And In The Midst of It All - LILACS

This is a story about misconceptions.

And hopeful interpretations.

And false assumptions.

And perfect timing.

And an apology.

A pantry guest that I have told you about before, one that we have become friends with, we will call him Blue Bike Man, was sent to the Emergency Room yesterday.  I know this because a neighbor who is also friends with him witnessed the paramedics taking him away from the grocery store on a stretcher.

Here is where we find the first hopeful interpretation – the meaning of the word FRIENDS. 

I call this gentleman my friend, but the truth is that he would likely not be able to pick me up out of a line up.  He has severe memory issues, so severe that he cannot remember the names of his own grown children.  Is “friend” a label that can be applied to our relationship?  I consider him a friend, to him I am a stranger that he meets over and over and over.

When I heard he was taken away in an ambulance I rushed to the grocery store to ask the woman who had alerted me (who is my friend in the traditional sense of the word) what had happened.  She didn’t have details, but we agreed that his blue bike needed to be rescued before it was stolen (you see, he has long since lost one of several bike locks that were given to him to keep the bike safe, since, well…  memory issues.)

I drove around and located the bike parked neatly in a bike rack.  I called my partner David and asked him to drive our hatchback vehicle to meet me so we could transport the bike to our house.  “If you come home and pick me up and bring me to the bike, I will just ride it home,” David told me. 

So, before I headed to the hospital to see what I could find about the fate of Blue Bike Man, I witnessed David (my main man) jauntily riding the old bike down the road, sunlight bouncing off the handlebars and David’s silly blue pork pie hat completing the look. 

Now, an important piece to this story is that Blue Bike Man lives on the street.  Somehow (I can’t understand how…) he remembers that his “spot” is in front of a local business’ door, under an awning, on the main road near our house.  He has a piece of cardboard he leaves there to lie on.  That’s where I can find him to deliver a hot meal on a cold night.

Ever since we met him maybe 5 or 6 months ago, he has been a mystery to me.  His memory loss is so severe, and he has an odd speech pattern where he sometimes grunts a bit mid-word.  He and I have sat on our front stairs while he eats and he tells me the same stories over and over and over (it makes me feel better to know he gets a hot meal at least once in a while). 

I had to sit in the Emergency Room waiting room a bit before I could go back to visit him.  The place was packed!  There were people of all ages and it was clear that Blue Bike Man was not the only person experiencing homelessness who had shown up to the ER that night.  While I waited I people watched.  I could hear the conversation of a duo near me; an old, white woman and a middle-aged black man.  The woman looked to be the patient, but she was chatting happily while they sat.  She may have had some memory issues herself.  It was sweet listening to them talk.  Everyone wore masks, but I looked over at the man and made eye contact, then smiled, letting him know with my eyes that I thought it was sweet of him to assist her.

I went back to visit my friend, who didn’t appear to know who I was but nonetheless was happy to see me.  We chatted (the same stories he always tells me – it is all one-sided conversation as he doesn’t seem capable of asking questions or interested in anything the person he is talking with has to say).  The nurses basically left us alone – they had already hooked him up to heart monitors and a pulse oximeter before I arrived.  There was drama when the nurse came to draw blood – oh he was scared!  He is a 63 year old man, but the thought of a needle going into his arm had him worked up!  He shook and almost cried!  I tried to get him to do some deep breathing but truthfully, he wasn’t really buyin’ it. 

We waited for a doctor to come in.  And waited.  And waited.  Like I said, the ER was busy.  And it was full of characters!  Right outside my friend’s bay was a man on a hospital bed in the hallway, David and I called him “talk to himself guy”.  He had a running conversation, only there was no one there to talk with.  And there was “puffy vest guy” – a man who had cut the sleeves off a winter coat and made a DIY puffy vest.  And eventually, the old woman from the waiting room got wheeled back, too.  She also had a bed in the hallway and not a room. 

After an hour or so I popped out to talk to the companion of the old woman I had seen in the waiting area.  He explained that he was a neighbor to the woman and that she is 85 years old.  She was tiny and frail looking and had a bad, bad cough.  But she was peppy! 

We had spoken a few minutes when the man said, “I want to apologize to you.  A heartfelt, sincere apology.”

