Through the Eyes

Through the Eyes of a Volunteer

I see the sprawl of guys waiting on the street as I turn the corner and approach the Kansas City Rescue Mission.  Forlorn looks, pleading eyes, distant gazes, challenging stares, numb faces . . . I see all of these and more as I steer my car through the gates.  Some of the men are dirty and disheveled, some are surprisingly neat and trim, some sit quietly and watch the others cautiously, some march around loudly parading for others to see and fear.

I park my car and head towards the Visitors Entrance.  A few men stand around outside the door smoking.  At first glance they seem a bit scary, but then one grabs the door for me and gruffly welcomes me to his home.  I mumble my thanks and continue inside.

The door closes behind me and I am greeted with near silence.  There is a front desk with men huddled around, apparently praying for the evening.  One of the men leads, asking God for safety and a smooth check-in process this evening.  With the final ‘Amen,’ the man behind the desk turns to me and says, “You here for the kitchen?”  I stammer affirmatively and he points around the corner.  One of the men graciously offers to guide me to the kitchen and I am grateful.

As we walk, the man introduces himself to me.  His name is Eric.  He’s been staying at the shelter for three months on the recovery program, C-Corps he calls it.  (Later I learn it is C-COR, the Christian Community of Recovery.)  I ask him how he came to be here and he eagerly tells me about his past life of drugs and women, losing his job and then his apartment — losing control.  Now, he says, everything has changed.  He’s a different man.  He’s studying the Bible, going to church, clean and sober for four months now, and looking forward to seeing his wife soon.  I thank him for the escort and story as he heads back to the front desk with a wave and a smile.

The dining room looks like it will seat around 100 come meal-time.  Tables and chairs fill the room, packing in as many seats as possible.  I am approached by a tall, thin African-American man wearing glasses and an apron.  “You my volunteer?” he asks eagerly.  When I nod, he tells me where I can get my own apron and plastic gloves.  He asks me my name and tells me his name is Michael; he’s the kitchen staff for the evening and, boy, is he grateful I’m here and … his enthusiasm is overwhelming and instantly contagious. 

Michael puts me to work preparing salads.  My job is to place a handful of salad in each bowl and spoon out a dollop of ranch dressing on each.  Another couple shows up and they begin putting bread in baskets.  We talk for a bit while we work and I learn they have been coming to volunteer at the Mission for just over three years.  I have never held a job for more than 18 months, so their level of commitment amazes me and I wonder what keeps bringing them back.  They tell me they enjoy coming down and serving these guys, many of whom they see month after month.  Sometimes, they explain, they even have the opportunity to sit down and chat with a guy, see where he’s coming from, what makes him tick, and offer some encouragement and understanding.  Sit down and talk with a homeless guy!?  That’s not something I’ve ever done.  Sure, I’ve passed out plenty of loose change and leftovers to guys on the streets, but having a legitimate conversation is definitely outside of my comfort zone.

As I begin placing the salads at each seat, the other couple finishes setting the bread out and begins to fill pitchers with water for each table.  A few more volunteers show up and begin setting out silverware and napkins.  Last on the to-do list is dessert.  I join a woman cutting and serving pieces of cake and pastries onto dessert plates. 

Soon about 30 “first-serving guys” file in and fill one side of the room.  Michael explains these men are part of the C-COR program and eat early so the Mission can welcome in as many overnight guests as possible for the second serving.  He asks for a volunteer to pray for the meal and one of the guys stands.  Hats come off, heads bow, and we all listen to the prayer for food, shelter, and safety.  ‘Amen’ is our signal to begin bringing the main courses, one in each hand, to the guys.  They graciously receive the delicious meal we prepared for them.  I hear many appreciative ‘thank yous’ throughout the process and in a very short time, all 30 men are digging in.

I feel a touch on my shoulder and a volunteer hands me a plate for myself.  “There’s plenty,” he says,”Here, join us.”  He is waving towards a half-empty table.  The other half is taken by three homeless men plowing through their meals.  I hesitantly sit down and begin eating my chicken, mashed potatoes and greens.  Uncomfortable at first, I quickly feel at ease as our conversation hops from weather to the Chiefs’ game to the latest disgraced celebrity.  One of the volunteers asks a C-COR member to share his story with me, as it’s my first time here, and he eagerly obliges. 

