At God’s Warehouse, Everything Is Free

They thought about calling the overgrown thrift shop “Divine Bartering Service” but settled on “God’s Warehouse.”

The building, tucked away at 111 N. Crestline, is an unusual store. All the merchandise at God’s Warehouse is donated. Customers pick out what they want. Everything’s free.

Diane Hopkins, her fiance, Dennis Pfeifer, and a third partner opened the warehouse about a year ago, to help people who need it.

“You name it, it’s here,” Hopkins said. “Or it’s been here. Except for dressers.”

If God had a warehouse, this would be the place.

It’s a Noah’s Ark of all unliving things. The downstairs room is a metal cavern, about 70 feet long, 50 feet wide and 24 feet high. It’s filled with more odds, ends and knickknacks than a Ronco warehouse. There are dozens of overstuffed chairs and couches, pushed together to make more room.

Amid the maze, there are tiny treasures: a computer sports game from 1972, a knitting magazine from 1947 and a card game from 1918. There’s a Barney coloring book, a game of battling tops, stacks of mismatched linoleum tiles and sporting goods.

There’s a game of 150 ways to play solitaire, a stud-setter and boxes of ceramic hands, boots, paws and animal heads.

Of course, finding that special something takes effort. The clutter is awe-inspiring.

“You find things people probably have been missing for 40 years,” said Denice Medina, who volunteers three times a week. She’s found a photograph of a married couple, and a silver plaque featuring a picture of a naked woman from the 1800s.

The warehouse isn’t listed in the telephone book. Hopkins tries to spread the word through social service groups, churches and shelters. It’s not advertised extensively, yet people trickle in all day long.

Mark Rosenberg, Teresa Miner and their three children grabbed a ride to God’s Warehouse last week. They found the place two weeks ago, through Rosenberg’s sister. Now, they plan to volunteer.

“Right now, we’re in between houses,” Rosenberg said. “We’re at the shelter. It’s so expensive, to get new clothes.”

The three kids picked out hats and sunglasses. Miner picked out clothes for them, and for her other two sons, who live at the Hutton Settlement Home.

Miner and Rosenberg piled the clothing on top of a stroller also found at God’s Warehouse. They stacked more clothes in a plastic bag, along with a book of children’s Bible stories. They grabbed a stuffed elephant, a troll doll missing its left leg and a basketball.

“With the Salvation Army or places like that, even then sometimes you just don’t have the money,” Rosenberg said. “Second-hand stores get stuff donated and they want to make a profit.”

Not God’s Warehouse. The workers are volunteers, and both Hopkins and Pfeifer hold other jobs, which help pay the $1,000 monthly rent at the warehouse. The warehouse is a labor of spare time, usually open from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. weekdays.

“A lot of people that work with us are basically all recovered drug addicts and alcoholics,” Hopkins said. “This is a great neighborhood for us to be in. We want to get the message out: There is a better life.”

Hopkins should know. She’s at the tail end of probation for being a first-time drug offender. She pleaded guilty to conspiring to deliver drugs on Nov. 6, 1992.

Since then, Hopkins has changed. She said she became clean and sober through Alcoholics Anonymous and God. Hopkins and Pfeifer pay the rent on the warehouse.

Pfeifer doesn’t talk much. He’s taken a one-year vow of silence, except for talking about scriptures and the Bible. The vow ends Dec. 21. The couple will be married the next day.

The volunteers plan to clean and straighten up the downstairs room. It’ll be a trick. Many people culling their possessions drop off everything in cardboard boxes, regardless of the objects’ conditions. Medina and Hopkins want donated items to be usable. They pointed to a large cardboard box filled with newspapers, plastic garbage bags and old typewriter ribbons.

“Nobody can use this,” Medina said. “It’s not for people to empty their trash.”

The upstairs of the warehouse is neater, thanks to volunteers, clothing racks and shelves. In one corner, a dozen mismatched chairs and couches surround two large squares of orange carpet. This area is used for Bible study for the Holy Soldiers on Thursday nights and a women’s support group for Homefront Ministries on Monday nights.

Next to the study area, more free merchandise is available. There’s a pair of wacky fake glasses, complete with eyeballs, but the right one’s missing. The pair sits on top of a large wooden lectern, presented to Evergreen Theatres Inc. by an American Legion post in Spokane on May 30, 1940, “in appreciation of public service fostering true Americanism.” There’s an organ. It works.

Irene Nieves, Rosenberg’s sister, just moved into a new apartment this month. Her place was empty. She went to God’s Warehouse.

“I was homeless,” she said. “I came here, and they helped me out with beds and clothing.”

One day last week, she dropped off six boxes of clothes, pictures and shoes. That’s the way it works, Hopkins said. If people need, they take. When they can give, they do.

Alberta Hedine, her husband and her aunt dropped by God’s Warehouse. The week before, Hedine left with two couches and a coffee table. Her husband held up a dress to her as she talked about the warehouse.

“It looks like a second-hand shop to me,” Hedine said. “But it ain’t. It’s free. They’re friendly people here. They help you.”

, DataTimes ILLUSTRATION: Color Photo