A Ministry Thanksgiving

The street ministry offered an early Thanksgiving meal. I worked the sign-in sheet and poured sparkling cider. That someone in charge planning this meal thought to serve sparkling cider said everything decent and caring about them. It was such a sublimely simple gesture but felt so much more powerful to me. Simple gestures usually are. You can build something concrete with a foundation of simple gestures, You can rebuild a person with them. One person at a time.

I served and observed. I heard incredible stories I can't reveal. The stories spoke of hope and reclamation, of aspiration and renaissance.

Have you ever seen a person try to say, “Thank you” but the person was so exhausted he couldn't say it?”

I have now after this morning of volunteering.

My shift was up. There was a little drama with a couple of the clientele, but no more so than you might encounter in a typical junior high classroom.

It was time for my turn in line and load up on the Thanksgiving fixins! Did I dare go with the green bean casserole? I dared.

Did I dare go with the lime-green Jello salad with shredded beets and carrots? No, because it wasn't available. Next year, I guarantee it will be. I'll get my mother to make it!

I found a seat at a crowded table. The table was covered with a vinyl orange tablecloth and special Turkey-emblazoned napkins. I sat down with my plate of food and cup of sparkling cider. I dug in and listened to the conversations.

A man sat across from me at an angle. As I ate, I caught glimpses of his creased face as he ate in a deliberate manner, almost slow motion. He never said a word to anyone around him. I asked him how it was going today and he barely uttered a response of okay.

I left him alone, but I sneaked a glance at him every now and then. Something detonated in my mind. The man's face was the spitting image of a beloved former student, a rebel rocker from the wild open mic lunches in my classroom.

It was him! No, it couldn't be! He was too young. He wasn't from around here. This face was ravaged by drug use. He'd hadn't abused drugs when I taught him.

The man hadn't recognized me. That was the clincher. It wasn't him. Surely he would have recognized his former English teacher and fellow band mate who played a lot or rock and roll shows together at school.

Maybe he didn't recognize me because he couldn't anymore.

I left the mystery alone and returned to my meal. It was winding down when a volunteer rolled out the dessert cart and announced: apple or pumpkin pie with a blast of Reddi-wip if so desired.

The room came alive. The man across from me did not.

I heard another man ask if there was rhubarb pie. He was told no. I heard him say under his breath, Grammy made the best rhubarb pie at Thanksgiving.

He went with the pumpkin and two hits of Reddi-wip. He was smiling as I saw him attack the pie.