He tells me about his life before KCRM: how he was once a successful businessman, who spent time with his kids and his wife, and lived in his own house in the countryside.  Then he tells me how it all ended — how the alcohol he drank for fun became the alcohol he drank to escape and then became the undoing of his family, his house, his life.  He wound up on the streets of Kansas City and soon found Kansas City Rescue Mission.  It was a good place to find food and rest.  After a couple months of doing the homeless thing, he decided it was time for a change, so he signed up for C-COR.  Five months later, he is looking to graduate and begin searching for a job.

I thank him for his story as we clear our places and reset our silverware for the next serving.  ‘My pleasure,’ he says with a grin as he heads out of the dining room.

The “second serving guys” begin filing in through the narrow dining hall walkways.  After the last man takes his seat, I grab two plates and head for the first table.  Many of the guys are grateful, some will not look me in the eye, but I don’t mind.  One man calls for more water.  I take his pitcher and head back to the kitchen for a refill.  The evening is a little hectic, but not overwhelming.  Everything is orderly and the guys are well mannered towards us volunteers.

I learn men staying at the shelter for the night will clean up after the meal, so once everyone has been served, my job is over.  Michael guides the volunteers into an office, where we pray for the men and women served this evening, for their safety and health, and that they will come to know why it is we are serving them, because Jesus loves them and so do we.

Moments later as I pull away from the Mission I feel strangely refreshed.  I came to give love, but found myself on the receiving end instead.

soggy cheerios

My 10-month old son recently discovered the joy of Cheerios.  He can’t get enough of them.  He eats them with breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  He eats them in the car, he snacks on them between meals.  He eats them fresh, he eats them stale.  He eats them crunchy, he eats them soggy.  He eats them in his bowl, on his tray, from his lap, off the floor.  Would he, could he in a boat?  Would he, could he with a goat?  Yes, he’ll eat them here and there!  Say, he’ll eat them ANYWHERE!

It doesn’t matter if the Cheerio is broken or mangled, soggy or stale, dirty, dusty, dry . . . he loves them all.  He doesn’t care where the Cheerio has been in the past or what path it took to find him.  His joy at finding a Cheerio in the last corner of his tray is as exciting and overwhelming as his joy at picking up his first Cheerio of the day.

He loves Cheerios.

Cute, but what’s the point?  Well, I think we’re a lot like Cheerios.  Yes, I know it sounds silly.  But I think we really are.  Some of us are dirty.  Some of us are broken.  Some of us feel stale and dry, worn out, old.  Some of us are young, new, fresh out of the box – innocent, pure.  Some of us are soggy, saturated by the noises and voices of the world.  Some of us have lots of stuff, some of us have little or nothing.  Some of us live in big boxes, some of us live under the stars.  Some of us have traveled far, some of us have never gone outside our comfort zones.  Some of us are loud, some of us are silent. 

But in spite (and maybe even because) of our differences, we are all loved.  God sees beyond the differences.  He sees us as we truly are, and He loves us anyway.  God, who is holy, set apart, wholly other, loves us. 

Christian, Jew, Muslim, Buddhist, atheist, agnostic, midwesterner, New Englander, Californian, Michigander, Texan, New Orleans-ian, Bostonian, Canadian, British, Russian, South African, Guatemalan, Sudanese, Chinese, Columbian, Australian, Haitian, White, Black, Hispanic, tall, short, loud, fat, thin, rich, poor, Democrat, Republican, liberal, moderate, right-wing, left handed, famous, infamous, amateur, professional, student, white-collar, blue-collar, no collar . . . God loves us all.

Why do we have such a hard time loving each other? 

 “You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’  But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven.  He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.  If you love those who love you, what reward will you get?  Are not even the tax collectors doing that?  And if you greet only your brothers, what are you doing more than others?  Do not even pagans do that?  Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.” – Matthew 5:43-48

Me, I’m just a soggy Cheerio who is loved more than he deserves.

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(My wife: “So God is a big toddler sitting in the corner eating Cheerios?”

Hey, it’s not a perfect metaphor.)

Feels Like Coming Home

I took a walk Sunday morning.  I parked my car in an older residential area of North Kansas City near Macon Park, then headed west through streets lined with bungalows and old duplexes where families who’d skipped church (like I did) were out on their front lawns, mowing, throwing footballs and generally jawing the morning away.

