One Good Meal

Loaves & Fishes is a soup kitchen run by the Catholic diocese. It is located in a not-so-pretty part of Sacramento, just north of downtown. They serve one substantial meal a day, 364 days a year, and only close on Thanksgiving because so many other groups offer meals that day.

They employ a handful of paid employees, but each day, 25 to 30 volunteers (Catholics) show up and work to prepare and serve a meal. Some come at 7:00 in the morning and do the actual cooking. Some, like me, show up at 10:30 and serve the lunchtime meal.

I’ve heard Mary Ann (the lady who is often in charge of the volunteers) say a dozen times over the years that just when she is sure no one will show up, 20 people are at the door and ready to work.

My goal is to serve on the third Saturday of each month, but I don’t always make it. This morning, I drove through an industrial area to North C Street, and then passed the portable toilets and the various people (of all ages) sleeping on the sidewalks. They were the guests we would soon be serving.

I go as part of the Catholic Newman Center group, and I have my own Newman Center apron with my name embroidered on it. When I walked in this morning, 25 volunteers (plus 10 high school students) were already milling about, drying trays, and checking the casseroles in the huge ovens.

Eventually, we adults made our way to a back room and went over the rules: always ask the guest if he wants what you’re serving, wear closed-toe shoes, smile and make them feel welcome.

When we were all clear on the rules (and we were all clear because we’d done this for years), we stood in a circle, held hands, and a young woman started speaking.

She talked about how we all came from a place of abundance and how thankful we were to have the opportunity to interact with people who may not know where they would sleep tonight. She thanked God for the gifts of compassion and knowledge, and hoped that through us, our guests would feel His love.

Then, as is our custom, we recited the Our Father, and I thought for the thousandth time how that simple prayer made profound sense and touched my soul most deeply when I was standing in a circle of people with bowed heads, wearing aprons and plastic gloves, at Loaves & Fishes.

Then we got to work. I headed over to the beverage station, since that is my domain. On my way, though, I took a detour into the dining room to grin at the large black-and-white photo on the wall (like I always do). 

In the photo, volunteers stand in a cluster, smiling, under a sign that says “1995 – Serving our One Millionth Meal.” And front and center, arms crossed and looking like she runs the place (all 4 feet and 11 inches of her), is my mother.

In 1995, I lived in Canada and was caring for a three-year-old daughter and a one-year-old son, but I know what my mother was doing.

Many years later, I would come to Loaves & Fishes with my daughter so she could fulfill her community service hours for high school. We came a couple of times for the early shift and chopped onions for hours, me keeping an eye on her to make sure she didn’t get distracted and chop off one or more of her fingers.

When I’d chuckled at the photo long enough, I walked to the beverage station and took a quick inventory to make sure I had three crates of cups ready and waiting, and that the five-gallon plastic container was filled high enough with juice to get through the first wave of guests. I used the spigot at the bottom of the container to fill the cups.

When I ran low, I would yell for John, a burly giant of a man, who would peer at the transparent plastic container and tell me that I could wait a little longer. I always pushed back and said he was messing up my system. For those two hours, I walked a narrow line between demand and supply.

He would squint at me, only a little mad, and then refill the container.

Years ago, another very large man named Richard would refill the container. I had to know when he was coming so I could take the lid off in time for him to dump the fresh juice in.

One memorable day, I was busy greeting my guests and distributing juice when someone growled in my ear, “Ma’am, please remove your top.”

Well, that made me pause. I turned to see Richard holding a large container of juice, ready to pour it in the other one.

I said, “Richard, that did not come out quite right.”

He frowned, then turned beet red, then I removed the lid so he could add more juice.

John won’t play games like that with me.

Frank is usually in charge of the high school students who help in the dining room. I guess he found my work sub-par because he didn’t warm up to me for about five years. Now he’ll offer the occasional gruff remark/joke (I have to discern which it is each time), and I try to play along because I still don’t know why he doesn’t like me.

I checked that my beverage station was ready, filled ten cups with juice, and waited for the guests to file in. In one afternoon, we could serve between 150 and 350 people. On Saturdays, they made taco casserole, which was a crowd favorite.

At 11:00, the guests started filing in. They were handed a tray and made their way down the line, picking up bread, fruit, cake, salad, corn, and taco casserole. Because the beverage station is at the end of the line, I have time to fill more cups while they decide whether or not they want cheese or salsa on their Casserole Olé.

I greeted each person and asked if he or she wanted juice. Sometimes they just wanted an empty cup for water. I had to be mindful of the teenagers in the dining room because they would sneak up behind me and take cups of juice to distribute, and then I didn’t have as many in reserve as I thought I did.

I always noticed the guests who were down to two or three teeth, and admired them for smiling widely at me anyway.

You couldn’t miss that most of our guests hadn’t experienced a bath in a while.

My stomach always dropped when I saw a young man who looked a little like my son, or an elderly man who looked a little like my father.

I usually got one marriage proposal and one other type of proposal. A muscular African-American man told me to let him know when I was ready for a REAL man.

One kid with limp, greasy hair (wearing knee socks with flip flops) said to me, reproachfully, “You haven’t been here for a while.”

A young Asian man, when asked if he wanted salsa on his casserole, clapped his hands and yelled, “Oh, God, yes!!”

One guest (wearing grimy shorts over his grimy sweats) took his cup of juice and said, “Thank you for the respect.” That left me stumbling for an appropriate response, and finally I just said, “Sure.”

I recognized one elderly woman who often came in neatly dressed and clutching a small, blue, leather handbag and a bulky map of California. I think she had big plans at one time, or maybe she still did.

Many of the guests wore crosses around their necks and I wondered how people in such difficult circumstances and with so little had enough energy or hope left to be faithful.

I spotted a young, bald African-American man sitting at a table in a corner, engaged in a spirited conversation. I looked to see who he was talking to and realized he was alone.

One woman wore a large black garbage bag tied around her waist.

One kid kept his jacket closed with a clothes pin.

When an older man was asked if he wanted jalapenos on his casserole, he bellowed, "I'm already going to hell--are you trying to get me there sooner!"

Another man, who looked as grungy as everyone else, took his cup of juice from me and muttered, "Now to find a seat away from the rif raf."

I smiled at a pair of identical twin ladies in their 70s, with wild white hair and wearing matching ratty plaid pajama bottoms. They always walked side by side, their heads close together, making their private observations.

Another of the guests whispered in my ear that I could get a job at McDonald's and make a heck of a lot more money than I was making at Loaves & Fishes.

Two hours later (and the time flew by), the guests were fed and back out in a not-so-gentle world. I tidied my station and asked if there was anything else I could do. No, the teenagers would clean up.

As I left the dining room and made my way to the car, it occurred to me, again, how I always felt better when I left Loaves & Fishes than when I arrived. I would return to a comfortable home and actually have a second meal that day, but the two hours I spent with “my homeless friends” always stayed with me.

An older man with shaggy gray hair had winked at me and said, “Thanks for stepping up.”

As he walked away, I thought, Thanks for making my day.