What?  An apology?  For what??  I couldn’t imagine what he felt he had done in the short time we had been seated near each other in the waiting room that would demand an apology.

“Ummm, ok…  An apology for what??” I asked.

“I know who you are.  I knew who you were right away when I saw you in the lobby.  Your name is Susan.”

Ok, now this was getting stranger…  I had no idea who this man was, yet he recognized me even when I was wearing a yellow mask??

“Yes, that’s my name.  And what is yours?”

He told me his name, then continued.  “I want you to know I am sorry, truly sorry,” he said in a very measured and thoughtful manner.  “I did something that offended you.  I didn’t mean to, but I did.  And I am sorry.”

He went on to describe an online interaction between the two of us that must’ve happened 2 or 3 years ago.  He had asked me a question, I had taken issue with what he wrote or how he wrote it, and I went off on him.

I could not remember the incident he was talking about, but it obviously happened because he clearly recalled every little nuance of it.

“Oh my, I am sorry!  You must’ve caught me on a bad day…” I stammered.

“No, no.  You were very offended.  I shouldn’t have said it how I did, and I am genuinely sorry.  You blocked me after that I think, because I couldn’t see your page anymore.  But I had looked at it, I saw everything you do for the community.  Then I knew what you looked like.  That’s how I recognized you tonight.”

I had blocked him!  I don’t do that often, usually just for catfish spam-type accounts that contact me.  Whatever he said (that I do not remember) must’ve really hit a nerve with me.

“I accept your apology.  And I am sorry, too.  Thank you.  Thank you for speaking with me tonight and telling me this,” I said as I put my hand out to shake his.

I was impressed with his bravery.  I don’t think I would ever have spoken up had the situation been reversed. 

The doctor was coming into my friend’s room so I excused myself to go back.  Blue Bike Man failed the cognitive test miserably (didn’t know where he was, didn’t know the month or the year (though the month and the year are trick questions if you ask me – why should someone living on the street know or care what month it is??).  I explained to the doctor that I was just a neighbor, a friend, who didn’t know anything about this man’s medical history.  All I knew was – he was living on the street, we tried to get him into a shelter recently and failed, and he needed (in my opinion) to be in a supportive atmosphere for memory care patients. 

The doctor agreed that a shelter was the wrong environment and said she would try to get a case manager to come down and speak with him to see if perhaps they could find a better placement.

Only, it was Sunday night, and there were no case managers to be found.  So, after 5 ½ hours at the ER with my buddy, I left him finally lying down and sleeping in the bed (with a pillow and blanket, luxuries).  He wore a hospital gown, but under that had on not one but two pairs of jeans, old, dirty wool socks, and tennis shoes with the beginnings of holes in them.  All while he slept.  But hey – you live on the street, you are used to sleeping without pajamas, right?

My partner David went up to the ER this morning at 8 am to sit and wait for the case manager (we had been told she would likely come between 8:00 and 10:00 am).  I had to work today and was so grateful that David was willing to go up and advocate for our friend.

Throughout this whole experience I keep thinking about my own family values.  In my family, when someone is sick (especially sick enough to go to the hospital!), they are not alone.  Family gathers.  If visitation is limited, we rotate in and out of the room.  But a family member is not left alone in the ER.

But Blue Bike Man had no one.  Not that he was sad about that mind you – I don’t think he knows the difference really.  But I was sad about it.  I think he deserves better.

We learned some new things about our friend during this hospitalization – turns out someone is his legal guardian. 

And learning that fact made me angry.  Because that is where my false assumptions came in… 

“How can you be this old man’s guardian and not take care of him??  Leave him on the street, with no food???” I thought, judging whoever was responsible very harshly.

When I stepped back and tried to consider the situation, I knew that my assumptions could be way off base.  Maybe Blue Bike Man was actually an abusive father.  Maybe he had sucked the family dry of money.  Maybe the family had tried over and over and over and had come to their wits end…

There were options that could explain it all, but in my mind I still silently judged.

There were glimmers of hope – the case manager may have found a place that would accept him! 

And flashes of rage – the people listed as contacts in his medical chart wouldn’t even pick up the phone when the hospital called.

