HUMILITY

An hour and a half of my week was spent at the local food pantry last summer. There, I volunteered as a personal shopper helping hungry persons shop for donated groceries. The customers waited in long lines, filling a small space full of plastic seats, similar to the DMV. One after another, they filed into the grocery portion of the building where a volunteer, pushed a gray cart, and gave instructions of how much or how little they are allowed to take for a week’s worth of food.

Here is how the process worked–First, the person chose one package of frozen meat donated from local grocery stores with expiration dates sometimes three months past due. Next, they were given the option of eight items, which included canned vegetables, peanut butter jars, noodle dinners, snacks, and even prepackaged bags of stew. Depending on donations, there may or not be hygiene products in this area, including diapers, whether for adults or babies.

Next, the customers chose either one box of cereal or a bag of oats, one loaf of bread, and a produce, if it was available. Some days, a local farmer will drop bushels off cucumbers or greens. Other times the produce was the stuff you and I would turn a crooked eye and a twisted lip to, wondering why the grocer hadn’t removed the bag of carrots with a white milky substance covering the vegetables. I remember that day too clear. The carrot packages went quickly with many of the comments, “My kids love carrots. Can I take two?”

Customers left the building on their own, without the volunteers help. Pantry Policy. More than likely due to the area in which the donation center was located. It was slightly run down. I wasn’t allowed to help the crippled veteran holding a cane in one hand and three plastic grocery bags of canned food in the other while limping out the door. Often, I placed the handles of the bags over labored or arthritic wrists, sometimes even in a child’s grasp.

The people that utilized the pantry were hard-working employees and still couldn’t provide enough food for their children or their spouses. Some of them lived down the street in the subdivision around the corner from my house. I’m sure some of them lived in less “prestigious” homes as well.

In my time volunteering, two particular situations struck me. The first was that not one person I helped grocery shop wore expensive shoes. No latest model of a famous basketball player or high-end leather sketchers. They were work shoes, steel toed, Walmart sneakers, or ripped sandals. I also heard, more than once, customers say, “I don’t need that this week. Still have some from last time. Let someone who needs it, have it.” Here were hungry people, mortified by having to come to a donation center to feed their families, but yet didn’t take just because it was available. What a powerful sense of community. People in need, needing together, without finger pointing. No, “this is mine, not yours.” Nor simply, “Screw you.”

One man in particular, made a strong impact on me. He wore a blue work uniform, most likely a plant worker of some sort, leather boots so thin the steel toe was exposed. His hands worked, hard. Grease and grime stained the crevices of his callused palms, yet his fingernails were clean. He brought his own bag for the groceries he collected. It wasn’t his outfit, but his bag that caught my attention. It was thick and durable, yet faded black vinyl, and reminded me of a ball bag a coach would carry to practice. A bag my own father would have used to carry softballs. As I made this claim, the gentlemen said as he placed a box of rice on the cart, “Found it in the alley and hosed it off. Can’t believe what people throw away.”

Normally, I have words, lots of them. But not that time. My mouth was shut, my words silenced. I was humbled and still am.