In the Wee Small Hours

My friend, Linda, recently wrote a blog about the sorts of things she ruminates about in the wee small hours of the morning. It got me thinking about my perpetual lack of sleep and propensity to do the same. The irony of coming across Linda’s blog when I was awake in the middle of the night was a cosmic joke not lost on me. But Linda’s blog was a welcome change to what usually interrupts my sleep. Lately, it’s been the Seven Dwarfs of Menopause who keep me company at night. Perhaps you know my friends… Sweaty, Weepy, Angry, Irrational, Tired, Hungry, and Forgetful. What was I saying?

Anyway.

At 3 AM, my mind is a strange and often scary place to be.  Scenes from what life was, what it is, and what it might be in the future all collide in a twisted amalgamation of hope, despair, joy, and dread. If I’m honest, the hope and joy parts shed just enough light to reveal the full terror of the despair and dread that presents itself at some point between midnight and 4 AM. Cognitively, I’m aware that these menacing shadows recede somewhat come daylight, but being ever so slightly neurotic, I find myself mucking about in places tangled and dark. Try as I might, I cannot seem to find answers or solutions or a way out and back to the blissful nothingness of sleep.

So I lay awake. And I think.

Sometimes I think about what life was. I remember laughter and warmth – the feeling of safety and security. Those days and that life feels a longtime gone now. All these years later, I still miss it – still miss him. More than I can say, I’m grateful for a new him and new experiences, but it’s not the same. It can’t be. The two hims are very different people.

So am I.

In the wee small hours, the person I’ve become often surprises me. I’ve always been cynical and sarcastic. But underneath all that was optimism, perhaps idealism, that somehow – someway – things would be okay. At three in the morning – hell, at three in the afternoon – I’m no longer so sure. Sometimes things aren’t okay. Sometimes things are broken and can never be repaired. Sometimes there are no answers. Sometimes, no matter how hard I try or pray… it’s not enough. In the middle of the night, this bothers me more than I can say.

It sucks that life is often not okay for me. But it’s a tragedy that it’s not okay for so many people. I think about the children I know who are living in poverty – one in every five in my state. I think about how our education system is failing them and how our state is gutting what little funding for education there is. I know the statistics, know what these children are doomed to through no fault of their own. And I wonder how in God’s name can people sit by and do nothing? I wonder what it will take for parents, grandparents, business owners and neighbors to be on the steps of the school house and the Capitol every day, demanding that we invest into our future, refusing to take no for an answer.

In the wee small hours, I see the faces of families who live in the shadow of fear. Children illegally brought to this country as babies now can’t get a driver’s license, a job, or a higher education. I know many children and young adults in this position. I spoke to one of them just this past weekend. Against odds I can’t imagine, they have worked hard in our schools to earn good grades. They want to contribute – to give back to the country they call home. Yet in our country and especially my state, they don’t have that option. What will become of them? As a nation, what will become of us if we don’t rise above our fear and create a place for these young adults?

As I burn the midnight oil, I’m often amused at the disparate and frequently contradictory thoughts that roll around in the abyss of my brain. At times, optimism still gasps breath and resurrects itself to speak words of hope. Citizens will rise up and vote down those who currently fill our state and country with fear-based leadership. Our country will remember the fair Lady who once welcomed “the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to break free” and once again demonstrate a living embodiment of those sentiments. The death and brokenness that has defined so much of my last decade will give way to the dawn of a different and new love – a new future filled with purpose and hope.

But sometimes optimism sleeps so soundly, she cannot be roused and I am left alone in the land of the desolate. The economy will never recover. Mine is the first generation that can expect a lower standard of living than the previous one. The wheels continue to come off of America’s education system and countries that were once considered third world nations now outperform our students. In fact, we’re outsourcing our jobs to them. Love is merely an illusion and loss will continue to define my future, just as it has my past.

When optimism refuses to wake, 3 AM becomes a dreary, lonely place to be.

Thankfully, the sun comes up. Every morning by the grace of God, I am reminded that each day is a new day. Each day offers a place from which to begin again. And the night terrors that have left me frozen in fear are melted away in the warmth of a new dawn. I’m still tired. Still skeptical and cynical. Still not sure I can make it okay. But I’m determined to try.

So.

It’s just about time for the sun to come up.  Guess I better get to work on a new day.

 

Yesterday

Every once in a great while, you get the privilege of being part of something that is bigger than you could have ever dreamed… more hopeful than your best expectations… more holy than a prayer. Yesterday was one of those days.

Yesterday more than 100 volunteers from all over the Valley came together to help Kitchen on the Street serve more than 1,600 people at three events taking place at two school campuses in greater Phoenix. If you were walking in my shoes, you’d know the miracle of that statement.

Three years ago, Kitchen on the Street started because my dear friends, Lisa and Vince Scarpinato, listened with their hearts as my husband, Dennis, shared the story of a little girl at one of his schools who went hungry at nights and on weekends. A few days before Dennis died, they emailed us, telling him not to worry anymore about the little girl – they would be feeding her and other kids like her.

What began as a handful of neighbors packing food for 15-20 kids each week in Lisa and Vince’s backyard has turned into an all-volunteer agency feeding more than 300 kids every week in nine Valley schools. Our first year of operation, we brought in roughly $7,200 in donations and provided 4,600 meals. We just closed our third year with roughly $70,000 in donations… more than 45,000 meals distributed… and thousands of lives touched with the love of Christ in the process.

