by Neta Jackson
Then it was down to business.
Conny was given the “job” of entertaining Gracie in the nursery, and while Nick, Josh, and Denny set up tables, the women surveyed the piles of food stacked everywhere in the kitchen. Kat pulled open the doors of the two steel refrigerators—and gasped. “Ohmigosh, look at this.” Plastic containers of already-prepared potato salad, shrimp-and-pasta salad, and other ready-to-eat deli food filled one whole shelf.
“Hmm. I don’t know about those.” Jodi Baxter frowned. “I’d toss them if I were you, waiver or no waiver. What else did they send?”
Bree flipped her notebook to a clean page and they took inventory: ten loaves of bakery bread, still good. Carrots, broccoli, green beans, cabbages, and turnips—just a tad on the wilted side—still okay. Plastic containers of strawberries and blueberries, probably salvageable. Sweet rolls and coffee cakes, probably okay if not too stale. Dented cans, dated yogurts and puddings . . .
Several SouledOut teenagers showed up at nine, along with Yo-Yo Spencer and Leslie Stuart from Yada Yada. All of them were put to work hauling the donated food out of the kitchen and sorting foods by tables.
“Bags! We need plastic grocery bags!” Kat felt a momentary panic. She’d totally forgotten about people needing bags to take stuff home in.
“Don’t worry.” Jodie Baxter poked her head into one of the lower cupboards in the kitchen and pulled out a box. “We’ve got a lot of those stuffed in here.”
“And some people bring their own,” Rochelle reminded her. “Remember the folks who came to Rock of Ages? Most of them brought their own bags. But look—we’ve got more to worry about than bags. We need to decide how many people to let in at a time, how much food each family is allowed to take, stuff like that. Why don’t we get everybody together and decide how we’re going to do this?”
Kat was a little taken aback by Rochelle jumping in and taking charge—though she couldn’t fault her suggestions. Josh and Nick were assigned to man the doors, like Tony did at Rock of Ages. Bree with her handy notebook volunteered to sign people in—name, address, zip code—to get an idea of how many local people had found them. All the other volunteers would either accompany each customer one-on-one as they went from table to table, explaining how much they could take from each category, or were assigned to a table to help keep it neat and explain “what this is.”
As the hands of the wall clock nudged ten, Kat glanced outside. “Oh, Nick, look.” At least twenty people were lined up outside SouledOut’s front door. “Do you think we ought to pray or something before we unlock the doors?”
“Great idea.” Calling all the volunteers to join hands in a circle, Nick asked Denny Baxter, as one of SouledOut’s elders, to ask for God’s blessing and protection on this first food pantry. As he was praying, Kat peeked through half-closed lids at the circle of volunteers, young and old, hoping she would remember every face so she could thank them all personally . . . and her eye caught a movement at the double doors leading into the back rooms. Pastor Cobbs poked his head into the room, seemed to take in the tables piled with food and the prayer circle, and a smile spread over his face before he withdrew and let the doors quietly shut again.
It felt like a blessing.
Whatever it was, it was the lull before the storm. As the circle broke up and people took their places, Nick and Josh unlocked the doors and let in the first four people—a middle-aged Hispanic couple and two rather disheveled white men, one of whom had tattoos on every inch of visible skin. While the couple was being signed in, the other two headed straight for the tables.
“Uh, sirs?” Kat put on her friendliest smile. “We’re glad you’re here. But you need to sign in first.”
“Oh. Okay.” One of the men shuffled back to Brygitta’s table by the door.
But Tattoo Guy glared at her. “Why?” His tone was belligerent.
Kat swallowed. Good question. Did she have an answer?
Rochelle inserted herself between them. “Because that’s the way we’re doing it here. You need to sign in or leave.”
“Oh, tough lady, eh?” The man reached around them and grabbed an apple from the table, but before they could say anything, he turned and went back to the sign-in table, munching on the apple.
“Okay. Forget the apple,” Rochelle muttered to Kat. “But assign Denny Baxter to walk him through, not one of the teens. I’ll take the other guy.” And she scurried off with a couple of plastic bags.
