Meals for the Homeless

Last evening about 15 of us from our church, Bloomfield Hills Baptist Church, went to Star Presbyterian Church in Royal Oak to help serve dinner to the homeless people sheltering there.  We made our way from the dark parking lot, up the stairs, past a few men standing outside, huddled in heavy coats, smoking, laughing.  Inside, we were directed to the church library to drop our coats, get name tags, and register.  From there we were directed to the very warm kitchen where 4 very large pots steamed and simmered on the industrial size stove.  Chicken noodle soup, carrots, corn.  And in the ovens at least 10 pans of lasagna.

Within a few minutes we had rolled up sleeves, washed our hands and picked a task.  Merry and I ladled soup into plastic bowls, set them on trays on a small metal cart, and others began rolling them out to the dining area.  Others dug into pans of lasagna and ladled them onto plates.  In the next minute men and women began streaming past the serving area.  Mostly men.  A handful of women.  They smiled as they picked plates sagging under the weight of generous servings.  There were heartfelt thank you’s, mumbled thanks, “a little more please.”  The food went fast, and within an hour most of the food was gone or nearly so.  That was our cue to uncover the trays of cookies and carry them out.  Some smiled, some asked can I have two?  Some took handfuls.  Others passed, being too full from dinner.  As I circulated, I heard, dessert?  And table service?  There was quiet laughter.  Some asked, what’s in those, pointing to the chocolate macadamia cookies.  Others asked for oatmeal, which we didn’t have.  Some made eye contact, others seemed shy, affects flat, turned inward.

I came to the last table and a large man with beautiful deep dark skin, like really strong coffee.  His beard was short, gray.   His hair covered with a stocking cap.  He looked up at me with a smile.  Saw my name tag.  “Charles in charge.” He said.   I laughed.  “I’ve never heard that before.”  He met my smile with his own, gleaming teeth white in the dark oval of his care worn face.  “My name’s Charles too,” he said.  “That’s a good name, my man.”  I said.  I extended my hand.  “Nice to meet you Charles” I said.  He looked up and took my hand in his, large, dry rough like one hard solid callus.  He squeezed ever so gently and briefly.  “Nice to meet you too.”  I held out the tray of cookies.  He helped himself to a few and looked back down at his plate.  “Thank you,” he said.  “You’re welcome.”

Something moved in me right then.  I turned away with tears welling up and a peculiar feeling in my chest. 

How can one ever know how our lives will turn, how grace will lift us, how what we have is more needed by someone else and so we give it away.  There was a roomful of men and women settling down on thin rubber mats, pulling blankets up over jeans and boots.  Probably 25 or so.  Some looked like my idea of the chronically homeless.  Slightly shabby, withdrawn.  Others were better dressed, even a bit of jewelry, make up.  A couple looked like they’d once been, maybe only a few weeks ago, steady, employed, clean shaven, well spoken, with 4 walls around them in a place that they called home. 

I went back into the kitchen and helped clean up.  We chatted with the pastor of Star and our pastor, Dr. McKay.  We watched diners return for more coffee. Reflected on the opportunity to serve those less fortunate than ourselves, and how many of them showed such genuine gratitude. 

There but for the grace of God go I, I thought.  We made our way to the library, retrieved our coats.  Accepted thanks from church staff and made our way outside.  There, bundled against the 20 degree chill, half a dozen men, smoked, chatted quietly.  I asked if they’d gotten enough to eat. 

Oh yes, said one.  We kept walking, bundled into the car, backed out around mounds of snow 4-5 feet tall, and turned for home. 

Tonight Merry and I had lasagna.  We sat in the carpeted family room, filled up on salad and pasta, a small glass of wine, then cookies for dessert.  And I thought of a homeless man named Charles. 

Maybe he’s still at Star Presbyterian.  Maybe he moved on.  But I hope he’s warm.  I hope others, like Merry and I, are blessed to reach out to him with the abundance that we have been given, and thus bless him.  I hope he’s safe.

Charles in charge. 

It was nice to meet you Charles.