day thirty-five: the homestretch

The straightaway on a track after the last curve, or the final stages of an undertaking, is called the "homestretch," as racers (or whomever) "stretch towards home."

I feel like our Lenten journey has entered the homestretch. We rounded the last turn. We're tired, but the finish line is ahead. We're in the homestretch.

This morning I volunteered at a place that feels like a home to me. I have two summers worth of memories there, walking the halls and working in the food pantry as an intern. And today, two of my former co-workers - Davida and Roz - played babysitter while I volunteered.

The packing list for each bag

The food pantry.
As you can see, there's plenty more room for donations (*cough* Donate food! *cough*)

I was a slow day and Suzy had to stay home this morning (not feeling well), so I only ended up staying for about an hour and a half. While there, I packed paper bags full of food for people in need. Our son, on the other hand, who had gone with me, never had the chance to do much of anything. The entire time he was held, played with, and loved by these two ladies.

Davida and Roz are special to Suzy and me. I told them when I was going to propose. We went by to show them the ring after we were engaged. They even came to our wedding! And now, the newest member of our family is as precious to them as they are to us.

It was a good reminder that I need to "stretch" my imagination of what "home" is. It is not just a building or a place to sleep. It is a community where you are loved and accepted, where you always feel welcomed and safe...and there are many more "homeless" in our world than just those who live on the streets.

Today, "home" for our son was in the arms of two middle-aged black women who work at a non-profit. "Home" for me was in an un-air conditioned room amidst thousands of non-perishable food items.

I know this idea of "home" seems like a stretch...

...it is.

day thirty-three: harvest(ing) hope

Hope can be difficult to cultivate. It's a delicate crop, one that's easily killed by frosty desperation or scorching fear. But the agency we donated to today has found a way to not only plant seeds of hope, but also to have those seeds grow...even to the point of cultivating the crop.

Jesus is the King of Kings, then Harvest Hope is the Food Pantry of Food Pantries. It is a food distribution center that helps stock food pantries of other organizations (e.g. United Ministries, the kitchen at the Rescue Mission, etc.).

And despite the name of the place, it doesn't seem very "organic" to drop off a box of food, and much less at a warehouse. When I did this morning, it felt so much like a transaction.

But maybe a box of Cheerios or a can of tuna could be a seed of hope for someone. After all, by the time a crop is ready to harvest, a lot has happened and it usually doesn't resemble the seed that was first planted - the seed has to germinate, take root, a shoot has to grow, then the crop has to bud and bear fruit.

As I dropped off this food, I thought of all it would go through: From the warehouse to different food pantries, then eventually to someone's home (or maybe to a homeless person's tent). Still, at the end of the process, maybe someone will be able to harvest a bit of hope from the seed we planted today.

The baby is ready to get this stuff out of the car...

They had me pull up to a loading dock...overkill for the two boxes of food we donated.

Finally! My car is empty! No more canned goods or water bottles!

day nineteen: country

Suzy's Grammy is "country as sin," as Suzy likes to say (although I don't know why sin would be associated with rural areas). And like most country folk, she's a different breed. Here's a little excerpt from Suzy's blog about the first time I met her Grammy:

     When I first took Greg to meet my Grammy, I walked into my grandparent’s home with Greg following behind me.  Grammy was on the back porch so I bee-lined to open the door for her to meet my sweet, new man.  Before I could tell her that I brought someone for her to meet, she blessed me with the funniest moment of my life.  Not noticing Greg, she started into“Hey Suzy….did you hear about my friend?  She has shingles all the way down her butt crack and straight up into her a-gina.”Yes, you read that right.  She calls a vagina an “A-gina”She also calls a penis a “Wobjanger,” but that’s a whole other story.     I awkwardly introduced Greg to her after he turned a shade of red saved only for these kind of moments.  I thought she would play it off, but oh no.  She then launched into“Hey Greg, glad you’re here…. Did you hear about my friend??”
She is one-of-a-kind.

Grammy with her great-grandson

As a child, Grammy only had shoes in the winter, and even those were made of canvas sewn together. The house she lived in growing up didn't have a true floor, just boards with gaps so wide that if you dropped a pencil, coin, etc., it was gone.

Grammy also volunteered for years at the North Greenville Food Crisis Ministry, where we donated food today. Suzy would go up there and help out when she wasn't in school or teaching, and then they'd always get hot dogs at the restaurant next door.

But Grammy has retired from volunteering and the restaurant has closed.

What hasn't changed, however, are the needs of the people who come to the NGFCM for assistance. Most of them have a deeply ingrained work ethic and hold blue-collar or labor intensive jobs, but can't make enough to meet their basic needs (even working for minimum wage...imagine that!). They've been hit harder than most in a bad economy. They are country folk, just like Grammy.

But she hasn't forgotten her roots. Having grown up in poverty, she grew to serve those still firmly in it's grip. She's modeled that kind of service for her granddaughter and great-grandson, and even for her grandson-in-law. Grammy has known God's blessings in her life - in her need and in her giving - even if she is "country as sin."

A sign on the door of the ministry
"May all who enter our doors know God's blessing, either in receiving during their time of need or give to those in crisis."

third sunday in lent

Friday was my birthday.