The message I got from David was that they had found a memory care place in Richmond, VA that would take him.  I was relieved!!  He would have a bed.  And a shower.  And meals.  And medication if he needed it.

Then David called with more news:  the person listed as legal guardian had called the hospital back and said NO to the Richmond placement.

I was so sad.  Would they rather see him on the street than housed??  How could they do that??  The case manager said that the guardian was coming to the hospital to pick Blue Bike Man up, so David could go home now.  

So many thoughts rushed through my head…  What if the person abused him?  What if they took advantage of him somehow?  What if they injured him??  He couldn’t stand up for himself.

We decided to go back to the hospital to meet the guardian (who I had secretly made out to be a villain in my mind).  We would say goodbye to our friend, hopefully get the contact info for the guardian, and explain that she should come to our house to get his bike.

As we waited, the 3 of us we chatted and laughed.  Blue Bike Man ate more hospital food (he packed a lot of food in during his 24 hour stay!!).  And then finally, the woman I had decided was a bad person before meeting her stepped into the room.

And she was quiet.  And soft.  And looked at our friend and said, “Do you know who I am??”. 

There was a glimmer in his eye.  He DID seem to recognize her!!  He couldn’t put a name to her face, but he did seem to remember her somehow.

She spoke of her father, who grew up with our friend and was one of his best buddies.  Oh, Blue Bike man smiled at that!  Yes, he remembered that man.  “I am his daughter,” the guardian explained.

And as we heard more, everything fell into place.  Her not answering the hospital’s calls – made perfect sense.  Her not wanting him to go to Richmond – understandable. 

And she was willing to take him into her small apartment, even though others around her warned her not to and that it would be unsafe…  It was obviously a heart wrenching choice for her, but she had promised someone important to her that she would take care of Blue Bike Man, and she was trying to keep her word.

In the end, we understand the situation better now.  It is not resolved – our friend will very likely be back out on the street soon.  And, as I recounted to the guardian what the case manager had said, people like our friend will likely do better on the street.  He would be miserable in a care facility.

I gave the guardian a big hug and told her that if he ends up back on the streets, it will not be because she didn’t try.  And it will not be because she failed.  And that she needs to take care of herself and her family, too.

She got tears in her eyes.  She realized the complexity of what she was taking on (this was not her first time housing him).  She gave us her phone number and I sent her a text telling her where his bike is so that she has our contact info, too.

I hope we get to see him again.  Maybe he will show up one day and peek in the Little Yellow Free Pantry to see if there is a fruit cup waiting for him.  If we see him, I will rush out and give him his bike back.  He might not remember me, but I bet he remembers that blue bike.

Oh, I said this was also a story of perfect timing.

In the midst of all of this sadness and stress, look what I found on our front porch today…

With this sweet note.

The neighbor who dropped this gift off didn’t know what I was going through.  She just had perfect timing.  This was what I needed tonight: a living room scented with lilacs and the reminder that even the tiniest things can make a huge difference.

Through Another Lens

I feel so dumb.

I thought I could help.

But I was reminded (yet again…) today that I walk into situations from a place of privilege, assuming that with a little research, leg work, and talking to the right people, things will get done.

But the universe sent me another reminder that:

NOT.  ALL.  PROBLEMS.  CAN.  BE. SOLVED.

And maybe even more profound – that maybe what I see as “problems” are not. 

I have been waiting for our pantry guest on the bicycle, the one who “knows my mother”, to come by on a day that I am off work.  I have been wanting to go with him to DHS (Department of Human Services), which is right down the street from us, and “get things sorted out” with him.

And today was the day.

I was off work for the majority of the day.  After a morning appointment, I was back at home, sitting looking out the kitchen window when what should I see – THE SKY BLUE BICYCLE WHEELING ALONG!!!  I jumped out of my seat to greet our friend, but David had beat me to it.  David had already had a short conversation with him, and our friend had indicated to him (and now again to me) that he would, “Be back in about half an hour” for the hot coffee I was offering.

Only, this is the guest that has NO.  MEMORY.  I knew in my heart that he would not remember to turn around and ride back to our house for coffee after he went to do whatever he was currently thinking of (we assume it was go use the bathroom at the 7-11).  I kicked myself for not going with him to wherever he was going.

