The warm an inviting aromas of Hash brown Casserole, cinnamon rolls, and strong hot coffee permeated the morning stillness, and gave a sense of how things ought to be on a cold winter’s morning.  Those wonderful smells belied the fact that we were in the old Methodist Church turned homeless shelter, a respite from the bitter winter, but definitely how things ought not to be. The old church offered a workable kitchen to prepare hot meals for our homeless friends on these unbearably bitter nights, and a hot breakfast before returning them to the reality that is life on the street.

Folks were fed last night and loved on as best we could.  I looked into the blank eyes and shivering bodies and my heart melted, as person after person came through the food line with a full plate and gratitude on their lips.  One dear lady was shivering so badly, she was unable to hold her coffee cup. I wrapped my hands around hers as I poured her coffee. She was entirely grateful simply for a cup of hot coffee, let alone a good meal, and an old mattress on the floor of the gym.  It has been bitter, snowy and wet the last three days and we received forty-eight homeless friends into the shelter last night.  Dinner was basic, although the corn bread was a particular hit! To a person the attitude was one of sincere appreciation and thanks for our efforts.  Is it not the very least we can do, to offer a hot meal and shelter from the cold to our most marginalized fellow human beings?

After everyone had eaten, they settled in for the night. This shelter had decent bathrooms for everyone, and many chose to wash up as best they could.  One dear lady actually changed into one of her very few articles of clothing, an old housedress that looked like pajamas, retaining a shred of normalcy.  I was struck with that image of attempted self-respect and ritual. We cleaned the kitchen and the food crew left around 10:30 to make our way home, as others stayed on for the night as “Inn Keepers”.  The ride home offered time to process what I had just experienced, certainly one of the most humbling and life changing nights of my life.  I knew homelessness and hunger as a seventeen year old, having told my parents I was gay and leaving, never to return. It wasn’t prolonged homelessness though, just a few weeks, a short stint caused by a mixture of my rebelliousness and my parent’s lack of love.  This was very different.  Earlier in the evening I sat with several people as they ate, and tried to engage them and acknowledge their humanity, our humanity.  My heart is crushed, and blessed, and challenged to never look away again.

Awakening very early, I left the warmth of hearth and home with a full stomach, in the heat of my SUV, with a cup of coffee, and made my way back to the old church turned homeless shelter, to prepare breakfast.  The coffee pots were alive with activity as the first order of business and priority.  Our friends sheltered overnight would awaken soon with the flick of a switch, the harsh gym lighting transforming utter darkness into bright florescence, signaling morning, and another day of survival.  The ovens contained pans of Hash brown Casserole and other egg dishes, perfuming the kitchen and seeping under the still closed door to the sleeping area. As the overnight staff began rousing the sheltered ones, I began to set up the hot food table.  It was then that I experienced the disparity, the duality of the yummy aroma of Hash brown Casserole baking in the oven and the lingering odor of decay, the result of a population of people without adequate housing, nutrition, or medical care.  This aromatic disparity hit me with each breath.  The simultaneous wafting of home cooked goodness and absolute lack, all in one inhalation.  Breakfast and lots of hot coffee were welcomed by all, probably more than the reality that another day of life on the cold streets awaited them.  We prepared brown bag lunches for our friends to take as well.  Before long the last of our friends were shrouding themselves in layer upon layer of tattered clothing and heading out into the paralyzing cold.

My ride home was quiet, no radio or music as it seemed indulgent.  It has taken me a few days to process what I experienced, to make sense of the senseless.  The dual nature of the experience continues to haunt me. On one hand there is such total need and lack of resources. The blank stares of hopelessness linger still. Yet I feel a great sense of hope and purpose, having prayed for the opportunity to use my cooking skills to make a difference in people’s lives.  I have cooked extravagant meals for wealthy clients, over the top fundraisers for professional theatre companies, multi course dinners for friends, and many gluttonous Holiday meals around the table.  Cooking a simple meal for our homeless friends has outdone them all, and is the fulfillment of my heart’s desire to serve God by serving others.  The sense of fulfillment in knowing that I am doing the work, the good work, for which I am uniquely gifted, overwhelms me, producing a deep sense of hope and gratitude to the Lord.  The warm and inviting aromas of Hash brown Casserole and strong coffee will forever signify one of the most blessed experiences of my life, for to this I am called.