A Lot to Ponder

We just came back from an afternoon at our church. We hosted an ice cream social for the homeless in our back parking lot, which abuts the east bank of the Arkansas river in downtown Wichita. Several people arrived early, helping carry out tables, chairs, and food and drink. Several of the homeless also showed up early, waiting for us to complete preparations.
We had a couple of guys with guitars who sang various types of songs, mostly country and older soft rock, and a man had a car backed up to the area with a trunk full of new underwear, socks, shoes, and other things needed by folks.
One of the first things I heard was from one man who was eager for the line to form. He said something about the ice cream and all the toppings on the table, then said he thought he had died and gone to heaven. Others expressed appreciation for us and our cooperating community organization for hosting and having them.
We had besides ice cream and toppings, cookies, brownies, and various kinds of drinks, including water and coffee. I know it wasn’t a nourishing meal, as one might get in a soup kitchen, but it was a time when for awhile the folks could meet, visit, and share stories with other homeless, and with the volunteers.
We did this last year, too. That time was my first experience with something like this. I was a little apprehensive last year about it all. This year, it was different. These people were just people like me. The only difference was most of them didn’t have a home to go to tonight.
As I stood at the edge of the group, the unmistakable odor of sweat and bodies wafting my way, I looked at people who appeared to be hardened, chronically homeless as well as those who may well have only been that way for a month or two. I saw the old and young, children and grandfathers, men and women of all shapes and sizes. And the empathy I felt for each of them multiplied in that short time and after as I served coffee and bussed tables.
One man asked if he could play the guitar of one of the performers during a break. He strummed a little, and asked if the amplifier could be turned on. He did a tolerably good job of chording, although his repertoire consisted mainly of harder rock-type sub lines. The bass guitarist worked to stay with him in an informal jam session, and some of the man’s friends were obviously pleased he was performing.
I don’t know how long it had been since he had played, but the experience was well worth the price of admission for me, and I hope he went away from there with a renewed sense, however minimal, of self-worth and dignity.
There but for a few paychecks go I. That’s a lot to ponder.