So, I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  And sure enough, about 45 minutes later, he was back!!  I rushed out to greet him then ran inside to make him a meal.  Today it was hot beef soup, a cup of Jello, a fruit cup, and some coffee.  He sat on our steps to eat and I sat down with him. 

I knew the window of opportunity was short – I had about two hours until I needed to join a work meeting.  And instead of eating, he kept chatting.  We talked about the sammmme things he and I always chat about – the 3 hospital stays, the 2 children he has lost track of…  Oh, and a new topic today: WHOLE FOODS!  He said that is where he grocery shops (which cracked me up, I told him that is called “Whole Paycheck” and it is too rich for my blood!  Also, I know for a fact he doesn’t shop there because it is far from where he wanders, and my friend works at Giant and sees him there!). 

I realized I needed to leave him alone so that he would finish eating and we could go.  I came inside to do a few things (secretly watching him out the window, afraid he would forget that we had agreed to go to DHS after his meal).  He finally finished and off we went – him walking his bike and me walking beside.

We had a nice chat while walking.  He pointed out a house that “used to be a store” (he might be right on this one, I have always wondered why that house is so close to the street…) and a new house that is being built that he seems fascinated by (this huge mansion-in-the-making led to a lot of talk about “rich people”). 

When we got to DHS and walked in, the security guards recognized him and smiled.  He chatted with them (very curious what the AirPods in their ears were, although they may well have had that same conversation yesterday and the day before and the day before and the day before…).  We were directed to an office, took our number, and sat down to wait.

Luckily it was not crowded so our turn rolled around pretty quickly.  I introduced my friend to the worker and explained what we had come for:  his EBT/SNAP (foodstamps) card is not working, and he is living on the street – does he need a referral to get into a shelter?

The EBT issue was rote for her – she had a slip of paper for us to follow to try and resolve that one.  As for the more complicated issue, that one would require paperwork.

He and I sat back down to complete the forms.  I filled them out, asking him the answers I didn’t know.  It was remarkable how many fields were “not applicable” – phone number, address, email, emergency contact, known medical issues, married/divorced….  Some of the questions obviously didn’t apply, and some I didn’t know the answer to and he sure as heck couldn’t remember it! 

We turned in the paperwork and got the PIN number on his ETB card reset.  All that was left to do now (in my naïve, privileged mind…) was to meet with a case manager!  We were told who would be coming to talk with us and we sat and waited.

After a while the original woman came out and apologized.  She had not noticed that he was too old to be served in this office.  She referred us to the 4^th floor and it looked like she was keeping the sacred paperwork (meaning we would have to fill it all out again upstairs…).  Luckily, she agreed to give the papers to me, so off we went to the 4^th floor (only, that meant passing the security guards again, which meant another conversation about AirPods…).

The woman on the 4^th floor also recognized our friend (was that a good sign?  A bad sign??  If all of these people KNEW him, why did he not seem to be receiving any services??).  We turned in our paperwork to her, filled out a bit more, and sat down to wait again. 

As we waited, we chatted, and the DHS worker could hear every bit of the conversation.  We talked about rich people.  About flowers.  About cocaine (this was a new topic).  About him being in the hospital (3 times!  In diapers!!).  And all of the things we always talk about.  Occasionally, the worker would look over and smile.  I wonder if she has had those same conversations with him in the past?

My time before work was running out so I had to call in back-up support.  David (my partner) came to take my place.  I briefed him on all that had happened and just as I was about to leave, the woman who had been assigned to our friend came out to greet us.

And from the moment she walked over, it was obvious that she was very frustrated that she had been assigned this case.  “Hi, this is our friend…  He has memory issues.  We are hoping to figure out how to get him a place to sleep,” I explained as we stood in the waiting room.  “Yes, I know him,” she said, and went on to explain that he has been into the office repeatedly and they “keep trying to help him” and they have given him “several referrals to the shelter” but he “chooses not to go”.  She explained that once they even “gave him a voucher for a taxi, but when he got out of the taxi I don’t know if he went into the shelter or not.”

I could feel my blood starting to boil.  “Of course he didn’t go into the shelter!” I wanted to yell, “He got dropped off in a taxi, had no idea where he was or why he was there!”. 

