Cheeseburger in Paradise

It’s another Saturday at Southwood, this time gloomy and damp. The ministry takes place outside, all year, and though we have a canvas pop-up for shade in the summer, there isn’t much we can do about winter weather. We almost called it, today, fearing rain, but decided to risk it; after all, it’s early in the year for rain, and we can always pack up if it starts getting too wet. Our shabby card tables and folding chairs are loaded off of Angela’s van and set up, kids see us and start coming out. The residents are a little more used to us, now, and three little girls have been showing up regularly for a few weeks.

There’s a little bit of rivalry between the girls (okay, a lot of rivalry, sometimes). Offered three different books so that each can take one home, they invariably all insist on the same one, fighting over it, somtimes viciously. Angela and I have discussed what to do about this, but there isn’t much we can do. What’s donated is what’s donated, and we rarely get batches of identical things. Most people are either disposing of their own children’s books, or giving a variety so that there is at least the semblance of choice. There’s nothing for it but to sigh a little and explain again that there’s enough for everyone and no need to fight. The Cluster (what our associated churches have decided to call ourselves) has met to compare notes on Saturdays, and we’ve made a decision to de-emphasize donations quit bringing so much stuff to give away; because of the rivalry, we don’t want getting things to become a focus of our visits. No one wants to take away from the food pantry at the church Angela and I belong to, so we decide that other than snacks, we’ll divert any food donations to the church.

This time, Rebecca, who has been showing up each time lately eating some kind of food, has to be cautioned not to spill cereal and milk all over the books. Shoshanna is listless and sad, very low energy, and has been for a few weeks. Book choices finally are made, and the girls decide to color. Rebecca places her cereal bowl on the table and everyone has to color as well as choose crayons from the communal tub around the bowl, now filled with soggy cereal as Rebecca stopped eating it almost immediately after she appeared with it. Marisol and Rebecca begin fighting over crayons and coloring books. There are at least two boxes of 64 crayons each in the tub, and half a dozen coloring books. More inward sighing. More reminding them in God’s world there is enough for everyone. Shoshanna’s quietly coloring. Maybe she’s getting it.

We’re getting to know the kids, but don’t know them very well yet at all. Their parents are wary of us, more so than the children, and aren’t around. I don’t blame them. They are hassled by a near-constant stream of social workers, probation officers, police, people wanting to convert them to various religions, and motel management. Who’s to say we’re not more of the same? Not having talked much to the parents, and still trying to build rapport with the kids, we’re cautious about correcting the kids, so ”Kids, please, there’s enough for everyone” is pretty much the strongest reprimand we have, and neither Angela nor I feel comfortable saying anything about the annoying cereal bowl.

Angela pulls me aside. “Listen, we’ve got this huge donation of peanut butter and jelly. There’s no way we’ll use it at church, why not give it to the kids? I want to quit driving so much stuff around.” I usually defer to Angela; she’s older and wiser, and she started the ministry. “Okay, sure.” I start getting the crayons put away and the snacks out for storytime, and Angela hauls a box of peanut butter and jelly out of the van. “Okay, who could use some peanut butter and jelly at home?” Marisol and Rebecca start vying over how many jars each child can take home.
Shoshanna, so quiet, stirs. She speaks in a near whisper, but it cuts through the bickering like a laser, steady and intense. “We need food at my house. Really bad.”

It feels like a thousand thoughts hit me at once. How ridiculous we must sound, telling them God has plenty for them when they clearly don’t have enough to meet their basic needs. Is there some darker meaning to the annoying cereal bowl? On a perpetual diet, I’d secretly congratulated myself for not eating any of the snack–how hypocritical. I’m a relative newcomer here; how many people am I going to piss off when I do what I’ve already decided, in that instant, that I’m going to do? How bad is it for the families here, how can we reach them, and what do they need? Can we begin to make a dent in what they must need?

I don’t know.

I do know, come hell or high water, we’re bringing food with us. Every time we come.