Jesus replied, “They do not need to go away. You give them something to eat.” --Matthew 14:16
So, what's for dinner?
How often does the typical mother or caregiver hear that question, or think it to herself (or himself) in the course of a week? Simple enough question-- as long as you have resources to answer it.
This past Sunday my beloved and I served as hosts for our church's Neighborhood Lunch. I haven't helped very often, because there are usually plenty of folks willing to cook, to serve and to clean up.
But this time, we specifically volunteered-- to host.
To actually mingle in the Great Hall with our guests, to serve up some love and respect along with that bowl of chili. And to help us remember: those who come in for a meal are people, just like you and just like me. They have families, many of them. And they have stories.
It was an odd juxtaposition, actually. We went from the parlor, where I helped serve punch and cookies for the 90th birthday of a beloved congregant, to the basement hall, set up with round tables and red-and-green plastic tablecloths.
The menu changes every month: this month we served chili, cornbread, fruit and cupcakes/ cookies. Oh-- and coffee. Lots of coffee with lots of cream and LOTS of sugar, as our guests like it. Look out, Starbucks.
Lunch was to be served at 1:00; folks began arriving before then. My beloved immediately made his way to a table where two bald men were already sitting. When I wandered past after a few minutes, they were engaged in conversations about razors and shave cream, whether to shave in the shower or over the sink. (I chose not to add much to that conversation.)
At J's invitation, our guests filed through cafeteria-style, receiving generous servings and settling down to the business of eating. Latecomers straggled in and were also served before the offer of second helpings was made.
I helped with coffee. I fetched napkins. I smiled. I listened to stories of God's grace in the lives of these who seemingly have so little. And my beloved-- he really listened. And got an earful.
It turned out, on this first Sunday he ever came to help, there was a man walking a path very similar to his. The loss, the pain, the desire not to go on-- all there. And because he had truly been there in so many ways, he could offer the words of hope this tired soul so desperately needed to hear.
Imagine that.
Many who volunteer choose to stay in the kitchen (where it's "safe"?), but Life happens in the hall. A hot bowl of chili fills the belly; a warm conversation lasts long after the hall is dark and the doors closed and locked for the day.
We never know where or how or when another Child of the Most High will cross our paths in an unexpected way, calling us to be vulnerable, to let our hearts be touched.
Because it's not "us" versus "them." It's just US. Brothers and sisters of every size, shape, color and income, all hungry for that which fills and feeds our souls.
Almighty One, help me to see with your eyes and love as you would love. Amen
It turned out, on this first Sunday he ever came to help, there was a man walking a path very similar to his. The loss, the pain, the desire not to go on-- all there. And because he had truly been there in so many ways, he could offer the words of hope this tired soul so desperately needed to hear.
Imagine that.
Many who volunteer choose to stay in the kitchen (where it's "safe"?), but Life happens in the hall. A hot bowl of chili fills the belly; a warm conversation lasts long after the hall is dark and the doors closed and locked for the day.
We never know where or how or when another Child of the Most High will cross our paths in an unexpected way, calling us to be vulnerable, to let our hearts be touched.
Because it's not "us" versus "them." It's just US. Brothers and sisters of every size, shape, color and income, all hungry for that which fills and feeds our souls.
Almighty One, help me to see with your eyes and love as you would love. Amen