I asked if he had a CASE MANAGER, someone to oversee his care and well-being.  And this is when she explained the part that floored me…  She said that a case manager cannot be assigned until he “gets into the system”, and “getting into the system” means staying at the shelter for quite a while.

This man has NO MEMORY.

If he woke up at a shelter and then went outside for a bike ride, he would have no idea where he had spent last night.  He would not return to the shelter. 

I had to rush to work so left David with our friend and the woman who was frustrated to be assigned his case (yet again apparently).

David and our friend met with the woman and probably filled out more paperwork.  She gave David the address of a shelter.  David and our friend walked back to our house, I served them fresh strawberries, we put his bike in the back of our car, and off we drove to the shelter.

Mind you, ALL THROUGHOUT THIS PROCESS, I had been explaining (repeatedly, see the note about him having no memory…) that we were going to try and find him a place with a bed today.  And he was ON BOARD.  He said, “Yeah, that’s good”. 

We pulled up at the shelter (which was not the one we assumed they would assign him) and when we walked in, they greeted him by name.  Apparently, DHS had told them to expect him!  That seemed like a good sign…

The place was clean and nice.  We were shown a table full of food and told all 3 of us could eat (David and I declined, but our buddy sat down with a turkey and cheese sandwich).  I talked a bit to the person at the front desk about the issues we were trying to deal with.  The staff member was so kind and caring and supportive.  But most of all, what I noticed is that he was RESPECTFUL.  He talked with such respect to all of the residents (and us).  He said that they were ready to do the intake but would wait until our friend finished eating (isn’t that so sweet?).

When our friend was done with his sandwich, we accompanied him to another room for the intake.  More paperwork, with many, many more “not applicables” because I do not know his history and he does not remember it.  He did not understand many of the questions and I was “interpreting” them (asking them to him in different words).  All was going well until they got to the last page - the consent form.  The staff member explained that if he signed this form, he was giving the shelter consent to share his information with the state, county, police – whoever was needed to ensure he received the services he needed.

“Wait, what??” he asked.

She tried to explain it again.

“I want to read that!” he said.

She showed him the paper.

“I can’t read it.”  I am not sure if the issue is literacy, cognitive functioning, bad eyesight, or a combination of those things, but today was the first time I realized he cannot read.

I offered to “read” it for him, and recapped what it said in simpler terms, keeping the severity and meaning intact.

“I need to think about that….” he said.

Oh.  No.

I hadn’t considered that he may not consent to receive services!  In my stupid, never been homeless, don’t have severe mental illness state, it had not occurred to me that maybe what I thought he needed is not what he thinks he needs…

Then again…  Is he competent to make legal decisions such as that?

“I have an idea,” I said.  “Let’s just go see what a room here would look like if you decided to stay.  You don’t need to sign the paper!  You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.  But would you like to at least see a room??”.  The staff member nodded to me that yes, that would be possible. 

“I’ve been here before.  But ok.  I will see a room,” he said.  (He apparently had been there before, but only as an overnight guest.  And this time the paperwork that DHS had sent over would allow him to be a resident.)

The four of us went upstairs to peek into a room.  When the staff member opened the door, a man in one of the beds startled.  She apologized to him and said we just wanted to see a room (even retelling this now, I see how ridiculous my life filters are – it was as if I was at a hotel asking to preview a room before giving them my credit card…). 

Our friend peeked in and saw 4 twin beds in a large room. 

“That’s the room???” he asked.

“Well, this is what the rooms all look like,” the staff member explained.

I asked the man in the bed what he thought about this place.  I thought, “Hey, maybe if our friend hears it firsthand from someone who lives here, he will be convinced that this is a cool place”.  And the guy semi sat up and said, I quote, “This is the best place on earth!” (what an endorsement, right???) then added, “If you respect all of the staff and the other residents”.  (Hell, even with the addendum, still a glowing review!)

But our friend had seen enough.

Nope. 

He was done.

Wasn’t signing any papers.

Wasn’t staying.

Was ready to go.

As we headed back downstairs the staff member quietly asked me WHY DHS had sent him THERE, as this was obviously not the right sort of facility for him.  She said (as I have been thinking) he needs SUPPORTED HOUSING, like a group home with supervision and care. 

