Faking grace, p.17
Faking Grace, page 17
“So how was your day?”
Outside of nearly being exposed as a fraud? “All right.”
“How is Jem doing?”
“Good. In fact, she joined me for lunch and ate half a chef salad.” Without dressing, but she did get through some of the meat, egg, and cheese. I only hope she kept it down.
“Wonderful. Maybe she’ll beat this thing on her own.”
“Too early to tell.”
She sinks into a short-lived silence. “And how is that nice young man Jack?”
“He’s fine.”
“For now. Of course, when that article of Tessie’s—er, yours—appears in the paper, that will be a different matter.”
As if I need reminding.
“Now about this soup kitchen thing we signed up for on Sunday …”
We? I narrow my lids at the sheepish look on her face. “What about the soup kitchen thing you signed us up for?”
“There’s a special event that William’s church is holding on Sunday.”
“And?”
“I told William I would go with him. Wasn’t that nice of him to invite me?”
Steeple Side Lies
#1. No real work experience (Mrs. Lucas)
#2. Currently not working anywhere else (Mrs. Lucas)
#3. Interested in full-time work at Steeple Side (Mrs. Lucas)
#4. Didn’t say the D word (Jack Prentiss)
#5. Attend Sovereign Church and like the congregation (2 lies in 1—Jack & Linda)
#6. Do freelance editing (Jem)
#7. DBGC not mine (Avery)
#8. Notes on Jem’s anorexia—article proposal for Steeple Side (Jack)
I switch on the light, fish my notebook out from under the sofa, and flip to the list of lies. Eight strong now—or six if I subtract the two made right. Is it possible to make any others right? Maybe the last one, as I could start researching an article on anorexia. Not that I’m likely to write the thing, as my time at Steeple Side is running down; however, just going through the motions is bound to make me feel better about myself. Or will it?
Cultural Christian.
I shove the notebook back under the sofa, and my fingers brush the spine of one of two books I now keep under there. I pull out The Message and am struck by a longing to read it. Instead I return the book to its hiding place and switch off the light.
“Oh God, I want to know You better, but now isn’t a good time.”
FOURTEEN
Hands on hips, I stare at the back end of the Hummer as it pulls away and merges into traffic—and lament my “ploy gone bad.” I had tried to get out of working the soup kitchen, even though it meant appearing unreliable.
Awakening before Grandma, I crept to my car and let the air out of a front tire. Of course, I didn’t “discover” my car trouble until I was running late for the morning worship service. I groaned at having to pass on the experience of helping the homeless.
To my surprise, Grandma sympathized and didn’t appear the least suspicious. Thus, I was up to my neck in self-congratulatory pats on the back when William’s arrival forty-five minutes later ushered in an unwelcome solution.
Standing in the doorway, arm looped through that of the elderly gentleman I took a grudging liking to during our official introduction this past Tuesday, sly Grandma gasped. Next thing I knew, William agreed that it would be no trouble to drop me at the soup kitchen on their way to church. And—talk about convenient—about the time I’m finished with my Christian act of service, they will be heading back and can pick me up.
So here I am in the heart of downtown, standing before a massive brick church that was built in the late eighteen hundreds and trying not to fantasize about the café across the street, where it would be so easy to while away a couple of hours.
Determinedly, I focus on the church’s carved door, which, doubtless, leads to the sanctuary. The paper taped to it reads: “Soup kitchen volunteers, please use south entrance. Guests, please use north entrance.”
I look to the right end of the building, where a line that was two dozen strong when William and Grandma dropped me off has grown by another dozen. And it’s a half hour before the mission begins serving.
The homeless men and women come in all shapes and sizes, but even at this distance, there’s one thing they appear to have in common: a shabby sense of fashion. Of course, it’s not really a sense, as that would mean they made a conscious choice to wear dirty, worn clothes, the scent of which is carried on the breeze—dirt, sweat, decay, and other things less pleasant.
