved cooking scrambled eggs for our Saturday morning community breakfast. He also made sure that he was the one who washed the dishes (he never used our automatic dishwasher), even if his technique involved generous amounts of Comet powder. Over time, he became not just a resident but a co-worker of Mother Teresa, helping to make sandwiches for those still living on the streets where he once stayed.
Robert seemed to truly enjoy the rhythm of life at the Mission: gathering to pray the Liturgy of the Hours, singing religious songs together, and sharing simple daily routines in community. He had a playful side as well. Whenever you asked Robert how old he was, he would always answer, without fail, “I’m 21.” He lived at the Mission house for fourteen years, and every year we joyfully celebrated his 21st birthday all over again.
Charlie Andrews
Charlie grew up in a devout Catholic family in Pittsburgh, where he learned to love the Mass, the saints, and serving the poor. Living with a cognitive disorder that made social life difficult, he took a humble job cleaning the tires of garbage trucks, often recalling how his fingers would freeze in the “bitter cold” winters. In his late thirties, Charlie came to Los Angeles to join the Missionary Brothers of Charity. After his novitiate, he was not accepted into the community and was gently encouraged to cross the street to the Bread of Life Mission. There, he was welcomed into the new house on the block and found a spiritual home.
At Bread of Life, Charlie lived simply and served wholeheartedly. A gifted artist, he created religious icons that touched the hearts of those who saw them. He had a bright, warm smile, a love for Christian music and worship, and a deep devotion to St. Francis of Assisi. Several days a week, he went out to the streets of Los Angeles with food and clothing for people experiencing homelessness—quietly living the Gospel he loved. Over the course of the Missions’ nascent years, he brought joy to the house and to many on the streets.
When homesickness eventually drew him back to his family in Pittsburgh, Bread of Life stayed in touch through regular phone calls. In time, Charlie became a lay Franciscan and felt he had finally realized one of his life’s callings. In the Mission’s final phone call, his mother shared that Charlie had died of a heart attack a few months earlier. She said he was at peace—especially knowing that he was, at last, a member of the order founded by his hero, St. Francis of Assisi.