We headed out to get his bike and pack it back into our car.  I was sad.  I was angry.  I was frustrated.  Not with HIM, but with the whole experience, and with myself.

“Where should we drop you off?” I asked him, likely with a more gruff tone than was called for.

“What?”.  Of course he didn’t understand.  I was asking him to make a CHOICE, make a DECISION.  I knoooow he is incapable of that.

“Where should we take you?” I asked again.  “I guess we will just drop you off in front of (name of the boarded-up restaurant you have been sleeping in front of).”

And as I looked at him, his face dropped.  He went from perfectly fine to being horribly sad. 

“You said something bad,” he said quietly.

And I realized what I had done.  I had verbalized my frustration.  Maybe not in words, but in affect and tone.

“Oh, I am sorry.  I did not mean to be upset.  I am not angry at YOU.  I am angry, but not angry at YOU.”

Tears well up in his eyes.

“Really, I am not mad at you, I promise…”

The sweet staff member walked out to the parking lot to find us just as my friend and I both burst into tears. 

“I am not angry at you.  I am angry at the f-ed up SYSTEM.  The system that should support you but doesn’t.  That can’t understand this situation.  But I promise I am not mad at you.”

We stood in silence a bit.  I felt guilty that I didn’t reach out and give him a hug. He clearly needed one. 

We dried our tears and got the bike sorted in the hatchback.

The staff member thanked us.  He said we were doing a good job. He said he could tell when we walked in that we cared.  And told us that maybe this didn’t work out right now, but we should go to bed tonight knowing that we tried.

As we pulled out of the parking lot I asked, in a calm tone, if he would like to be dropped off where he usually stays. 

He said no, he would rather go to our house.  “Isn’t that where you are going??” he asked.

Why yes, yes it is, friend.

We came home.  Got his bike and his bags out of the car.  And as he regrouped to go about his evening, he asked quite honestly and genuinely, “Now what was I doing??”.

And the cycle continues.

The system isn’t built for people like him.

And maybe sleeping on the sidewalk is what he prefers.

Maybe my idea that only a bed and a pillow can bring comfort is a faulty one.

We will see him again.

I will heat up another meal and serve up another fruit cup.

We will talk about his missing children again.

He will show me the hospital bracelet again from this March (who knows why he was in…) and explain that he doesn’t want to take it off.

He will sleep on the street.

And I will sleep in my bed.

And I have to figure out how to be ok with that.

Good Food

Sometimes being in charge of the Little Yellow Free Pantry overwhelms me.

That’s the truth.

It is not an easy project to manage.  It probably seems easy when you look at it:  a relatively small box, two shelves, with food and toiletries displayed inside.  I mean, how hard can that be to run??

But in reality – it is very hard. 

There are the daily Amazon donations to unpack, bring down to the pantry storage area, and put away.  There are the daily hand delivered donations to sort through (checking “best by” dates), bring down to the pantry storage area, and put away.  There is the Amazon list to keep up to date (don’t want too much of one thing and none of something else).  There is the constant restocking of items in the pantry.  There is greeting guests and running down to the storage area to bring them out bags of what they need.  There is collecting, responding to, shopping for food, and delivering it when notes for special items are left in pantry.

And that doesn’t take into account the physical upkeep of the actual pantry!  Changing batteries when the lights don’t work.  Fixing the doors when they get broken.  Honestly, the whole pantry needs to be rebuilt at the moment as it has been out in the elements for two years and is falling apart a bit.

I tell you these things not to complain – trust me, I loooove being the keeper of the Little Yellow Free Pantry.  It brings me great joy.  But I share those things so that you might get a sense of how it can all get a bit overwhelming sometimes.

But then something happens, something always happens, to center me in the experience and remind me that all of the effort is indeed worth it.

One of those things happened today.  I want to share it with you so that you, too, can get a sense of the value that a tiny box with two shelves can bring to a community.

We were out in the yard, having just hung about 150 plastic eggs filled with treats from our fence for passersby to find and share (with 100 more to hang tomorrow).  It looks like quite a sight - brightly colored plastic eggs dangling from pretty ribbons all along the fence.  Lovely! 

