ThanksGiving
J is a big, burly, bald-headed man with an eyeball tattooed on the crown of his head. If I were walking down the street, and I saw him walking toward me, I would be frightened. I would cross the street to avoid him.
In fact, J is a sweet, good-natured, even-tempered guy. I would never have known that, I would never have come to know J, had I not started volunteering—it’s been a decade now—at Food for Lane County’s Dining Room. It is a former soup kitchen-style facility that was thoughtfully and creatively transformed (all credit to the genius of Josie McCarthy) into a sit-down restaurant with table service, cloth napkins, an attentive wait staff, live music and an attitude that long ago evolved from philanthropy to neighborliness.
Monday through Thursday, hungry people come to this modest brick building on Eighth Street across from the WOW Hall for a meal. For some, too many, it may be their only meal of the day. The food is important (and nutritious). But what is equally if not more important is the sense of community, the dignity of being invited in, led to a table, smiled at, served. It is a safe space. And, in the winter, a warm space, a dry space.
This is where I met J and, over the years, so many others I would never have talked to—or even looked at--on the streets, There is L, loud, over-the-top vivacious, sometimes disconnected from reality but always warm-hearted. There is the guy dressed in tattered layers with the sad eyes who brightens when you remember just how he likes his coffee. There is the woman who cries, and she tells you why, and then says she feels a little better. The man who sways back and forth, singing as he eats; the woman who gestures as if conducting an orchestra; the man who proclaims every day to be his birthday. The man who hasn’t showered in months.
They are all members of my community. Like almost half a million Oregonians—and one in five Oregon children—they are food insecure, meaning they lack reliable access to a sufficient quantity of affordable, nutritious food. They come to the Dining Room, leaving the chaos, confusion, and uncertainty of their lives at the door. I watch as they accept each other with grace and patience, as they treat each other with generosity and respect. Their ability to survive is a lesson in heroism.
I am so thankful to know them.