My sister and I had battled, again, the night before over something insignificant. And I was awake most of the night alternately seething with anger and frustration or grieving the gaping hole that seems to be dividing us of late. Hurting, and still trying to understand our loss, we are too often hurting those dear to us instead of offering each other succor.
She was right to think that I would want to participate in this volunteer project -- but through the night I considered telling her I wouldn't go as I tossed and turned. In the morning, the sun was bright but the air was cold, and we didn't review the night's bitterness. We just walked into the dining hall -- donned our aprons, hairnets and nametags.
It took me a while to survey the scene and start to catalog the kinds of volunteers that were gathered in the large hall, professionally appointed as though it were the dining hall of a company rather than a shelter. It had been decorated with green and red table cloths, silver/glittery snowflake cutouts and menu announcements. The plates, arranged professionally, carefully stored in hot boxes while a line of volunteer chefs, in restaurant wear donated from various places, waited to serve up more.
There was the large group from my sister's company all in yellow t shirts, and the crew that works at CC, and others volunteers in couples, families, groups and some singletons. In my section (4-red) there was one family with three generations represented. There were also several couples and a few singletons. The three of us singletons huddled at first, but soon got to know the others in our group in our 45 minute wait for the doors to open.
Over the course of the morning, one young man who thought I worked at his company (I was wearing the t shirt after all) told me he wished there were more opportunities like this. He was genuinely and earnestly overwhelmed by the connection to others this kind of volunteering provided. Others told me about getting on the list early to not miss out on serving on Christmas -- or having just done so on Thanksgiving. One chef told me he doesn't have to sign up anymore, he's a regular.
I imagine the families that brought their children wanted them to see and connect with what Christmas might mean beyond presents. I know Dylan (our "12" year old water deliverer) responded to my question about how many Christmas gifts he'd received, "Two so far..." It seems his family had planned to do that part of Christmas after spending four hours volunteering -- and he was doing it with gusto and really good cheer. His mother reported he was moving as fast as he could to deliver the water, and with each bottle a fast and cheery, "Merry Christmas!" After serving almost 200 meals in our section alone, he was looking wilted when I offered him some water. He perked up and ran back to work after his grandma saw him taking a break.
The volunteer coordinator had admonished all to "look every diner in the eye" and welcome them. I don't know if Dylan needed that admonition -- or any of the other volunteers for that matter -- but it was a good reminder that this gift is not just charity to a faceless person. It is a gift of life, self, time, love, and connection between human beings.
Hours had passed before I realized that these were the happiest hours I have had in a long time. I was enjoying random chatting with diners and volunteers alike. I don't know if it was the single purpose of the job, or the feeling that the room was generating, but there it was - Christmas spirit. There is something pure in giving of yourself, especially when there isn't any expectation of reciprocation.
But these folks had reciprocated in spades -- my sister told me that at her recycling and trash station, several diners had gone down the line thanking each volunteer for being there. Many of the diners I served, stopped to look directly in my eyes and thank me for being there. They said they knew how much work this was. Others responded to my chatting and hand on their shoulders with wide smiles and witty retorts or short glimpses into their lives and challenges.
I should have thanked them... looking into their eyes, witnessing their struggle and their strength helped me gain a perspective that seemed to creep up from my feet. Perhaps it wouldn't have been appropriate to tell them about my loss and how this time with them was filling the hole.
It's important to celebrate these bright spots, maybe it will help me to find more.
I need to give Steve Lopez a shout out here -- I hadn't planned to share this story (I have so many drafts in the hopper). But I was easing into my work by reading the paper online and decided to catch up on Lopez's columns.
I got about three paragraphs into this piece on Skid Row and the movie, Lost Angels, when tears were streaming down my face. I knew it was more than just the beauty of the story he was relating. A few minutes later I was half way into this story -- and debriefing for myself this lovely experience.
I recommend the article -- it offers an important and impressive view of mental illness, the value and import of making real, human connection, and reminds us all that "there but by the grace of god." Lopez, as always, shares their stories articulately and with an acute sense of their humanity and ours. Looking forward to seeing Lost Angels! From their website:
Narrated by actress Catherine Keener, LOST ANGELS demonstrates how proactive approaches to homelessness–most specifically that of providing housing–are helping many to recover from mental illness and substance abuse and to find stability. For many, Skid Row is, improbably, the last place to find refuge and build a life of meaning, proving that sometimes home is where the help is.
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