Kat stood there, momentarily frozen. Why did she have these conflicted feelings? Grateful that Rochelle had stepped in and told Tattoo Guy what’s what—and annoyed at the same time. And what was wrong with her? If she was going to do this thing, she needed to develop more of a backbone.
Most of the people who came through were cooperative, though one guy let a “lady friend” into the line ahead of others who’d been waiting an hour. Several people complained, and Nick had to go out and tell her she needed to go to the end of the line.
Just as she’d seen at the Rock of Ages food pantry, about half the people seemed to be working-class men and women or single moms on welfare, some with children tagging along, who just needed help with the groceries. The rest, Kat guessed, were living in single-room-only “hotels,” a number with apparent mental problems, and a few who seemed genuinely homeless, their carts and bags parked outside the church.
She had to grin when who should turn up but Lady Lolla, dressed for the occasion in a full-skirted, peach-colored taffeta dress with a six-inch trim of feathers around the hem, which fell to midcalf. Kat greeted her warmly and took her around to the tables herself. “How’s, uh, Ike?” she ventured, hoping she’d remembered the name of Lolla’s “significant other.”
“Oh, not so good . . . stomach bothers him, you know. You got any cans of chicken noodle soup? That goes down easy.”
Kat searched the table of canned goods. No chicken noodle soup. Just dented cans of tomato and fat cans of beef stew. “Just a minute,” she said, then slipped into the kitchen. She’d seen some cans of stuff left over from potlucks and youth group suppers in one of the cupboards, but she didn’t turn up any chicken noodle soup.
She had to return to Lady Lolla empty-handed. “But tell you what,” she said. “If you come back next Saturday, I’ll be sure to have some chicken noodle soup for you. How many cans do you need?” Even if she had to buy them herself.
Sending Lady Lolla out the door with two loaves of bread, some canned fruit, and some of the fresh vegetables, Kat noticed that Edesa had taken one of the young women aside—a black girl who didn’t look more than eighteen, who had one baby in a front carrier and a toddler by the hand—and was praying with her. Seated in a couple of chairs, the girl was crying, and Edesa had an arm around her.
Kat watched furtively. How did Edesa know the girl needed prayer? Or know she’d be willing to let Edesa pray with her, right there with people milling about?
She glanced toward the front doors. Nick was outside, talking to some of the people still waiting, though the line had thinned. Something he’d said when he’d preached his inaugural SouledOut sermon two weeks ago about “Feed My sheep” resurrected itself in her mind: “Life is more than food and the body more than clothes . . .” He was quoting Jesus about that too, she was pretty sure.
And there it was, right in front of her. People were hungry, true. That was obvious by the number of people who’d shown up today—at least thirty. But this girl—and probably most of them, if they’d admit it—was hungry for more than food. Hungry to know someone cared. Someone who’d listen. Hungry for love. Hungry for forgiveness or encouragement or . . . hope. Hungry for . . . well, hungry for Jesus, even if they didn’t know it.
Kat suddenly found it hard to catch her breath. God had been calling her to feed people. But maybe giving them food was the easy part.
Was she ready to really feed them?
She might have to actually get to know these “food pantry people” as people God loved.
To
know all of them by name.
Chapter 42
In spite of all the food they’d collected, they ran out of most items before noon, causing grumbles with the people who came last. The “sweets and desserts” and bread tables were completely bare, and most of the canned goods were gone, leaving only dented cans of specialty foods like asparagus, artichoke hearts, pickled beets, and diced pimentos. The perishables from Dominick’s had been well picked over, and even Kat agreed they needed to toss what was left.
As they cleaned up, Kat pulled Nick aside. “What do you think of asking the volunteers to stay a few extra minutes to give feedback? This is a test run, you know, and any suggestions for next time would be helpful.”
“Good idea.” Nick grinned. “Rochelle was just saying the same thing.”
Rochelle was just saying the same thing.
