This past Sunday I spent a good part of the morning at the Manna Soup Kitchen in Durango. I had been invited there by a couple I had not previously met, by the name of Jim & Nancy Sanderson. Jim and Nancy have worked for many years with the poor and dispossessed. They have even been known to grab their sleeping bags and some food and camp out with folks who have found themselves without a home. Someone gave them my name because that person thought my vision of the church and that of the Sanderson’s were very similar. Upon hearing of their journey, I felt horribly inadequate in regard to the comparison.
I arrived at the Soup Kitchen to help cook breakfast. I was greeted at the door by a young teenage girl. She told me I needed to put on an apron and to go and wash my hands. Later I heard her remark that gum chewing wasn’t allowed in the kitchen. I later found out that this young lady was one of Jim and Nancy’s granddaughters who helps each week with cooking and serving food. She then instructed me to open cans of chunky fruit and pour them into a large silver bowl. After mastering the commercial can opener – which I did in less than two minutes – I then completed the assigned task in about a minute. Three minutes total. Now what? The young lady was a buzz of activity as she put the final touches on the breakfast burritos and she didn’t appear to need my help. So, I went scrounging for some coffee.
Somewhere into my first sip, granddaughter number two appeared – a bespectacled eight year old. She said that I could come and help her wash the “cooking” dishes. When we got to the sinks, she was very distressed to find that her wooden step stool had gone missing. After a brief search of the premises, I found it in the storage room. My new supervisor then began to instruct me on how to wash dishes. I found out the following: it takes at least a half bottle of Dawn for one skillet, that drying is optional, and that it is fun to operate the powerful automatic dishwasher. She showed me how to place a tray into the dishwasher and then pull the large lever down. In thirty seconds or so, the dishes came out clean. On one load, she even let me pull the lever. She was right, it was fun.
After that, she announced that we could go join the customers for breakfast. By this time a pretty good crowd of folks were shuffling through the line and taking their seats in the dining room. For some reason, I was a little self-conscious. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to talk to people or leave them alone. So, I found a lonely spot at the end of a long table and chose to eat in silence. At the far end of my table sat a very skinny man – perhaps around forty years – with sunken cheeks and slicked back hair. Across the table from him was a rather pretty young lady, maybe in her thirties. They both looked very tired and sad.
My monastic moment was interrupted when a rough looking man plopped his plated burrito down in front of me. He had tattoos across his knuckles. He stared at me. I stared back and gave a little half smile. Before I could say something stupid like: “So, where do you live? Where do you work? Where did you go to college?” I felt a whir of activity to my immediate right. My eight year old supervisor had taken the place next to me and was handing out sticky notes and colored pencils to rough man and me. She asked us to draw her some pictures. Seizing the moment, I proceeded to draw her a picture of a…….rough man! She squealed with delight and held the picture up for my neighbor to see. “Egads – What was I thinking?” I decided on the spot to change to the animal kingdom and drew a quick sketch of a dog. She was equally excited with this effort and began to urge the rough man to draw a picture. Finally, he picked up a pencil, and on the little sticky note he began to slash away. In a few seconds he presented to our side of the table a picture of a very passable elephant. Then he spoke. I fully expected to hear deep gravel - a Slingblade type of voice. Instead, a very kind and gentle voice said, “Elephants are my daughter’s favorite.” With those few words I heard pain, love, longing, and regret.
The enthusiasm that was fidgeting at my right somehow helped me to keep my peace. Normally, I would have asked this man about his daughter which, more than likely, would have unleashed a fury of a sad tale. But no, not on this day. To countenance and rehearse pain in the midst of the incredible wonder and joy to my immediate right seemed somehow out of place –perhaps even unholy. On this day I would sit and marvel at the Holy Spirit’s condescending ability to work through every molecule of an available eight year old. The moment of pain passed and the rough man and I smiled and shared together this moment of grace.
