Help Feed the Hungry

On Easter Sunday, I took my children to an Episcopal Church downtown for a nice Easter lunch. I have an aunt that lives across the street from this church in a low income housing high-rise apartment. She is mentally handicapped and although she works, she will never be able to totally support herself financially. Her and I and the kids always spend holidays together. This year, I did not have the time, energy or money to cook. I skipped the whole egg/basket scene because each of the kids had an opportunity to do those activities while on spring break at grandma's. They were disappointed, but did not complain much.

On a normal Sunday morning, I try to drag my kids to church with me, because I really like going. My 6 yr old son used to go, but now he, too, has refused. So, this particular Easter Sunday morning, I tell them I do not care what you wear!!!!!!! We are going!!!!!!! Cuz I am the mom!!!!! Cuz I said so!!!!!!!!!!!!! etc., etc...

We pick up my aunt and begin walking towards the church. It is raining, none of us brought coats. The girls are in short skirts and flip-flops, my son jeans and myself in a skirt and jacket, although the pink of the shirt and the pink of the jacket do not compliment each other, I wasnt worried cuz old people don't care. The Epicopaleans ( I was raised Episcopal) are leaving the church all bundled up and umbrellaed against the cold and wet. I already feel out of place. The children are getting soaked and are shivering.

We walk to the door the boasts a sign "Help Feed the Hungry" and step inside. The first thing I notice is the reek of stale cigarette smoke. Then I notice the layers and layers of clothes each person is wearing, then I notice they are all men. There is not another child anywhere. As we walk down the line past around 200 people to find the end, I am wonering what my children are thinking?? What am I thinking?? My aunt is not able to be aware of social situations that might make her uncomfortable. I am not about to cancel and walk out. My aunt invited us and the kids and I really are hungry!

We sit at a table and wait for all the others to file through the line to get their food. The volunteers are constantly bringing the kids water, juice and milk. They are very, very kind but you can see in their eyes they feel sorry for us. Do I tell them I have an apartment? I am not homeless, just poor and yes, struggling. The words do not come. Am I now ashamed that I do have a place to live? The children and I get in line, the volunteers heap food on the childrens plates (it was really very good!) and then come around with pie. My little six year old shyly asks for more milk please. The gentleman replies they are out. A few minutes later, he hurries back and fills her glass to the rim with cold, sweet milk that he went to great lengths to find for this little girl. She is happy and drinks the whole glass in front of him. (Her third!) He is happy, too.

Their clothes and hair are dry, their bellies are full and their lips have returned to a rosy red from deep purple. As we are leaving some of the volunteers stop us. They want to send us home with boxes of left overs. They bring us meal tickets for a place downtown and shove them in my hand. "One free hot meal a day". They bring bottles of apple juice to take home. Then we are out in the rain and cold again walking my aunt home. We are stopped waiting for the cross walk, and a kind man in a very nice suite turns to my shivering six year old and asks, "Honey, are you ok?" Like she is being kidnapped or something. She gives a small nod of the head up and down. I think to myself, "She could have been more convincing".