July 15, 2016

My fingernails are orange and my hands stained with dirt from scooping handfuls of carrots into shopping bags for 300 people walking around the altar and gathering food for their physical needs at St. Gregory’s this afternoon. Sara, the one who started the food pantry 16 years ago, said that the sanctuary space is used for everything and about 700 people grace the sacred space each week. Elena and Benjamin likewise have stained fingers but in their case they scooped piles of Persian cucumbers into bags and wear the badge of green hands. We arrived at 8:30 to help set up and just jumped in and did whatever needed to be done—unpacking boxes of vegetables into a circle around the altar, breaking down boxes, moving crates, carting pallets away, and chatting with the other volunteers.

Rudy, an 86-year old Filipino immigrant, comes to help out every week and can be found sitting on the back patio sipping his coffee while breaking down boxes. Prior to jumping in, he attended the Morning Prayer service and greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and a warm smile. I sat on the patio for a while and broke down boxes while talking with him in his broken English about his life and then he kissed me on the cheek again when I took his photo. I wanted to ask if this was a Filipino custom, but I was not able to communicate with him very well in words, yet his kisses and kindness spoke volumes about his compassion and respect for a fellow volunteer. After we left, Benjamin said to me, “I really like Rudy. We talked.”

After all the initial set up was complete, the volunteers, somewhere in the ballpark of 25 or 30 people, sat down and shared a meal together prior to the guests arriving to pick up food. Kitchen volunteers show up each week to cook and serve a meal, which is for some the only cooked meal they will have that day. The first person we met was Edmund, who lives on the streets but comes faithfully every Friday at 8:00 AM to help set up and stays to the bitter end to help clean up. I noticed him talking with the dancing saints painted around the rotunda and asked him if he had a favorite. He said, “My favorite pair is Malcolm X right next to Queen Elizabeth I” and when I asked why he gave me a great history lesson about Queen Elizabeth I.

Before the guests arrived, the volunteers shopped for groceries and at first I was a little reluctant to participate because after all I could afford to go to the grocery store and buy food and most of the volunteers could do the same. As I watched them chat over the plums, roll melons around, and test the carrots and cucumbers by eating a few, something in me shifted from the privileged position of affording groceries to that of solidarity with all humanity that has a need for food to survive—it became not a privilege but a necessity and a way to connect with all humanity in that moment of hunger. I shopped for the few things that I thought we could eat in the next few days and had a great conversation with Rev. Paul over the size of the cucumbers and how they would make great fermented pickles. Food is my thing and despite not being in a grocery store or a restaurant or my own kitchen, I was in my element and I decided to embrace it.

My carrot station was set up right next to Elena and Benjamin’s cucumber station and we were sandwiched between Miranda on oranges and Valentina on apples. Miranda was fairly quiet and enjoyed watching Elena and Benjamin and commented on their funny antics and how they poked at each other. Valentina, an immigrant from Ukraine, was a bossy grandmotherly figure that kept a close eye on the kids and assertively told them how to do their job, which they dutifully listened to then turned away and had a good laugh with each other and looked at me as if to say, “Is she for real, mom?” She told me that I have very good kids and asked if I stayed at home with them and when I responded that I had for quite some time, she said, “That is why they are so good. It is because you were with them.”

Valentina told Benjamin that he could not play cards (he was practicing a magic trick) because it led to the road of darkness, and she told Elena that she could not lift anything heavier than 10 pounds because it would ruin her uterus and her babies would be born dead. We had a long talk in the car on the way home about the former Soviet Union’s ban on religion and the practice of religion in secret that led to the holding on of ancient traditions and superstitions and how we listened to and respected elders but that did not mean that we had to agree or follow advice. Elena bit her hand so hard to keep from laughing while Valentina spoke with her that she has bite marks that may need a week to heal. I have a feeling that Valentina will become fodder for tales of folklore in the Luna collection of family stories.   I have a photo of her with the kids and Rev. Paul photo bombing the picture, which, with his extreme tolerance, is quite an appropriate contrast to Valentina’s conservative/traditional messages. Both kids really enjoyed meeting Paul and Elena said, “Paul is nice, I’m glad we met him,” which is a huge compliment from the most discerning person I know.

Joe, a regular volunteer that kept on eye on all and refilled crates and broke down boxes as fast as we could empty them, came up to me three times and told me how hard my children worked and how impressed he was that they stuck with it for so long. I have to agree—I was quite proud of them as they did work hard, but they also interacted with the volunteers and guests and wove themselves into the fabric of the experience in colorful way that I did not expect. It is so nice when my children surprise me! At one point, Benjamin said, “I like this place, it’s nice. It’s fun to work here.” These simple words spoke volumes not about Benjamin but about the meticulous organization of the food panty and about the respect the volunteers meted out to Benjamin and Elena and their treatment of them as young adults capable of hard work.

Anthony, a young man that showed up to volunteer right before our lunch was talkative, funny, and entertained Benjamin with tricks and jokes. Susan, who speaks fluent Mandarin, was sitting at the table greeting guests as they arrived and since 90 percent of the guests are Chinese immigrants, mostly women, that don’t speak English, Susan is much appreciated and valuable volunteer. Valentina, and Elena, another Ukrainian volunteer (not my Elena), could be heard above the din speaking Ukrainian to the many Ukrainian immigrants that partially made up the other 10 percent of the guests along with white people, African Americans, and Latinos. Elena was one of the only other Elenas that we have ever met (the same name and spelling as my daughter) so I took their photo together, which pleased both Elenas.

As far as I could tell, Michael was the only employee of the Food Bank that was there to supervise our set up, implementation, and break down of the food pantry. The San Francisco Food Bank shows up every Friday morning with truckloads of fresh fruits and vegetables along with staples such as rice, beans, pasta, bread, and miscellaneous treats and drinks. There was very little left over when we ended at 3:00 PM. It was a very different experience from my volunteer work at my local food pantry, Valley Outreach, in Stillwater, which is a warehouse type building where clients shop much like they would in a grocery store. At St. Gregory’s the guests enter into Jesus’ home with a beautiful painting of him leading a dance above us while we feed each other and all this is done around the altar, that sacred space where Jesus feeds us the spiritual food of bread and wine. It was a holy experience, one that Elena, Benjamin and I will not forget.