Our Children are Paying Attention

He Is My Neighbor—so help me Jesus!

For going on three years now, Sally and I have been a part of a local endeavor to provide basic needs for people experiencing homelessness and food insecurity. The downtown Methodist church faithfully and sacrificially offers their facility on Tuesday and Friday mornings, along with Wednesday nights. Sally and I manage the kitchen on Wednesday nights.

In some ways, what we do is next to nothing, at least as concerns our own involvement. It’s one night out of each week where, along with a small group of “now” family, we come and serve this under-the-radar community of fellow humans. They are everyone and no one—like us and yet removed from us. Each has their own story to tell, their own cross to bear. Some have mental health concerns, others addictions, and some are simply wired in a way that puts them at adds with the society in which we live.

Food, Showers, Fresh Clothes, Mail

We feed them the best food we can. This is a matter of resolve with us. Our clients deserve to be served food that we would eat ourselves—the highest quality every night. And the word “serve” is especially important to us. We take their orders, ask their names, thank them for coming, use real plates and glasses and cups. Everyone of them, including those most difficult to understand, is treated with dignity and respect. And they notice this. Sally and I, along with those who serve with us, would say that we love our clients—and they love us too.

Grandchildren In The Kitchen

A few months back, two of our grandchildren came to help in the kitchen—Mahalia, 15 and Luciana, 10. Luci was happy to be there—she’s ten, what does she know? Maha? Not so much. She came in teary eyed and more than a bit put out. But she rallied. She jumped into taking orders from the folks gathered and she did so with a good spirit. I was proud of her. Later that evening she came up alongside of me and said, “Sorry for being so difficult earlier Papa. I didn’t want to be here. But now I’m glad I came.”

Fast Forward

Last night, our son Josh and his wife Nicoly, along with Maha and Luci went with us to downtown Holland for Tulip Time junk food—think deep fried Oreos. Our oldest granddaughter, Emma, works at a store on a busy corner on Holland’s main drag. We were going in to the store to say hello to her, and of course, buy something—grandparent’s duty.

As we were about to enter, someone rubbed my back. It was one of our regulars at Refresh, the name of our program on Wednesday nights. I’ll call him Mark. Now it’s important to note here that we are instructed not to approach clients on the street. It can be awkward for them. But here Mark reached out to me. He had a cigarette dangling from his lips, a backpack over his back, and a big grin.

“Hey,” I said. “Mark. You good?”

“Ah, you know, Marlin—so, so.”

“Did you eat?” I asked.

“Yeah, at the mission. I’m good.”

We chatted for another five minutes or so and then Mark moved on and so did I.

Maha Stayed in the Moment

An hour on so later, Mahalia sided up to me and asked, “Papa, was that one of the people you feed on Wednesday nights?”

“Yes, honey, his name is Mark.”

”That’s a good thing you and Nana do.”

”Thanks honey.”

“Papa?”

“Yes, honey?”

“I’m proud of you guys.”

Wow! Our children are watching us—all of us adults. And what are they seeing exactly? That’s the bigger question here.