July 22, 2016

This was the second week I volunteered at St. Gregory’s Food Pantry. I ripped bananas into bunches of 3 or 4, organized the bread items, and handed out the most popular item: the Bok choy. Edmund did not want to be on the Bok choy handing out duty because he doesn’t like having to tell people that they can only have one and he doesn’t like telling people that they can’t pick out their own. Elena assigned me to the honorable task of being the Bok choy police. I did a fine job but did break down a time or two and hand out more than one bunch when someone was really begging or I didn’t want to haggle any more. Mable, who speaks Cantonese and was my ally on cabbage said it was OK to give in to the really determined people because it wasn’t worth arguing over. I was grateful she was standing near me.

Interestingly the same volunteers from last week were there today. I love this mix of people that form community on Fridays for six hours in the sanctuary of a beautiful sun-lit church. They are what I image Christ would define as community—no two people are alike and they choose to act together for the greater good of the broader city in which they live, and despite differences, they choose to be here together and to care for and nurture one another.

There is a homeless man that talks to me about Malcolm X, Queen Elizabeth I, Star Trek, and the movie Oh Brother Where Art Thou, and today he told me about how he liked to fry his baloney as a kid as we checked out the free baloney and cheese slices the pantry had to give away today. There is a young man that once you talk to him he never stops talking. When I told Sara that I thought he was great, she told me that he drives people crazy all over the city but that he really just needs something to do, so everyone at the food pantry puts him to work and he is happy. Today he helped me pile up my Bok choi and sop up some coffee I spilled. There are several Ukrainian immigrants, one or two volunteers that only speak Spanish, a few fluent in Cantonese or Mandarin, several white Americans, some Filipino men, a woman from Ghana, and others that I can’t remember at the moment. There are several children that helped me break banana bunches today and who give me hugs when I see them.

In a very short period of time I have grown very fond of all of these friends. I hesitated to type the word friends because perhaps it is too early to classify our relationship that way, but when I went to type the word “people” it felt much too impersonal for the conversations we have had, the recipes we have shared, and the stories we have told about our lives and loved ones. They are not just “people” they are dear ones, they are gentle souls and rough souls, they are hearts and hands that work and love and hand out food to people they don’t know. They are more than people, they are a community that has also taken me in and claimed me as their own. Many asked me today, “Where are your children?” They seem to have claimed them also and expected them to be there for our community meal, to unpack boxes, and to hand out food. When I explained to Valentina that they were in Los Angeles visiting family she told me, “You need to go. It is not good that you no go” (this is in a Ukrainian accent in case you can’t hear that while I’m typing).

When I read Scripture and imagine Christ eating with prostitutes, sinners, saints, tax collectors, Scribes, Pharisees, Mary, Martha, many women—all the people he was not expected to eat with, I imagine our Friday food pantry gatherings as a venue he would have been very pleased to attend. More than pleased in fact, he would be delighted, ecstatic, and joyful; Christ would dance and kiss our faces (like Rudy kisses mine) and he would smile and eat a good meal and tell a good story. Today I sat on a step next to Edmund and just listened while he told me story after story and I tuned out for a moment to imagine what it would have been like to be Mary at Jesus’ feet and to take it all in and feel full—full of good food, full of good company, full of companionship, full of grace, full of love. Perhaps each volunteer I met is Christ and all I need to do is listen. Listen, listen, listen…this sounds so easy, but it is not.

Why is it so hard to listen? I think it is because sometimes I don’t want to know things like someone doesn’t have a home and I can’t fix that, or someone doesn’t have a job and I can’t fix that. I pray for ears to listen…just listen.