My mouth goes chalky at the realization of what I’m about to do, and I work my tongue around my gums. I really could use something to drink. And I bet that café has just what I need.
You committed to this.
That was Grandma.
You accepted the Steeple Side writing assignment.
But my days there are numbered, so I don’t have to impress anyone.
What about Jack?
Yeah, I’m attracted to him, but the only future for us is adversarial. Once that article hits the streets, he’s not going to want anything to do with me outside of organizing a lynch mob.
My conscience heaves a sigh. Meaning I’ve won—
Oh yeah? What about Jem? She said she might join you. If she has the guts to look involuntary hunger in the face, what does that say about you, you big chicken?
I waver.
Lord, You know this isn’t my thing. Couldn’t I just write a check? I do have two Steeple Side paychecks I haven’t deposited…
Unfortunately, the dilemma over Jem, coupled with the realization that I’ll have to make up another lie to cover my absence, decides for me. I cross to the south entrance, and my tentative tap is answered by a middle-aged man with a bald head as round as the belly beneath his tightly stretched apron.
“You’re here to help in the soup kitchen?”
“That’s right.” I cross the threshold.
He closes the door, then catches my hand and gives it a shake. “Thank you for agreeing to help the less fortunate.”
But I didn’t agree. I was manipulated. I follow him across the room to where an elderly woman stands with a clipboard in hand.
“Welcome.” She smiles. “Your name?”
“Grace Stewart.”
She scans the list. “With Sovereign.” Scritch scratch. “The others are in the basement cafeteria suiting up to serve, so take the stairs”— she sweeps a hand to indicate the corridor beyond the doorway—“and we’ll put you to work.”
Aren’t people supposed to rest on Sunday? Deep breath. It’s only for a couple of hours. It will soon be over, and you’ll have done a good deed.
“Is this your first time, Miss Stewart?”
I blink at the bald man. “Yes, I’ve never done anything like this.”
He pats my shoulder. “Believe me, it will bless you.”
Bless me? Maybe the homeless, but not me. All it’s going to do is make me a nervous wreck.
“Would you like me to show you the way?” He nods at the stairs.
“I think I can find it on my own.”
And I do—down fourteen steps, where I catch the scent of broccoli, down a short corridor rife with the scent of pinto beans, down a long corridor through which the scent of warm rolls wafts, and into an enormous kitchen bustling with activity.
A young woman wearing a hair net and a white apron is at my side in seconds. Pulling her gaze from my ominously dark hair, she says, “I’ll bet you’re Grace.”
I squelch the impulse to tuck my hair behind my ears. “That’s me.”
“Jack asked me to keep an eye out for you and direct you to the serving line.”
I look at the counters where volunteers are preparing food, then to stove tops with huge pots that are tended by yet more volunteers. “The serving line … as in out front?”
“Yes. You’ll be serving our guests. But first let’s put your purse away and get you a hair net and apron.”
As she starts past me, I lay a hand on her arm. “Don’t you need help back here?”
“We’ve got it under control.” She smiles. “Besides, Jack says you’re writing an article, so you’ll want a close look at what the soup kitchen is all about—the hungry.”
The ones I’m supposed to write about in such a way that others will be touched by their plight and all the more receptive to reaching out to them. But considering how uncomfortable I am, can I really do the article justice? Will it be as well received as the magazine’s other articles are according to the reader feedback I’m now handling?
Recalling an e-mail from a woman whose child was recently diagnosed with autism and who found comfort in an article that celebrated the blessings that children born with mental handicaps pour out on others, my nose tingles. Honestly, some of the letters and e-mails are so moving that I’ve had to accessorize my desk with a box of tissues. I never would have guessed that issues addressed from a Christian perspective could make such a difference in people’s lives.
“Ready?” prompts the young woman in the hair net.
Realizing I’ve been staring through her, I jerk my chin. “Yes. Uh, lead on.”