Kat tried to ignore the flash of irritation, like an annoying gremlin sticking its claws in her psyche. But she’d better do it or Rochelle might do it for her. She raised her voice. “Anybody who can stay to debrief for five or ten minutes, I’d appreciate it. We need your input.”
A couple of the teens had split already, Stu had to leave for an appointment with a client, and Edesa excused herself to put Gracie down for a nap and lie down herself at her in-laws’ house nearby. But once the tables were put away and chairs set up for Sunday, Kat was glad to see that the rest gathered at the back of the room.
Comments ranged from “I thought it went great!” to “Some people took more than they were supposed to.” Some had questions: “What if two people from the same family come—do they both get to load up a bag?” and “Shouldn’t a family with six kids get more than a single person? I felt funny saying they could only take one loaf of bread.”
Kat squirmed when one of the teen girls reported a woman who cussed and made crude remarks. “I told her this was a church, and she shouldn’t take God’s name in vain, but all she said was—uh, never mind.” A few people chuckled.
There were suggestions: “We’re going to need more food,” Denny Baxter noted. “I mean, more than we had today. Word’s going to get around and more people will show up.”
“Maybe we should set up a fund and just buy stuff.”
“Could we make up a list of the foods people want most?” Yo-Yo asked. “I mean, look at what we’ve got left over. Even I don’t like pickled beets.” More laughter.
Bree was taking notes furiously. Kat caught a high sign from Nick that maybe that was enough debriefing for now.
“Okay, thanks a lot, everybody. We obviously don’t have all the answers today, but we’re learning as we go along. Please pass the word that we need more food donations! Not just for next week, but all month long.”
“People are going to get tired of that before long,” Rochelle said, half under her breath. “We need to do something more sustainable.”
Yeah, thanks a lot, Rochelle. This was their first day, after all! Kat covered her frustration by asking “Pastor Nick” to close in prayer. And once again they joined hands in a circle. But while he was praying, Kat was praying her own prayer. God, I know I’m over my head here, and I’m grateful for everyone who turned out to help today—and I admit, Rochelle’s been a big help too. But why does it feel like she’s trying to take over? This is my project, and—
“Amen,” Nick said and squeezed her hand. Kat felt a little guilty. She hadn’t really paid any attention to his prayer, though she was sure it was appropriate. And in spite of a few moments of frustration that morning, she felt excited. At least thirty people had shown up today! And most of them had gone home with a big bag of food.
Okay, now she was ready to call her parents. Should she tell them about Nick or the food pantry? Both might be a little much, but . . . oh, heck, why not!
To Kat’s delight, Pastor Cobbs called her to the front during the announcements the next morning and handed her the mike. “Give us a report on how things went with the first food pantry, Kathryn. From what I could see, it was a big success.”
Kat could barely control her excitement. It felt good to be acknowledged by the pastor. “First, let’s see the hands of everyone from SouledOut who volunteered yesterday . . . yes, I see your hand, Gracie. And you too, Conny.” Everyone laughed. “I just want to thank all of you who donated food or have signed up to help out on Saturday morning this month at the SouledOut Sisters Food Pantry—and you can blame the Yada Yada Prayer Group for the name.” More laughter. “But we couldn’t have done it without several brothers too—Peter Douglass, Denny Baxter, Josh Baxter, Pastor Nick, some of the teen boys . . . thanks.” She told how many people had been served—thirty-two by Bree’s count of the sign-ins—and said they still needed a lot of prayer and a lot more food donations. “There’s a sheet at the back with a list of the most popular items, and the ones starred have the most nutritional value. Some treats are okay, but please avoid unusual items.”
“Uh, miss?” A hand was waving in the air. “Define unusual.”
Kat was startled to see the black girl Edesa had been praying with yesterday waving the sheet of paper. She stood up. “Hi, y’all. My name’s Diane Pickering. I came to the food pantry yesterday. Uh, Miss Edesa invited me to come this morning. An’ I picked this up before service, and I noticed you don’t have okra or black-eyed peas, stuff like that on the list. Stuff a lot of black folks like.”