After our morning delivering Meals on Wheels (which you can read about here), Suzy gave me my present:

A framed collage of photos of family members holding Happy Birthday signs, posing in food pantries with their donations.

She had planned this for weeks, getting my family and hers to take the money they would have spent on a gift that I didn't really need, and instead to donate food to United Ministries and other food pantries. And not just donate food, but deliver the food, see the facilities, meet the people. Even Suzy's German sister, who's only in the country for a couple of weeks, participated.

I know it sounds overly pious and cheesy to say this, but I did not care one bit that this was my only present. It was all I needed, to know that about 100 people could be given a bag of food, and all because the people that closest to me care enough to care for others.

Fast forward to that night...

Suzy knows that to show how much she cares for me, all she has to do is take me out to eat at a fancy restaurant (I'm easy like that). I've eaten some amazing meals at some really nice restaurants in major cities in the US, but my birthday dinner Friday night topped 'em all.

Suzy and I went to American Grocery, my favorite restaurant in town. It's a farm-to-table restaurant serving American seasonal cuisine, owned by a husband (the chef) and wife (the sommelier). The food is outstanding, and the atmosphere was made for me. The exposed brick walls, unfinished woods, and dish-towel linens, balanced with the industrial-style ceiling and contemporary accents, give the place a modern-rustic feel I love. And when I heard Ray LaMontagne, Coldplay, and Ryan Adams on the playlist, I knew this was my kind of place.

So here's what we had:

Negro Tinto, a Malbec from the Mendoza region of Argentina.  Dark, flavorful, and smooth, it was a great pairing with our meal.

Starter: Flash-fried pork belly and grilled apple slices over creamy grits with a pecan-bourbon maple syrup.  Perfect combo of savory, fatty, tart, nutty, and sweet.

Suzy's entree: Wild striped bass, green garlic (mild) risotto, fiddleheads (taste like asparagus), chanterelle mushrooms, lobster nage (cream sauce). Light but rich flavors.

My entree: Braised beef tongue (don't be grossed out...it's delicious, super tender and juicy), black pepper gnocchi, arugula, smoked tomato cream sauce. Meaty, peppery goodness.

Dessert: seasonal fruit (apple) cobbler. The cobbled part had to be 2 inches thick, the top covered with packed raw sugar. Served hot with two scoops of melting cinnamon-vanilla ice cream.

I'm aware how hypocritical it is for me to advocate giving food for people in poverty and going out to one of Greenville's best (and more expensive) restaurants. Believe me, I know. But it does make me feel a little bit better that the restaurant helps to support local farms and farmers, since almost every ingredient comes from farms and artisan food producers in South Carolina. Even as we enjoyed this delicious, extravagant, and completely unnecessary meal, I was reminded that food justice does not only concern how it is consumed or distributed, but also how it is produced - with care for the environment, the food itself, and the consumer in mind.

Care. Food. Culinary care. This day had it all.

day fourteen: a saint of a man

I first met Father Patrick when I was enlisting a group from his parish, St. Anthony of Padua, to participate in the Walk for the Homeless. Little did I know that he would end up DJ-ing at the end of the walk, leading the Electric Slide in wayfarers, an afro wig, and his cassock.

Father Patrick, posing with a very sleepy baby boy. And yes, he dresses like this every day.

Father Patrick is a Franciscan monk and the priest of St. Anthony of Padua Catholic Church and School, located in a poverty-stricken area of the West End of Greenville. The food pantry the church runs is just one of many ministries to the homeless and poor in the area.

Our donation for today

St. Anthony's food pantry, which gets restocked once (sometimes twice) a day

Dropping off the food is the easy part. Walking away is what's hard.

There are people in our lives who, although they never intentionally make us feel inadequate, simply by virtue of who they are and what they do make us feel like we don't measure up. Father Patrick is one of those people. Anytime I go by St. Anthony (which, sadly, is not very often) or see him at a United Way meeting (yeah, he does that, too...check out this article about one project from a couple years ago), I feel like I should be doing so much more than I am.

Even while we were there, Father Patrick talked passionately about other needs the church is trying to meet. They are providing dentures for the poor, at a cost of $300/set, because free clinics, Medicare, etc. will take care of pulling teeth but will not cover giving teeth. St. Anthony's is trying to cover a couple of sets a week, and they have a waiting list of hundreds. Can you imagine trying to eat without teeth?

Father Patrick also told us of people who sit in their parking lot and are so hungry that they eat dry Ramen noodles. Sure, they could get something to eat somewhere, but so many organizations make them jump through hoops or say prayers or confess sins. St. Anthony's Church just shares what they have and helps however they can...no stipulations. It is probably the purest ministry I know of in town.

Father Patrick is a saint of a man - a person who truly lives out the call of Jesus, taking Jesus' words seriously when he says, "Sell all that you own and distribute the money to the poor...then come, follow me" (Lk 18:22). He owns nothing. Everything he has was given to him as a gift. 

And what if we all lived like that? Not like a monk, per se, but as if we own nothing for ourselves, as if everything we have is a gift, to share what we have and help however we can...no stipulations? 

What if?