Though everyone is outfitted in hair nets and aprons, I feel self-conscious when I step from the kitchen and am greeted by Avery and half a dozen others from the singles’ Sunday school class. And more so when I catch sight of Jack as he leans back against the counter from which the meal will be served.
He’s a guy whose looks greatly benefit from hair. Not that he’s unattractive beneath the hair net. He just doesn’t rank as high.
He motions me forward. “I saved you a place.”
He shouldn’t have. I cross to his side and stare at a pan of carrots. Though I like them raw, I can’t stand them cooked. Would it be rude to ask if they provide surgical masks for those who are sensitive to odors?
“I was beginning to think you had changed your mind about volunteering … and the article.”
Did I ever. “Car trouble.” Not a lie. Regardless of who let the air out of my tire, it’s still car trouble.
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
“Nope.” In fact, I’m pretty sure my bicycle pump will get me out of my jam. I peer into Jack’s pan. And envy him. “So you get to serve mashed potatoes.”
“And gravy.” He nods at a smaller pan. “Unless you’d like to trade places?”
I would, but that would mean acknowledging his ability to read me. “I’m good with carrots.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
“You seem uptight.”
I give the carrots a stir. “Just a day that didn’t start off well.”
“Missing church can do that to you.”
Was that judgmental? “So will car trouble.” Our gazes lock.
“Will you need a ride home?”
For a stupid moment I feel a thrill, but accepting a ride from him would be a bad idea. “No, thank you. Have you seen Jem?”
“No. You’re expecting her?”
“I told her about the soup kitchen, and she said she might drop by and help.”
He consults his watch. “We serve for two hours, so there’s plenty of time for her to show.”
Somehow I don’t think she will. I look past Jack to the volunteers near the beginning of the food line, then to those near the end. “I thought we would be serving soup, and I don’t even see soup.”
He chuckles. “Today the entrée is some type of goulash; that’s Avery’s baby.” He nods at the man to his far right. “Sometimes it is just soup, but when donations are up, the church passes on the blessing.” He smiles crookedly. “Hardly gourmet to us, but it’s a feast to the men and women who’ll come through those doors any minute.”
Turns out “any minute” happens to be this minute. I don’t mean to stare, but when the homeless and hungry stream in, that’s all I can do.
“Get ready,” Jack says in my ear.
I whip my head around and there he is, almost close enough to kiss. Not that I’m thinking of anything like that at a time like this.
I avert my eyes, only to avert them again to avoid looking at the masses of homeless people descending upon us, which is the reason their scent—far stronger than what the outside breeze carried—reaches me before their faces.
Oh my.
Once more, Jack’s breath warms my ear. “They’re looking to you to represent Jesus to them.”
Me? What if I’m more in need than they?
Get ahold of yourself!
Okay. I can do this—an up-close-and-personal look at the plight of the less fortunate, according to Grandma, who is conspicuously absent. Bless her heart.
I glance down the line to where the homeless are converging upon us. People just like you. Sort of. Soon I have my first customer, a greasy old man who, at second glance, isn’t that old. Just tired and scruffy. When he passes on Jack’s mashed potatoes, Jack pushes his tray across the counter to me.
“Carrots?”
He wrinkles his nose, but as I start to pass his tray to the woman beside me, he says, “Yeah. Good for the eyesight.”
Eager to send him on his way—not that the painfully thin, dark-skinned man coming behind him is less daunting—I scoop up a portion of carrots.
He points to his eyes. “Some punk busted my glasses.”
“I’m sorry.” I deposit the carrots and push the plate on.
The dark-skinned man passes on the carrots but accepts a scoop of corn on a plate so full it ought to hang a No Vacancy sign. He must be really hungry. Of course, this may be the first meal he’s had in days. Or longer.
“Jack?”
“Hmm?” He ladles gravy over mashed potatoes.
“What about second helpings? Can they come back if they’re still hungry?”