Two women I had never seen before stopped to take it all in.  They looked a bit confused (and I can understand why, the whole vibe of our home can be a touch overwhelming).  They walked to the pantry and stopped to look in.  They didn’t open the doors but peered through the windows of the pantry.  They spoke quietly to one another in a language I could tell was not English, but they were so quiet I couldn’t make it out.  Then one of them said to me, “Food??”. 

“Yes!” I told them.  “Food!  For all (I gestured around the neighborhood)”.  More quiet talking, likely translating what I had tried to explain.  “For you!  You can have”.  Quiet talking…  “What would you like?  Soup?  Peanut butter?  Tea?” I tried.  “Eggs??” was the quiet response.  Sadly, I had just given away the eggs this morning…  “Hmmm, no eggs…  You wait – I will show!  Please stay,” I said as I rushed in to fill a basket with choices.  With the language barrier I figured it would be easier to SHOW than TELL. 

I brought out a basket of items and some cloth grocery bags.  I gave each woman a bag and held up an item.  “Soup – yes or no??”   “Yes!”  I put it into one of their bags.  “Shampoo (gesturing to show washing my hair) – yes or no?”  “Yes,” they said as they caught on to the system. 

One by one we went through the items, some yes, some no.  After one yes on a food item, the woman asked, “Is good??”.  Hmmm, what did she mean?  Does it taste good?  She saw the confusion on my face and tried again.  “Is, ummm, expire??” she asked.  “Ahhh, no!!  Not expired!  Good!  Good.  All good.  All food here – GOOD,” I explained.  And then I realized that this must seem too good to be true.  How had they happened upon such a place – a place that would help them fill their bellies and wash their hair – and the things they would be given were nice and fresh and new and GOOD.  (And I where had they been given things that were not good, and so often that they had learned the word “expire”….)

I asked where they were from and they told me Afghanistan.  They have been here for one and a half years.  Meaning – they are refugees of the war. 

It is moments like that when I am reminded that the mission of the pantry is important.  Not only does it provide nourishment to many, it also provides hope.  It provides welcome.  It provides community.  

Welcome to the neighborhood, ladies.  I wish we had met you sooner.  I am thankful you walked by today and were brave enough to stop and talk.  May America be a safe place for you.  May you make many friends in this country.  And may your food always be GOOD.

Cold, Sticky Kindness

So, not gonna lie.

Sometimes the injustices, the inequities, and the overall sadness of life get to me. A friend's husband got bad news on his health today. A neighbor confided over tears yesterday that her husband is drinking (again) and it is causing huge problems. Two friends are working very hard to get out of abusive situations... The world piles on a LOT sometimes and it is hard to see the positive.

Last night I couldn't sleep. Only, I wasn't worried about anything, but I had an IDEA that I couldn't stop thinking about: POPSICLES.

The weather report said today was going to have a high of 86 degrees, and it was spot on. Instead of spring, it felt like a summer day. And I wanted to celebrate that with POPSICLES. For everyone.

I asked David to do a grocery run to stock up on a variety of popsicles today, and I did another quick run for more (and ice) after I finished work. I had posted in two local groups that people could stop by between 6:30 pm - 7:45 pm tonight for a popsicle, but of course I had no idea how many would show up.

I "opened" early - 6:25. I think it was because I was so excited! And for the first few minutes I sat on the front porch steps alone... But then people started coming! Neighbors who had seen the post and came specifically for a treat. Joggers who paused when they saw the action and got a popsicle. A pantry guest on his way home from work who was surprised that he could get not only his instant mashed potatoes in the pantry, but also a popsicle!

Around 50 people came. We chatted. Kids got sticky, the kind of sticky a good popsicle makes you.

The horribleness in the world still remains. One evening of fresh air and popsicles cannot cure that. But people came. Neighbors talked. I met new people. Babies ate their first popsicles.

Earth shattering? Not at all. But a little drop in the bucket toward making the world a better place.

Kindness Activist funds used: $51.95 (and enough leftovers in the freezer to host another popsicle night)

Magic spread: impossible to measure, but I for one feel a bit better about the world tonight.

#KindnessActivist #MeetYourNeighbors #Popsicles