Folks looked up as I passed by.  I could tell they were trying to figure out if I was a neighbor or stranger to their street.  After a couple blocks I crossed into a new section of housing — a beautiful development of apartments, condos, bungalows and larger homes, all carefully constructed to mimic the down-home, small-town feel North Kansas City has managed to retain despite the sprawl around it.

As I passed one of the larger houses, I noticed a 50-something couple drinking coffee on their front veranda.  ”Welcome to Pleasantville,” the man smiled.  After we exchanged a few more words of greeting, I asked how they liked living in North Kansas City.  Minutes later, I was taking a tour of their home!

As I followed the man through the living room and into the kitchen, I took in family photos, the smell of spaghetti sauce cooking, the laundry stacked neatly, the carefully made beds.  We made our way through several bedrooms.  I oohed and aahed at the whirl pool jets in the master suite’s bathroom.  We talked about kids in college, the advantages and disadvantages of the empty nest, the friendly safe streets of Northtown, and why we oughta move there someday.

As I shook hands all around and thanked them for their hospitality, the wife said, “Tell your husband we’re having homemade spaghetti for dinner tonight and if you show up, we’ll have plenty.”  I walked out of that house and back to my car still basking in the warmth of their welcome.

It doesn’t take much to make a person feel welcome in the world.

A few days later, I cross through the parking lot at the Kansas City Rescue Mission, past the residents in our Christian Community of Recovery who are smoking and soaking up the afternoon sun.  It’s been a chaotic day and suddenly I turn around and plunk down into one of the metal patio chairs scattered around the edges of the parking lot.

“Slumming?” says one of the guys.  He’s wearing a big smile under an even bigger mustache.  Pretty soon, we’re telling stories about being kids in the 60s and 70s, talking about who’s sick and who’s dying, shaking our heads about the guys who’ve left the Mission and shoring each other up with bits of Scripture and other words of wisdom.  Later, a sense of duty pushes me up and out of my chair and I head for my office. But I’m refreshed — still basking in the warmth of their welcome.

It doesn’t take much to make a person feel welcome in the world.

An Evening with Bill Self

 

 

 

 

The Kansas City Rescue Mission is pleased to invite you to An Evening with Bill Self, October 6th at the College Basketball Experience.  If you’ve never been to CBE before, now’s your chance! 

Tickets include dinner, entrance to the College Basketball Hall of Fame and the interactive exhibits, a silent auction for sports memorabilia, and a heart-to-heart with Bill Self.

Tickets for this event are $100.  For more information contact Julie Larocco at jlarocco@kcrm.org or (816)421-7643 or visit our website at www.kcrm.org.

A Call to Pray for Terry Jones

Each time I read, see or hear the news story about Florida minister Terry Jones threatening to burn the Koran, I wait for the words, “He has come to his senses.” Each time, I am disappointed. It is nearly midnight, Wednesday, September 8 and I’ve turned from the 10 o’clock news astonished again that a church leader, a pastor, a minister of the Gospel, a father, an American would make such a senseless decision.

My son fought in Iraq, and my son-in-law and now my nephew serves in Afghanistan. I can’t fathom how this man arrived at the conclusion that burning a Koran to make the point that  ”something is wrong” is worth the danger he’s placed our soldiers in … or his own family for that matter.

But my greater question is this: How does a leader in the church of Jesus Christ conclude he is glorifying God … reflecting Christ’s love … exhibiting righteousness, discernment, goodness, the fruit of the Spirit … by burning the Koran?  As a believer, I have to believe the Holy Spirit is warring within this man day after day.  Why can he not hear?

I am calling on believers in Jesus Christ to pray for Terry Jones.  In Philippians 1:9-11, Paul writes:

“This is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, so you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless until the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ—to the glory and praise of God.” (Phil 1:9-11)

Terry Jones, your intended action will not reflect the love of Christ or the fruit of righteousness that comes through Him.  Your action will not honor the God you say you serve, nor will it bring glory and praise to His Holy Name.  I pray you hear His voice and obey it in the hours ahead.  You CAN humble yourself.  You CAN turn around.  His mercies are new every morning.