making a difference

Today is Pentecost and our church did something out of the box, especially for Methodists. We met at our church building and paraded to a tent in the middle of town where the bulk of our worship service was held. Our gospel choir sang, our band played and three members of the congregation spoke about where they've seen God showing up in their life. I was honored to be asked to be one of these three speakers. So in case you weren't sweating it out in downtown Geneva this Sunday (oh, yes, it was a hot and humid day in May!), here is what I said.

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For over a year our family has been volunteering to make lunches for Lazarus House, the local homeless shelter. We’ve often rallied neighbors to donate food and help us. The last few months we’ve been inviting my son Liam’s three best buddies to come home with him after kindergarten and make the lunches with us. Each of the boys contributes a food item and then we pack the lunches assembly-line style. Originally I was inspired to volunteer because I wanted to involve my son Liam in a service project and as an older 4 year old (now a newer 6 year old) the opportunities to actually do something are limited.

This month, though, as the boys were making the lunches, I wondered what they were really getting out of the experience. Liam was bothered that we didn’t have extra juice boxes. I saw two oranges drop into one brown bag more than once – an issue I’d have to sort out later after the guys had been released to play. And one friend was visibly upset.

“I want a lunch like this,” he whined. “Why can’t I have one of these lunches?”

Another little friend piped up. “Don’t worry,” he said very matter of factly, “You can have one someday when you’re homeless.”

I started thinking my effort to involve my son in service wasn’t really making a difference.

After Liam’s friends had gone home, I put the lunches, the gallons of milk and juice and my boys into the car and drove over to Lazarus House. I figured out a way to lug everything in one trip and cajole Elliott into following us. We got buzzed in and made our way through the dining area where some of the guests were hanging out. After Elliott loudly greeted everyone, we dropped off our bags and headed back out.

As I was getting into my car, a woman whisked up to greet me. Her pin said that she was the Lazarus House director. She stood close and spoke in a low voice, “You know,” she said. “This is very dangerous place to bring children.”

I quickly thought over the last three minutes. We said hello to some homeless guys and brought them some food. Had I really just put my boys in danger?

Then she smiled. “I used to bring my children,” she said. “And now one is a social worker and one is a teacher and one works in social justice.”

Once a friend told me that her husband always buys from the people soliciting door to door. Then she added, “He tells me, ‘You never know how Jesus will come.’”

I think about that statement all the time now. The guy who said it is not a pastor. He’s just a quiet, unassuming person. But somewhere, I’m guessing early in his life, he learned not only to treat every person with kindness and respect, but that when he least expects it, he could be opening the door for Jesus.

“I tell you the truth,” Jesus said in a parable in Matthew 25, “whatever you did for one of the least of my brothers, you did for me.”

Since Third Tuesday Suppers began at our church, my boys and I have been there every time, eating (of course) and clearing some plates. Mostly Liam and Elliott wander around and play with the other kids who are there. But I still hold out the belief that it means something more than just dinner out – that they are absorbing the service and community aspects as well.

This past Tuesday was business as usual. We went, we ate, we cleared, we chatted, they wandered and played. At the end of the night there was leftover food and we were encouraged to take a couple meals worth home.

As we drove up to our house, I noticed that our neighbor, a single mom, and her middle-school-age daughter were doing yard work, just as they were when we left. I thought about the food in my lap and asked Andrew if he thought it would be weird to go over and offer it to them.

“Yeah, maybe,” he said.

I agreed and headed inside. Liam was stricken. He quickly caught up with me.

“Mom,” he pleaded. “You have to take that to them. We always take food to people. You have to.”

I looked at his urgent expression, sucked up my pride and walked with him next door.

“Hi,” I said to my tired and sweaty neighbor. “We just came from a free community dinner at our church and we brought home a couple extra meals and it’s just delicious and we’d love for you to have it if you haven’t eaten yet. Liam especially wanted you to have it.”

I opened the container and together we smelled the savory, home-cooked meal.

“Why, thank you, Liam,” my neighbor smiled at my son. “We would love to have this dinner. Thank you so much for thinking of us.”

It’s true. We never know how Jesus will come. And we never know who will remind us to keep looking for him. But now I see how dropping juice boxes into lunch bags and clearing a plate on a Tuesday night can make a difference.