I arrived at the Soup Kitchen to help cook breakfast. I was greeted at the door by a young teenage girl. She told me I needed to put on an apron and to go and wash my hands. Later I heard her remark that gum chewing wasn’t allowed in the kitchen. I later found out that this young lady was one of Jim and Nancy’s granddaughters who helps each week with cooking and serving food. She then instructed me to open cans of chunky fruit and pour them into a large silver bowl. After mastering the commercial can opener – which I did in less than two minutes – I then completed the assigned task in about a minute. Three minutes total. Now what? The young lady was a buzz of activity as she put the final touches on the breakfast burritos and she didn’t appear to need my help. So, I went scrounging for some coffee.
Somewhere into my first sip, granddaughter number two appeared – a bespectacled eight year old. She said that I could come and help her wash the “cooking” dishes. When we got to the sinks, she was very distressed to find that her wooden step stool had gone missing. After a brief search of the premises, I found it in the storage room. My new supervisor then began to instruct me on how to wash dishes. I found out the following: it takes at least a half bottle of Dawn for one skillet, that drying is optional, and that it is fun to operate the powerful automatic dishwasher. She showed me how to place a tray into the dishwasher and then pull the large lever down. In thirty seconds or so, the dishes came out clean. On one load, she even let me pull the lever. She was right, it was fun.
After that, she announced that we could go join the customers for breakfast. By this time a pretty good crowd of folks were shuffling through the line and taking their seats in the dining room. For some reason, I was a little self-conscious. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to talk to people or leave them alone. So, I found a lonely spot at the end of a long table and chose to eat in silence. At the far end of my table sat a very skinny man – perhaps around forty years – with sunken cheeks and slicked back hair. Across the table from him was a rather pretty young lady, maybe in her thirties. They both looked very tired and sad.
My monastic moment was interrupted when a rough looking man plopped his plated burrito down in front of me. He had tattoos across his knuckles. He stared at me. I stared back and gave a little half smile. Before I could say something stupid like: “So, where do you live? Where do you work? Where did you go to college?” I felt a whir of activity to my immediate right. My eight year old supervisor had taken the place next to me and was handing out sticky notes and colored pencils to rough man and me. She asked us to draw her some pictures. Seizing the moment, I proceeded to draw her a picture of a…….rough man! She squealed with delight and held the picture up for my neighbor to see. “Egads – What was I thinking?” I decided on the spot to change to the animal kingdom and drew a quick sketch of a dog. She was equally excited with this effort and began to urge the rough man to draw a picture. Finally, he picked up a pencil, and on the little sticky note he began to slash away. In a few seconds he presented to our side of the table a picture of a very passable elephant. Then he spoke. I fully expected to hear deep gravel - a Slingblade type of voice. Instead, a very kind and gentle voice said, “Elephants are my daughter’s favorite.” With those few words I heard pain, love, longing, and regret.
The enthusiasm that was fidgeting at my right somehow helped me to keep my peace. Normally, I would have asked this man about his daughter which, more than likely, would have unleashed a fury of a sad tale. But no, not on this day. To countenance and rehearse pain in the midst of the incredible wonder and joy to my immediate right seemed somehow out of place –perhaps even unholy. On this day I would sit and marvel at the Holy Spirit’s condescending ability to work through every molecule of an available eight year old. The moment of pain passed and the rough man and I smiled and shared together this moment of grace.
(PS Any PC folks who wish to help in the soup kitchen, please give me a call. I will be cooking there every other Sunday).
4 comments:
What a wonderful experience! Its sounds to me like you had a bit of a Peter moment there! This so reminds me of when the Lord said suffer the little children unto Me, for such is the kingdom of God. What a precious way to spend the day soaking up God's blessings, and the richness of his love. Thank you for sharing your grace moment. Good stuff!
The beauty of serving - which so many people just don't get - is that the server winds up being served as well. When we reach out to others, God always reaches out to us....
i think it's funny the abbreviation of Patrick Crossing is PC, considering that acronym's other meaning. it seems you strive for something inclusive, not "correct." maybe you can call it PatCro or PCross...appeal to your rapper following. ooh--even better--pronounce it PCross, but spell it PX. that's very cutting edge. ;)
ps. posting a comment = too easy
Post a Comment