He passes the plate to me. “If there’s enough food.”
I look to the squat woman whose weight contrasts sharply with the man who came before her. “Carrots?”
She wipes the back of a hand across her dripping nose, leans forward to peer into my pan, and begins to cough. Fortunately, there’s an acrylic barrier between her and the food. Unfortunately, if her germs decide to go out and greet the world, I could be their next target.
She waves a hand, and as she trudges to the next offering, I release my breath.
“You all right?”
I nod in Jack’s direction. “Um-hmm.” Not really, but I will get through this.
“It gets easier. Before you know it, you’ll be smiling and greeting them.”
Is that what he’s doing? Have I been so caught up in my adventure in discomfort that I missed what was going on beside me?
Sure enough, he greets the next one in line, a man who wears what appears to have been a very nice business suit. Years ago. Or, on the streets, perhaps months ago.
“I’m good,” the man says, “especially now that I’ve got this fine meal to look forward to. Thanks.” He smiles with teeth that seem intact and only moderately yellowed. “I’ll take some carrots, miss.”
“Certainly.” My smile feels only partly fake as I scoop and pass on his plate.
Next in line is a man whose wild tangle of hair sticks out all over, gnarly beard evidences his last meal, and scent threatens my gag reflex. As Jack greets him, I lean down and draw a deep whiff of the steam rising off the carrots. A glorious, if tinny, aroma that offends me no more. So much in life is relative.
And so they come. Some are exactly what one expects a homeless person to be—ragtag, dirty, drunk, high, and emitting odors for which it’s best not to ponder the source. Others are less stereotypical. In fact, at first glance, some simply appear to be availing themselves of a free meal. On second glance, I notice frayed hemlines, dirty wrists above hands that have been washed, teeth in need of brushing, and eyes that reflect loss, desperation, and emptiness. Stereotypical or not, nearly all of them clutch their plates like treasures as they make their way to tables set throughout the enormous cafeteria.
“The name’s Iris,” says a middle-aged woman with a southern drawl.
Ridiculous as it is, I’m jolted at being given a name to go with a face. Of course, they all have names, just like me, but this makes it more personal. And moving.
My throat tightens. “It’s nice to meet you, Iris. My name’s Grace.”
Her eyes sparkle. “A fitting name. Um-hmm. Just right.”
No, it isn’t, but in that moment I wish it were. “Would you like some carrots, Iris?”
“Oh yes. They look delicious, all nice and orange and piping hot.” She sniffs the air. “And do they smell good!”
I draw a breath myself. Yes, they do smell pretty good. I scoop a portion onto her plate.
“Bless you, dear.”
I smile. “Why, thank you. And, uh, bless you back.”
She looks to the ceiling and shakes her head in wonder. “That God does. Over and over.”
But she’s homeless.
“Gives me a new day every mornin’. Keeps me safe on them mean streets. Provides rest when I’m tired. Keeps me company. And when I’m hungry and can’t handle one more day of garbage can scraps, He goes and puts you here to feed me.” She grins. “That’s blessed.”
I’m feeding her? Strange, but I have a feeling that she’s feeding me.
As she moves on, I notice she does so with a limp. Her bulky sweater, which ought to be too hot for early May, has large holes in it. And her hand, the one with which she taps the glass to indicate she’d also like a serving of corn, is an angry red. A burn? Some kind of rash? Regardless, it looks painful. And yet she smiles at each server and lets them know how blessed she is for their kindness.
How does she do that? How does she thank God for her desperate situation, a situation that makes my problems seem nonexistent?
“Pretty powerful, hmm?” Jack’s eyes shine with compassion. Can it be found in my own?
He returns to his mashed potatoes. “It certainly puts things in their proper perspective.”
My next customer is a young man who looks perfectly normal until I tune in to the conversation he’s having with himself. Actually, an argument. He wants carrots, but he does not.
“Maybe just a small scoop?” I suggest.