Kat was taken off guard. Okra? Did people actually eat that stuff? She felt her face get hot. Why couldn’t people ask stuff like that privately instead of embarrassing her in front of everybody? “Well, uh . . .”
Pastor Cobbs bounded to her side and took the mike. “Like we said, church, this is a trial run.” He put his arm around Kat, who looked down at her shoes. “Your suggestion is a good one, young lady”—this to the new girl—“and I’m sure Kathryn and the others will take your suggestion to heart. But let’s give thanks to our Lord and Savior for the people, like this young lady, who came to the food pantry yesterday and—”
Heads turning and a rustling throughout the congregation made Kat look up. The front doors opened and she was startled to see Lady Lolla and a skinny white man using a cane come in. Lolla was dressed as outlandishly as ever, wearing a dingy sleeveless sheath that might have been white or cream once upon a time and ended above her knees, revealing her bony shoulders and knees. Long ropes of cheap Mardi Gras beads dangled around her neck. “’Scuse us,” Lady Lolla said, guiding the man—was that Ike?—to a seat near the back. She grinned at the people around her. “’Mornin’ . . . ’mornin’.”
Even Pastor Cobbs seemed a bit taken aback, but he quickly recovered. “Thank you, Kathryn.” He was dismissing her, and Kat gratefully hurried back to her seat next to Brygitta. “Our message this morning will be brought by Sister Avis. We also want to pray with her and Elder Peter, who will be leaving tomorrow for two weeks in South Africa . . . Sister Avis? Elder?”
Kat tried to listen as the Douglasses briefly explained the purpose of their trip, to learn more about the work former SouledOut members Nonyameko and Mark Sisulu-Smith were doing with at-risk women in KwaZulu-Natal, setting up small businesses so these women didn’t have to sell their bodies just to survive. Any other time, Kat would have joined the group of people who gathered around the Douglasses at the front to pray for their upcoming trip, but she still felt too embarrassed at the way her food pantry report had been co-opted by that mouthy girl.
But after the prayer, as Avis Douglass opened her Bible and noted the text—the Last Supper with Jesus and His disciples from the gospel of John, chapter 13—Kat fell under the spell of the rich cadence of her voice telling the familiar story. “Notice,” Avis said, “that Jesus shared the symbols of the sacrifice He was about to make—the broken bread and the cup of wine—not with a group of holy disciples who had their act together, but with a group of imperfect followers He knew would run away when the temple police arrested Him. Peter—of all people!— after Jesus had washed his feet like a servant, denied that h
e even knew Jesus that same night. And Judas . . . Jesus even shared the broken bread and wine with the man who betrayed Him. Who sold Him out for thirty pieces of silver.”
The room was so quiet, no one seemed to be breathing. Unusual for SouledOut, Kat thought. Where was Avis going with this?
“Jesus shared this Last Supper—what we now call communion or the Lord’s Table—with these imperfect, sinful, doubting, backstabbing so-called followers, using the very symbols we will share together this morning to remember the broken body and spilled blood of our Savior. Are we any different? All of us come to the Table imperfect, broken, guilty of denying our Savior, doubting . . . and yet Jesus offers His gift of love and forgiveness to each and every one of us. He died for you. He died for me. None of us deserves it. It was simply an act of God’s mercy and grace.”
Avis closed her Bible. “Let’s remember that as we take communion together this morning.” She sat down.
The room seemed deathly quiet. Then Pastor Cobbs and Nick brought the table forward that contained the loaf of bread and a common cup. Kat stared at the embroidered cloth covering the table, with the colorful figures of children around the world. “Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight . . .” She’d never sung that little song as a kid—didn’t go to Sunday school that often—but she’d heard it a few times since her own decision to follow Jesus at that music fest several years ago. Precious in His sight . . .
People started to go forward to receive the bread and wine. She was startled to see Lady Lolla and “Ike” sashay down the aisle too. Really? Oh brother, what a pair.
Precious in His sight . . .
The girl who’d put her on the spot joined the line moving slowly forward. Her too?