Faith Renewed

Pick a random Tuesday on the calendar and you'll likely find me at Hollywood United Methodist Church. There's no worship service that day. In fact, the door to the sanctuary is locked on Tuesday. Instead, you'll find me in the small kitchen off the parlor. Or in the parlor. Or in the breezeway right inside the gates. I'll be unpacking little bottles of mouthwash or making sack lunches with all five ingredients or bagging Dollar Store cookies (do not mix the vanilla and chocolate, thank you very much).

And then when 11am comes, you'll find me opening the gates, surrounded by a handful of other volunteers, and welcoming in our guests. And it's hectic. For the first thirty to sixty minutes we go full out. Sometimes I don't remember seeing a late volunteer sneak past me in the gateway. I don't register the sun burning my cheeks or the flies buzzing our heads. But I do register the people who walk through the gates.

I'm usually the gatekeeper. The person who has the clipboard. Our guests sign in (with their name or any name), so we can keep track of numbers and control traffic flow. Then I ask them what they'd like for lunch and which fruit they'd prefer. I try to look each person in the eye when I talk to them. I ask them how they are or tell them how good it is to see them. I modulate my voice to theirs. If they're soft-spoken, so am I. I lean in. I ask the questions twice. I wait patiently for their slow responses. Or maybe I have to address my friend three guests back who is already asking me about my Detroit teams or wanting to know how my web series is going. But I am considerate. I always refocus on the person in front of me.

I'm not telling you this for applause or an atta girl. I'm telling you this because the folks I interact with on Tuesdays at our church's homeless lunch program are people. They are the same as you and they are definitely the same as me. They are individuals who have personalities and interests and preferences and loves and hearts and stories. Oh do they have stories. And those hearts I mentioned, they're there. And they're big and their bright and they're broken, just like mine.

This last week I was at church on Tuesday morning. We had a much smaller volunteer crew than normal. But we were doing the work, we were busy, we were all in. And there were extra cases of water to fetch and bigger plastic bags to track down and a particular size of used pants to find and reminders of take just two pieces of clothing please to say a little louder (thank goodness for my teacher voice). But the regular guests come through and this is their time to spend with us and they don't let us forget that. They make jokes. (Yes, I say chicken tuna too fast for lunch options and one little older woman who barely speaks English likes to remind me she always wants chickentuna for lunch with a twinkle in her eye). They call me by name, which when I think about it makes me want to burst out in tears. They know me. They know who I am.

And that's when Michael comes through the gate. We've gotten through our line in about forty minutes. We're taking a breath. We can say hi to the new volunteers and assess our need to restock crackers and sardines. But Michael is there. And he's been there for the eleven years I've been there. Even now that he stays up in Pasadena, which is a HIKE, he rides his bike down the hill to us. He gets a lunch, checks out the extras, and then chats. Michael likes to talk and even more he likes to laugh and make us laugh. I know he's talented with a needle and thread and I go inside to check for sewing kits. I thought I had some socked away and can't find them. And another volunteer jumps in and finds one in a donation bag. I hand it over to Michael and he beams, saying how did you know? And I remind him that I've known him forever and I've seen his handiwork and he ducks his head and says aw shucks. Yea, Michael actually say aw shucks. I'm guessing his upbringing in his Spanish speaking home included some black and white television shows.

And then Michael heads for his bike. But he stops and yells back, hey did you get to DC this summer? And I tell him I did. And he asks questions about my trip and if I took pictures and if my parents in Michigan went and if my sister is still teaching. And I feel loved. I feel seen. I feel heard. And that's what I'm supposed to be doing for Michael but he's doing it for me and suddenly the world is brighter and better and I feel my heart soften to mush.

Michael rides off and I already look forward to seeing him sometime again in the winter when he makes the trek back down the hill to see us. I know he can get a lunch up there. He doesn't take clothes from us. He comes to see us. And I am oh so glad to see him and know my friend is doing alright.

And then before Michael's even past the sidewalk I see Francis. Francis who has housing now after years of struggle. I'm not saying the struggle isn't still happening but struggling with a roof over one's head is a start toward a better life, if you ask me and Francis. He comes in and he has a Ziplock bag in his hand. And I wonder what's about to happen. I've been doing mending for Francis for years. He found out I can sew and now he brings me (always properly washed and folded and sometimes ironed) cashmere sweaters and jackets and beautiful shirts that just need a little care. He asks me in advance and we set a date on the calendar and then he brings me the mending. And I do it the next night even though he's sure it must take me days to complete. So I wonder today what this Ziplock is all about...

But it's not for me. See, another lunch guest, Rodney, is our resident extra security guard/Mrs. Kravitz. He doesn't miss a thing. He comes in about halfway through lunch every week and takes a seat on one of the chairs designated for supplies and he watches. And he asks questions. And he wants to tell us stories and talk news and flirt with some of our volunteers. Rodney has a speech impediment that makes his questions and stories hard to understand and sometimes we have to gather a group together to decipher his comments but he's patient with us and we get there. Every single time. (Once I saw Rodney's sister come to get him to go to lunch and he told her he couldn't go until lunch was over at 1pm. This cemented for me how important our time with Rodney is to him.)

So back to the Ziplock. Francis says he was wearing a t-shirt last week with the Death Row Records logo on it. I remembered. Angela was volunteering with us and Rodney had mentioned the t-shirt. He wanted to know where Francis, an older white English man, had gotten the shirt. Francis had picked it up at Goodwill one day. Rodney, a black Los Angeles native, seemed satisfied with that answer. Their encounter was brief and unremarkable. They don't chat much, if ever, and I'd filed the encounter away.

But then Tuesday Francis said he wanted to give the t-shirt, which he'd laundered and ironed, to Rodney. I said he was there so I walked Francis over to Rodney's chair. And I prayed an honest to God prayer that this encounter would go well. That Rodney would be accepting. Because I've seen some of our guests interact with each other and it's not always friendly. Several other volunteers were gathered near and later we talked about how we all momentarily held our breath.

But what happened made me burst into tears later that evening when I recounted the story to Angela. When Francis handed the Ziplock over to Rodney, the smile on Rodney's face was enormous. I'm not sure I've ever seen him smile so big. And Francis seemed so pleased, in his quiet English way. And then Rodney told him thank you and his voice was as clear and loud as I'd ever heard it and honestly, my faith in everything was renewed right that second.

I know I'm a broken record and not just in this blog post. These folks I meet and see on Tuesday give me so much. So so much. It's a community. It's a place to forget all that doesn't matter for a few moments and just be with people. Yes, the homeless problem in Los Angeles is out of control and mismanaged and killing people. Yes, we need to do so much more. But on Tuesdays when I'm in that breezeway on the corner of Franklin and Highland, I'm renewed. I think things can get better, I am reminded that I am human, and so is everyone else. And that they matter, and I matter, and I am renewed. (Mind you some weeks I am broken down and exhausted and brought to tears and anger but that's another post for another day, today I am focusing on this part.)

To be renewed. That's what I wish for you every day. That's what I wish for all of us. For myself. That as this year wraps up, as this decade wraps up, as we look forward to this next year that we are all renewed. Whether it's by a kind word, a remembered name, a tin of sardines or a bottle of water or a pair of new socks, we find renewal and faith in humankind. Faith in ourselves. Faith in others. Faith above all else. Faith that we can continue. And we will.