He smiles, then sneers and lunges forward in line.
Outside of nearly being exposed as a fraud? “All right.”
“How is Jem doing?”
“Good. In fact, she joined me for lunch and ate half a chef salad.” Without dressing, but she did get through some of the meat, egg, and cheese. I only hope she kept it down.
“Wonderful. Maybe she’ll beat this thing on her own.”
“Too early to tell.”
She sinks into a short-lived silence. “And how is that nice young man Jack?”
“He’s fine.”
“For now. Of course, when that article of Tessie’s—er, yours—appears in the paper, that will be a different matter.”
As if I need reminding.
“Now about this soup kitchen thing we signed up for on Sunday …”
We? I narrow my lids at the sheepish look on her face. “What about the soup kitchen thing you signed us up for?”
“There’s a special event that William’s church is holding on Sunday.”
“And?”
“I told William I would go with him. Wasn’t that nice of him to invite me?”
Steeple Side Lies
#1. No real work experience (Mrs. Lucas)
#2. Currently not working anywhere else (Mrs. Lucas)
#3. Interested in full-time work at Steeple Side (Mrs. Lucas)
#4. Didn’t say the D word (Jack Prentiss)
#5. Attend Sovereign Church and like the congregation (2 lies in 1—Jack & Linda)
#6. Do freelance editing (Jem)
#7. DBGC not mine (Avery)
#8. Notes on Jem’s anorexia—article proposal for Steeple Side (Jack)
I switch on the light, fish my notebook out from under the sofa, and flip to the list of lies. Eight strong now—or six if I subtract the two made right. Is it possible to make any others right? Maybe the last one, as I could start researching an article on anorexia. Not that I’m likely to write the thing, as my time at Steeple Side is running down; however, just going through the motions is bound to make me feel better about myself. Or will it?
Cultural Christian.
I shove the notebook back under the sofa, and my fingers brush the spine of one of two books I now keep under there. I pull out The Message and am struck by a longing to read it. Instead I return the book to its hiding place and switch off the light.
“Oh God, I want to know You better, but now isn’t a good time.”
FOURTEEN
Hands on hips, I stare at the back end of the Hummer as it pulls away and merges into traffic—and lament my “ploy gone bad.” I had tried to get out of working the soup kitchen, even though it meant appearing unreliable.
Awakening before Grandma, I crept to my car and let the air out of a front tire. Of course, I didn’t “discover” my car trouble until I was running late for the morning worship service. I groaned at having to pass on the experience of helping the homeless.
To my surprise, Grandma sympathized and didn’t appear the least suspicious. Thus, I was up to my neck in self-congratulatory pats on the back when William’s arrival forty-five minutes later ushered in an unwelcome solution.
Standing in the doorway, arm looped through that of the elderly gentleman I took a grudging liking to during our official introduction this past Tuesday, sly Grandma gasped. Next thing I knew, William agreed that it would be no trouble to drop me at the soup kitchen on their way to church. And—talk about convenient—about the time I’m finished with my Christian act of service, they will be heading back and can pick me up.
So here I am in the heart of downtown, standing before a massive brick church that was built in the late eighteen hundreds and trying not to fantasize about the café across the street, where it would be so easy to while away a couple of hours.
Determinedly, I focus on the church’s carved door, which, doubtless, leads to the sanctuary. The paper taped to it reads: “Soup kitchen volunteers, please use south entrance. Guests, please use north entrance.”
I look to the right end of the building, where a line that was two dozen strong when William and Grandma dropped me off has grown by another dozen. And it’s a half hour before the mission begins serving.
The homeless men and women come in all shapes and sizes, but even at this distance, there’s one thing they appear to have in common: a shabby sense of fashion. Of course, it’s not really a sense, as that would mean they made a conscious choice to wear dirty, worn clothes, the scent of which is carried on the breeze—dirt, sweat, decay, and other things less pleasant.