Yesterday I had the privilege of seeing some of their faces. We worked in collaboration with St. Mary’s Food Bank, the largest food bank in Phoenix, to distribute 12 pallets of food. More than 225 families lined up more than an hour before the distribution began, waiting to receive bags of fresh produce for their families. I had the opportunity to look into the eyes of mothers – their eyes shining with gratitude for the opportunity to feed their children. And I watched as little children played together while waiting in line, their faces filled with hope because our volunteers were there to extend help in the name of Christ. As the last person went through the line, we discovered we had provided food to at least 1,000 people – many of them children.

More than 225 families lined up to receive fresh food distributed by Kitchen on the Street, in collaboration with St. Mary's Food Bank.

For many families, this food distribution is a lifeline.

Kitchen on the Street volunteers distribute bread, salad, squash, and other fresh food that is often beyond the reach of families living in poverty.

There were as many children as adults in the line, waiting to receive food.

Fresh food given by hands extended in the name of Christ.

The hope was palpable as moms left with food for their families.

An hour later, I was at another event on the same campus. Humana Healthcare had sent 30 volunteers to help us pack 600 bags of food for our Bags of Hope program distributed in local public schools. Many of the volunteers had brought their children and I was able to share stories with them of some of the children they would be feeding as the result of their effort.

Humana volunteers brought their children to help pack 600 Bags of Hope for distribution in local public schools.

I watched as mothers fought back tears when I told their children the story of two elementary-aged sisters and their pre-school-aged brother. Mom has stage IV cancer and dad is long gone. In a few months, these children will be orphans. But for now, the food provided by Kitchen on the Street means this family has one less thing to worry about as they make memories together and cherish the precious time they have left.

The children worked with purpose, knowing their efforts were feeding kids just like them in schools just like theirs.

The eyes of one of the little girls listening to the stories grew wide when I told of a little girl who was referred to the school principal for scamming her classmates out of their lunch money. As the principal asked questions, she discovered that the little girl’s house had partially burned down. Having nowhere else to go, the family is still living in this shell of a home with no food and no money. The little girl wasn’t intending to be “naughty,” but only wanted enough money to buy food. Instead of being suspended, this child was referred to Kitchen on the Street. We’re now feeding her and have had the opportunity to share information with her family about additional resources in their community.

Father and son work side by side, packing boxes filled with Bags of Hope to be delivered to local schools.

Yesterday, dozens of volunteers arrived at one of our partner schools. Armed with garbage bags, gloves, sponges, and cleaning supplies, they worked for hours sprucing up the campus. With schools facing severe budget shortages, janitors’ hours are being cut, which means classrooms are becoming dirty. Our volunteers wiped down desks, picked up trash, and pulled weeds. On Monday morning, hundreds of students will return to classrooms brightened by the help and hope given as a gift by our volunteers.

Yesterday was a good day. Hope won. In a neighborhood blighted by poverty and violence, food was given out in the name of Christ. Culture and language was no barrier to love. The sound of children laughing was heard as they carried home bags of food for their families. And because yesterday was a good day for Kitchen on the Street, tomorrow will be even better for a child whose hunger has been turned into hope.

It's donations from people like you who make hope possible in the lives of children served by Kitchen on the Street. Thank you for giving generously!

To learn more about our all-volunteer agency, making a tax-deductible donation, or volunteering your time, please visit the website, KitchenOnTheStreet.org.

She Looked A Lot Like Me

She asked me for bread this Christmas. Her voice came from behind me and I turned around to see who was speaking, certain I had misunderstood her. I hadn’t. She asked me for bread or perhaps some hot dogs.

In my neighborhood, being asked for a handout happens almost every day. Usually, however, I can spot the ones who are about to ask me for money. This woman slipped in under my radar. She wasn’t dirty or unkempt. Her clothes were clean and her hair was tidy. She was well spoken and in her right mind. The truth is she looked a lot like me.

As I stood for a moment sizing her up, I found myself embarrassed for judging her need by her appearance. In listening to her speak, embarrassment gave way to shame as she told me her story. She is a victim of our economy. She lost her job several weeks ago and has children to feed. She was in my shopping complex filling out job applications at all the local shops. She was having no luck. This woman looked me in the eye and said, “I’m not asking you for money. I’m asking you for food. Things are getting tight and I need help feeding my children. Would you buy me a loaf of bread or some hot dogs and consider it a Christmas present for my kids?”

I stood there in silence, stunned at her request. I had expected her to ask for money. Instead she asked me for a loaf of bread for Christmas. Somehow her request pierced my heart and all I could think of was the fact that I was going home this afternoon and making a quiche for Megan’s dinner. At least for today and for the next several days, I know where my daughter’s next meal is coming from. This woman who looked a lot like me couldn’t say the same.

Clearing my throat, I found my voice and asked the woman if she could stay put for a few minutes. She told me she would be waiting in front of the grocery store. I shoved my to do list back in my purse and made my way inside the grocery. Not knowing how long it would be before she made it back home, I made my way up and down aisles picking out non-perishable foods and placing them in my basket. Pasta and sauce; bread and peanut butter and jelly; tuna and mayonnaise; and a few granola bars later, I made my way back out the doors and toward the woman waiting for me.

She looked at the bags of groceries and her face lit up. Smiling, she told me her children would be so happy to eat good food. Her voice cracked and her lip quivered as she thanked me for the food. We stood there in front of the grocery store looking at each other with heavy hearts and tears running down our faces.

I blessed her in God’s name and made my way through the parking lot toward my car. All afternoon, I’ve thought of this woman and prayed for her and her children. Times are hard, the future uncertain. Work is scarce. Children need provision. It’s Christmas, and this woman looked a lot like me.

Originally written December 17, 2008