It is a cold and blustery day, the temps hovering around “freeze your buns off.” The visitors to Kansas City Community Kitchen (a ministry of Episcopal Community Services) for the daily hot lunch are a bit slow coming in, allowing more time for interaction and brief bits of conversation with the people as they come through the food line. There is a broad assortment of people, some clearly in need of a hot meal and others passing through checking their options. Fashion statements are made, some in spite of poverty and others because of poverty. One young man wears many layers of clothes year round; though he looks very large as he passes through the line, I wonder if he might actually be skinny once peeled out of clothes I suspect never leave his body. Some are noisy and boisterous, others pass quietly, deep in their own thoughts, hardly noticing our presence as we try to welcome them, offering our clever quips for the day. Some reciprocate while others look at us like the foreigners we are, inarticulate in the language and understanding of the street. Here, I am an alien. Still, I come back each fourth Monday, offering in some small and inadequate way my allegiance to this gift of mercy—a good, hot meal in a safe place. Luckily for me, the clients are tolerant.
As they pass through the line I almost miss the tiny little girl ( maybe 3 or 4) accompanying the very young man (early 20′s) in an over-sized sport logo jacket. She peeps over the serving line, her grimy little hands gripping the metal rail and her big brown eyes sparkling as she sees the food. Some attempt to brush her blondish brown hair failed ; it is dirty, matted, and knotted but it is out of her face. Her eyes carefully follow the tray to the end of the serving line. I am not sure she really believes the food is for her. The young man, I assume her father, takes the tray and walks her to the table directly opposite the serving line. They sit down and she eats her food, every morsel. No whining and complaining that the food is too hot or too cold, or the food tastes funny, or not what she wanted. This little girl eats everything and scraps the tray clean. The young man, sitting close beside her, wraps his arm around her. Occasionally, she turns and whispers something into his ear. He softly answers and she goes back to eating. Americana right out of Norman Rockwell except, of course, for the hues of poverty that distort everything.
At one point, a very tall and menacing looking old man comes and stands at the far end of their table. His face weathered, his long, blond hair dirty, his overly long arms dangling by his side, his parka and clothes filthy and beyond worn out. He stands quietly, staring at the little girl as she and her dad stare down at their food, watching attentively lest a crumb attempt to escape. He stands there without moving for a long, long time. I am beginning to get a little uncomfortable, wondering if this fellow harbors some malevolent intent, just waiting for the right moment to grab the little girl and run. After what seems way too long, the little girl glances up and their eyes meet. He extends a hand and awkwardly flips something toward her. It rolls to her tray. It is a Tootsie Roll Pop. She picks it up, looks back at the man, and smiles. No words. He turns and walks away. Surprised by the rough tenderness of his action, I imagine a yearning for something long lost but remembered in his small gesture of generosity to a tiny little girl.
The last stragglers are being hustled out of the dining area. The floors swept, the chairs put up in anticipation of the mop brigade coming out to clean the place for the next day. We fed the hungry. It is time to leave. I wonder where this young father and his little girl go when they leave here? Where will she go, what chances will she have? Sadly, I am sure “Oh the Places You’ll Go” is not on her nighttime reading list.
Driving away, I recall another Dr. Seuss text from “The Lorax”–“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.”
Rev'd Dr. R. Stan Runnels
Rector and Committee Member