My mouth goes chalky at the realization of what I’m about to do, and I work my tongue around my gums. I really could use something to drink. And I bet that café has just what I need.
You committed to this.
That was Grandma.
You accepted the Steeple Side writing assignment.
But my days there are numbered, so I don’t have to impress anyone.
What about Jack?
Yeah, I’m attracted to him, but the only future for us is adversarial. Once that article hits the streets, he’s not going to want anything to do with me outside of organizing a lynch mob.
My conscience heaves a sigh. Meaning I’ve won—
Oh yeah? What about Jem? She said she might join you. If she has the guts to look involuntary hunger in the face, what does that say about you, you big chicken?
I waver.
Lord, You know this isn’t my thing. Couldn’t I just write a check? I do have two Steeple Side paychecks I haven’t deposited…
Unfortunately, the dilemma over Jem, coupled with the realization that I’ll have to make up another lie to cover my absence, decides for me. I cross to the south entrance, and my tentative tap is answered by a middle-aged man with a bald head as round as the belly beneath his tightly stretched apron.
“You’re here to help in the soup kitchen?”
“That’s right.” I cross the threshold.
He closes the door, then catches my hand and gives it a shake. “Thank you for agreeing to help the less fortunate.”
But I didn’t agree. I was manipulated. I follow him across the room to where an elderly woman stands with a clipboard in hand.
“Welcome.” She smiles. “Your name?”
“Grace Stewart.”
She scans the list. “With Sovereign.” Scritch scratch. “The others are in the basement cafeteria suiting up to serve, so take the stairs”— she sweeps a hand to indicate the corridor beyond the doorway—“and we’ll put you to work.”
Aren’t people supposed to rest on Sunday? Deep breath. It’s only for a couple of hours. It will soon be over, and you’ll have done a good deed.
“Is this your first time, Miss Stewart?”
I blink at the bald man. “Yes, I’ve never done anything like this.”
He pats my shoulder. “Believe me, it will bless you.”
Bless me? Maybe the homeless, but not me. All it’s going to do is make me a nervous wreck.
“Would you like me to show you the way?” He nods at the stairs.
“I think I can find it on my own.”
And I do—down fourteen steps, where I catch the scent of broccoli, down a short corridor rife with the scent of pinto beans, down a long corridor through which the scent of warm rolls wafts, and into an enormous kitchen bustling with activity.
A young woman wearing a hair net and a white apron is at my side in seconds. Pulling her gaze from my ominously dark hair, she says, “I’ll bet you’re Grace.”
I squelch the impulse to tuck my hair behind my ears. “That’s me.”
“Jack asked me to keep an eye out for you and direct you to the serving line.”
I look at the counters where volunteers are preparing food, then to stove tops with huge pots that are tended by yet more volunteers. “The serving line … as in out front?”
“Yes. You’ll be serving our guests. But first let’s put your purse away and get you a hair net and apron.”
As she starts past me, I lay a hand on her arm. “Don’t you need help back here?”
“We’ve got it under control.” She smiles. “Besides, Jack says you’re writing an article, so you’ll want a close look at what the soup kitchen is all about—the hungry.”
The ones I’m supposed to write about in such a way that others will be touched by their plight and all the more receptive to reaching out to them. But considering how uncomfortable I am, can I really do the article justice? Will it be as well received as the magazine’s other articles are according to the reader feedback I’m now handling?
Recalling an e-mail from a woman whose child was recently diagnosed with autism and who found comfort in an article that celebrated the blessings that children born with mental handicaps pour out on others, my nose tingles. Honestly, some of the letters and e-mails are so moving that I’ve had to accessorize my desk with a box of tissues. I never would have guessed that issues addressed from a Christian perspective could make such a difference in people’s lives.
“Ready?” prompts the young woman in the hair net.
Realizing I’ve been staring through her, I jerk my chin. “Yes. Uh, lead on.”
