He was Hungry: a story rooted in grace

He was Hungry: a story rooted in grace

I worked downtown when I got my first job. I’d not gotten the job the first time I interviewed. I was shy, quiet, and uncertain of what I was doing. My dad came to my rescue and fought on my behalf, and I got a second chance. I have no idea the things my dad sacrificed for me. I don’t know how he managed to influence the right people doing whatever he did, but he did. It was not as though he had an important position. I suppose he was a fighter, and no one has ever gone to bat for me like he must have. I realize all this now that he is gone, though I never knew it then.

I hated the seclusion of a cubicle, but loved the hustle and bustle of the outside, the men and women walking hurriedly from one tall building to another in search of some lunch and some fresh air. I was about fifteen or twenty years younger than most of my co-workers, working in an all male environment. Though I was not a receptionist, I still had need to use a copier, and I had not one iota how to really use one. Instead of showing me how to use it, my co-workers would laugh as I fidgeted with it and made too many copies to waste and throw away, my cheeks burning, growing red and hot. I shuffled hurriedly back to my domain alone.

They hardly knew what to do with me, kept mentioning another woman out of office on maturity leave, and gave me calculations to check. I made copies of calculations made my others, highlighted answers and marked in red things listed wrong. I worked quickly, efficiently, and meticulously, hoping to learn how to do something real. College had not prepared me for this – this getting paid a fine salary to sit, stare, and feel uncertain, in a tiny cubicle space.

Having no one to call friend, lunch hour was my escape into the hustle, bustle, and noise. Wanting to be on the plains of Africa or on my way to a seminary degree, I went to the park downtown instead and observed business men and women eating, reading, and as me, taking solace away from the office. Mainly I watched the homeless men and women sleeping on benches and socializing, unclean, in the park. Many realizing my naiveté would stop me and ask for money. I often gave whatever I had and would come again the next day. I found the library close by and loved to walk two blocks and explore, rarely checking anything out, just watching, waiting, and breathing life in.

One day I walked over to the Wall Street Deli to get one of their club sandwiches I loved. It was right across from the park, so I could avoid sitting alone by myself in the restaurant with other suits and go to the park with the homeless instead. I confess I felt more at home with those wandering the streets than those who shuffled in and out of buildings for pay, day in and day out. As I walked back to the office that day, I ran smack-dab into a black woman. Her face was bright, her smile was wide, and she was someone I’ll never forget. I don’t remember how she asked – if she asked for my leftover food, money, or both, but she asked for me to help her, and I said yes and gave her what she asked for. She quoted Scripture saying, “For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink. Bless you, child.” I left feeling I had been in the presence of the Lord.

I drove an hour each way to work, and due to circumstances I couldn’t see how to change, I lived at home with my parents. I went home and told them this joyous experience having no one I related to at work to tell. My mom and dad were not sure about all this time I spent walking around outside during lunch hour. They felt it unsafe, and my dad especially hated my giving to the “panhandlers.” I told him that I didn’t care if they wasted it on drugs, alcohol, or whatever else. It was not mine to control how they used it, I had simply to be faithful to the giving. Looking back, I wonder if I said it in a condescending, demeaning, I-know-the-rules-and-I-follow-them sort of way.

Many Fridays, my parents met me for dinner after work. One particular Friday evening, we went to eat at the Fish Market, several blocks away from the building where I worked. It was in the building that is now Newk’s, on the other side of its former parking lot where the new location stands now, a mere hole in the wall, like a closet compared to the space it moved into, with a front room, and a back room where stacks of olive oil and fish tanks acted as barriers for people as they stood in line to order. I ordered the same usually – fried flounder with John’s slaw and perhaps another side. We sat at our table for four, mom, dad, sister, and me. My sister was still in high school. We ate, drank, and were generally merry. When it was time to go home, we went out to the dirty parking lot in the back alley with the stinky dumpsters. It was a wide-eyed, crazy-haired, scrawny man who approached my dad.

“Sir, may I please sir? Sir, may I please sir have your leftovers?” he said to my dad as my dad opened the car door. We were in two separate cars, and I was stopping to say good-bye and head to my own.

“No, you can’t have these,” I heard him say. The man turned and walked into the other direction, and my dad turned to me.

“Here,” he said angrily, as he shoved the food box my way, “you believe in giving to panhandlers but I don’t. You can give this to him.”

“No,” I said sadly, “it is not my food to give,” as I pushed it back to him. I desperately wanted to give it away, but knew it was my dad’s to give. I was glad to be riding in my car home, as riding in a car when my dad was angry was less than fun. I could not at my age understand why you would not give food to anyone who had asked for it. In my mind’s eye, it was selfish.

I don’t remember much about what happened in the moments and days after, if anything else was said of it or even if the leftovers were eaten or thrown away, but that moment affected me greatly.

Since my dad’s death, I have often wondered if anyone ever fed him when he was hungry, gave him water when he was thirsty, invited him in when he was a stranger, clothed him when he was naked, or cared for him as a prisoner. Though he was a man who knew the gospel and wept when I walked up front to be baptized, I wonder if he ever tasted grace or if anyone ever showed him personally the power of redemption on this side of heaven. Though I was always keeping my parents on the edge of uncomfortable when it came to living the gospel, I wonder how often I shared anything more than mere rules and “righteous” living, like the way of the law. I think perhaps this was the one time I visualized grace for my dad, and I wonder if he pondered this moment too.

“Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.” Matthew 25:40

Photo credit: LMRitchie