This Feast
Winter 2013
The parking lot is slippery and the ice atop our epic potholes is finally thick enough for ice fishing. But when you fling wide the back door, the kitchen’s warmth meets you with a hearty hello and fogs your glasses. It smells like cinnamon and cardamom, both halal and vegan so that everyone can feast.
If you come to dinner you will meet D, who is hard to understand because he’s had so many strokes. But listen and you will learn to understand his gentle heart, so easily tangled up with those who take advantage of his longing to be liked. You’ll remind him that C is a better acquaintance than girlfriend, that she steals his money to buy booze and gets him into trouble with his landlord.
L and T will give you enthusiastic high fives before laying claim to a round table that seats eight. They will get lost in each other’s eyes and everyone else will leave them to their hot date. You’ll smile at their love. His frame is small and wiry. Accessories make him a spitting image of Flavor Flav - and he appreciates the compliment. She is pale and heavy set with a slow saunter that keeps her man patient. He’s affectionate and funny, always plating her second helping before coming to worship to give thanks for T. He calls Wednesdays “Dinner and a Show”. He’s not wrong.
Families from supportive housing next door spill in for a night off from cooking. Kids play board games or play tag in the hallway. One mother has been eyeing the other regulars, trying to figure out who actually worships at this church. She’ll ask you to pray for her son and grandchildren. And she’ll check back in a few weeks later to tell you it’s helping.
Sometimes the arguments from the bus stop are still red hot and guests need an invitation to take space or step outside. There are nights when we ask nurses, off-duty officers, or county psychiatric professionals to help ensure safety, dignity and belonging for everyone. There are nights when menus or ingredients are mis-translated or there are more volunteers than genuine tasks.
J will take a few extra bananas and ask you for a ride home. He’ll explain where he lives, even though you already know. He’ll almost remember, “There was a lady who used to drive me sometimes, but she got pregnant with twins and had to take a break. I wonder how she’s doing now.”
You’ll smile the next morning when you find a banana on the floor of your van because you are that lady, whether he knows it or not. You’ll remember how much you missed these nights, even while you were home feeding your brand new babies. You missed this feast that grew your heart and fed you with miracles. You missed this feast that never really ends.