Though everyone is outfitted in hair nets and aprons, I feel self-conscious when I step from the kitchen and am greeted by Avery and half a dozen others from the singles’ Sunday school class. And more so when I catch sight of Jack as he leans back against the counter from which the meal will be served.
He’s a guy whose looks greatly benefit from hair. Not that he’s unattractive beneath the hair net. He just doesn’t rank as high.
He motions me forward. “I saved you a place.”
He shouldn’t have. I cross to his side and stare at a pan of carrots. Though I like them raw, I can’t stand them cooked. Would it be rude to ask if they provide surgical masks for those who are sensitive to odors?
“I was beginning to think you had changed your mind about volunteering … and the article.”
Did I ever. “Car trouble.” Not a lie. Regardless of who let the air out of my tire, it’s still car trouble.
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
“Nope.” In fact, I’m pretty sure my bicycle pump will get me out of my jam. I peer into Jack’s pan. And envy him. “So you get to serve mashed potatoes.”
“And gravy.” He nods at a smaller pan. “Unless you’d like to trade places?”
I would, but that would mean acknowledging his ability to read me. “I’m good with carrots.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
“You seem uptight.”
I give the carrots a stir. “Just a day that didn’t start off well.”
“Missing church can do that to you.”
Was that judgmental? “So will car trouble.” Our gazes lock.
“Will you need a ride home?”
For a stupid moment I feel a thrill, but accepting a ride from him would be a bad idea. “No, thank you. Have you seen Jem?”
“No. You’re expecting her?”
“I told her about the soup kitchen, and she said she might drop by and help.”
He consults his watch. “We serve for two hours, so there’s plenty of time for her to show.”
Somehow I don’t think she will. I look past Jack to the volunteers near the beginning of the food line, then to those near the end. “I thought we would be serving soup, and I don’t even see soup.”
He chuckles. “Today the entrée is some type of goulash; that’s Avery’s baby.” He nods at the man to his far right. “Sometimes it is just soup, but when donations are up, the church passes on the blessing.” He smiles crookedly. “Hardly gourmet to us, but it’s a feast to the men and women who’ll come through those doors any minute.”
Turns out “any minute” happens to be this minute. I don’t mean to stare, but when the homeless and hungry stream in, that’s all I can do.
“Get ready,” Jack says in my ear.
I whip my head around and there he is, almost close enough to kiss. Not that I’m thinking of anything like that at a time like this.
I avert my eyes, only to avert them again to avoid looking at the masses of homeless people descending upon us, which is the reason their scent—far stronger than what the outside breeze carried—reaches me before their faces.
Oh my.
Once more, Jack’s breath warms my ear. “They’re looking to you to represent Jesus to them.”
Me? What if I’m more in need than they?
Get ahold of yourself!
Okay. I can do this—an up-close-and-personal look at the plight of the less fortunate, according to Grandma, who is conspicuously absent. Bless her heart.
I glance down the line to where the homeless are converging upon us. People just like you. Sort of. Soon I have my first customer, a greasy old man who, at second glance, isn’t that old. Just tired and scruffy. When he passes on Jack’s mashed potatoes, Jack pushes his tray across the counter to me.
“Carrots?”
He wrinkles his nose, but as I start to pass his tray to the woman beside me, he says, “Yeah. Good for the eyesight.”
Eager to send him on his way—not that the painfully thin, dark-skinned man coming behind him is less daunting—I scoop up a portion of carrots.
He points to his eyes. “Some punk busted my glasses.”
“I’m sorry.” I deposit the carrots and push the plate on.
The dark-skinned man passes on the carrots but accepts a scoop of corn on a plate so full it ought to hang a No Vacancy sign. He must be really hungry. Of course, this may be the first meal he’s had in days. Or longer.
“Jack?”
“Hmm?” He ladles gravy over mashed potatoes.
“What about second helpings? Can they come back if they’re still hungry?”
He passes the plate to me. “If there’s enough food.”
I look to the squat woman whose weight contrasts sharply with the man who came before her. “Carrots?”
She wipes the back of a hand across her dripping nose, leans forward to peer into my pan, and begins to cough. Fortunately, there’s an acrylic barrier between her and the food. Unfortunately, if her germs decide to go out and greet the world, I could be their next target.
She waves a hand, and as she trudges to the next offering, I release my breath.
“You all right?”
I nod in Jack’s direction. “Um-hmm.” Not really, but I will get through this.
“It gets easier. Before you know it, you’ll be smiling and greeting them.”
Is that what he’s doing? Have I been so caught up in my adventure in discomfort that I missed what was going on beside me?
Sure enough, he greets the next one in line, a man who wears what appears to have been a very nice business suit. Years ago. Or, on the streets, perhaps months ago.
“I’m good,” the man says, “especially now that I’ve got this fine meal to look forward to. Thanks.” He smiles with teeth that seem intact and only moderately yellowed. “I’ll take some carrots, miss.”
“Certainly.” My smile feels only partly fake as I scoop and pass on his plate.
Next in line is a man whose wild tangle of hair sticks out all over, gnarly beard evidences his last meal, and scent threatens my gag reflex. As Jack greets him, I lean down and draw a deep whiff of the steam rising off the carrots. A glorious, if tinny, aroma that offends me no more. So much in life is relative.
And so they come. Some are exactly what one expects a homeless person to be—ragtag, dirty, drunk, high, and emitting odors for which it’s best not to ponder the source. Others are less stereotypical. In fact, at first glance, some simply appear to be availing themselves of a free meal. On second glance, I notice frayed hemlines, dirty wrists above hands that have been washed, teeth in need of brushing, and eyes that reflect loss, desperation, and emptiness. Stereotypical or not, nearly all of them clutch their plates like treasures as they make their way to tables set throughout the enormous cafeteria.
“The name’s Iris,” says a middle-aged woman with a southern drawl.
Ridiculous as it is, I’m jolted at being given a name to go with a face. Of course, they all have names, just like me, but this makes it more personal. And moving.
My throat tightens. “It’s nice to meet you, Iris. My name’s Grace.”
Her eyes sparkle. “A fitting name. Um-hmm. Just right.”
No, it isn’t, but in that moment I wish it were. “Would you like some carrots, Iris?”
“Oh yes. They look delicious, all nice and orange and piping hot.” She sniffs the air. “And do they smell good!”
I draw a breath myself. Yes, they do smell pretty good. I scoop a portion onto her plate.
“Bless you, dear.”
I smile. “Why, thank you. And, uh, bless you back.”
She looks to the ceiling and shakes her head in wonder. “That God does. Over and over.”
But she’s homeless.
“Gives me a new day every mornin’. Keeps me safe on them mean streets. Provides rest when I’m tired. Keeps me company. And when I’m hungry and can’t handle one more day of garbage can scraps, He goes and puts you here to feed me.” She grins. “That’s blessed.”
I’m feeding her? Strange, but I have a feeling that she’s feeding me.
As she moves on, I notice she does so with a limp. Her bulky sweater, which ought to be too hot for early May, has large holes in it. And her hand, the one with which she taps the glass to indicate she’d also like a serving of corn, is an angry red. A burn? Some kind of rash? Regardless, it looks painful. And yet she smiles at each server and lets them know how blessed she is for their kindness.
How does she do that? How does she thank God for her desperate situation, a situation that makes my problems seem nonexistent?
“Pretty powerful, hmm?” Jack’s eyes shine with compassion. Can it be found in my own?
He returns to his mashed potatoes. “It certainly puts things in their proper perspective.”
My next customer is a young man who looks perfectly normal until I tune in to the conversation he’s having with himself. Actually, an argument. He wants carrots, but he does not.
“Maybe just a small scoop?” I suggest.
He smiles, then sneers and lunges forward in line.
