A BOUNTIFUL LIFE

A short story of gratefulness from Rich Paschall. The following originally appeared on SERENDIPITY.

Max had to get an early start on Monday.  Three times a month it was the most important day of the week and he did not want to be late.  It was quite the walk to the Methodist church but he felt he was up to it.  Anyway, he did not want to ride part of the way on the bus as that seemed a waste of money.  If he had a good haul, however, he would definitely consider public transportation on the way back.  Even though Max was not a Methodist, he was headed to the Methodist church.

Next door to the church stood a small wooden building.  It was painted grey, like the church building, and it seemed too small for most uses.  No one recalls why the building was there originally, but now it served as the neighborhood food pantry.  Three churches participated in the collection of goods.  Each took 1 Sunday a month to collect canned goods and non-perishable items at their services and then bring them to the pantry.  The Methodist church got the honor of running the pantry because it had the extra space and the Reverend Lawrence J. Shepherd had the time three mornings a week to hand out goods to those in need.  The fourth and sometimes fifth Sunday of the month found no collections and the food pantry was likely to run out of food.  In the final weeks of the month, the Reverend Shepherd asked his own congregation to consider bringing in items again.  If there was a fifth Sunday in the month, the good reverend was practically begging.  He would call local stores asking for assistance.  It was the small shops that would donate, never the big supermarkets.

It was a good plan to be at the food pantry at 9 am when the Reverend came to unlock the door.  It was also a good idea to bring a sturdy bag with you, one that was good for carrying goods a long distance.  If you had no bag, the reverend always had some used plastic bags from the markets and the donated supplies.  People seemed more willing to recycle their old plastic bags than to actually give food or money, but the reverend was thankful for anything that would help him out.

“Good morning, reverend,” Max said in a cheerful voice.  Max always had a smile on his face and seemed to absolutely light up when he ran into anyone he knew.  People were as glad to see this happy person as he was to see them.

“Hello Max,” the reverend said.  “I think we have some good items this week.”  That pleased Max very much.  He felt quite fortunate to be getting good food.  It was not something that Max could afford on his own.

When Max was pushed out of his job at retirement age, he had little savings.  Almost half of his fixed income went to pay his rent.  The utilities and regular monthly expenses took about a third.  He only filled prescriptions that were low-cost and skipped the others in order to stretch his funds.  The little that was left did not exactly cover the food costs.  That is why he saw the food pantry as a blessing that was bestowed upon the neighborhood in general and himself in particular.  He just could not imagine why he was so lucky to have the pantry.  He knew other neighborhoods did not have one.

After the reverend had gathered up a nice selection for Max, he handed him back his bag filled with goods.  Max was not one of those people who asked for specific things from the shelves behind the counter.  He was pleased with whatever he was handed.  “I guess we will see you next week, Max,” Shepherd said.  “Bless you.”

“Bless you too, reverend,” Max replied happily as he reached out and shook the reverend’s hand. It was just as if he was shaking God’s own hand right there in that little building next to God’s house.  Of course, it was not the house of Max’s God, but he figured they all pretty much belonged to the same supreme being.

Despite a brisk north wind blowing right at Max, he bravely made his return trip on foot. He did not feel that being handed some excellent cans and boxes was any reason to turn around and throw away good money.  His fingers and toes were rather numb when Max got into the small apartment and finally sat down.  He would make the trip again the following week and the week after.  The reverend only allowed you to come once a week.  Few showed up on the weeks when there had been no collection of goods that Sunday.

Each Sunday Max made his way to his own church.  They participated in the food collection once a month and did their best to minister to the needs of the parish poor.  After such a fine selection of goods that Monday, Max felt it was very important to show up at church on time the following Sunday.  He greeted everyone with a smile as he walked in.  He paused at the back of the church where there was a small safe.  In the top was a slot to receive donations for the St. Vincent DePaul Society for the poor.  Max reached into his pocket and found a quarter, dime, 2 nickels, and a penny.  He dropped them into the old safe.  Even though his coat and gloves were given to him by the Society, Max did not consider himself one of the poor.  Instead, he felt obligated to help out if he could.  He helped on the coat drive, the Christmas tree sale, the donut sale, and other activities to benefit the poor.  Why should he not help, when he had so much?

As he moved up the center aisle, Max spotted an empty pew.  This meant he could get a nice seat on the aisle where he could look right down the middle and see the service.  He stepped in, knelt down, and gave thanks for the bounty in his life.

HAVE ANY CHANGE YOU CAN SPARE? – RICH PASCHALL

This is a true story that was posted last winter. The point is still important as there seems to be no less homeless now. We could, and perhaps should, rant about the lack of government help. We can also point out the need to help one another and our community organizations.

SERENDIPITY: SEEKING INTELLIGENT LIFE ON EARTH

Begging on the city streets, Rich Paschall

It was a particularly nice evening for this time of year. The temperature has been known to be brutal when the calendar reaches this point of winter, but this night was different. People walked as if the wind was not pushing them along. For a town known as “The Windy City,” there was barely any wind at all. A few people were standing about in front of sports bars, having a smoke or talking about this year’s football disaster. There was no reason to hurry inside.

A parking spot was waiting for me across the street from my destination. It was not the Wild West Restaurant and Sports Bar from the short story series from last year, but in my mind it was close enough. I was ready to order some food that I probably should not have, but I thought I would just forget the word “cholesterol” for a…

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Thank all the stars in the sky

English: (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“I saw a man with his head bowed low.”

It’s sad really, and I do not always know what to make of it.  I see him in a number of places.  I think in recent years I have seen him more often.  It is surely the work of the poor economic times.  What else can it be?  I know some will be skeptical.  They will think he is out there because he does not want to work, that he is a loafer or worse.  Some will accuse him of being a trouble maker.  Some will call him an alcoholic or a wino.  “Don’t give him any money,” they will warn.  “He will just spend it on wine or beer.  If he gets a little more money, he will just buy a fifth or a pint.”  Can that be true?  Are all of them just looking for the next drink?

“His heart had no place to go.”

Perhaps that is not it at all.  Perhaps he hangs his head in shame.  Perhaps he is embarrassed.  Perhaps he had a lot at one time, and circumstance, in conjunction with a long recession, have forced him to seek handouts.  You would hang your head too, I suppose.  I think I would for sure.  Stealing a man’s pride is a crime that can not be imagined by those whose hard work, or luck, or acts of kindness did not bring them to this sad place, this lonely street corner or bus stop, park bench or vacant building.  What is left of your pride if you have to sleep under a bridge or alongside the river?  Where does your heart live if you live under some bushes or in a cardboard box in whatever accounts for your town’s skid row?  If your heart has no warm place to beat, is it really beating at all?

“Why don’t they go to the Salvation Army?” you might demand to know.  “Don’t they know about the Night Ministry?”  Perhaps they do or perhaps they never thought they would need to know about them.  “Certainly Catholic Charities will help them,” you insist.  “They can get clean clothes at those second-hand places,” you can proclaim with all the fervor of someone tired of seeing him in the street.  I think he may be tired of being in the street, too.  It has been a long time in the street and he just may be plain tired.  In January the cold can push pretty far south, but here in the midwest it is desperate out there.  It can turn once vibrant eyes into vacant stares.  He may not see your face as he walks up to your car with a crude sign declaring “homeless” and “please help,” but you see his and you want to forget it.  He might wish to forget too, but he can’t because the next car might have some loose change to put in his dirty paper cup.

“I looked and I thought to myself with a sigh:
There but for you go I.”

Whenever I see him, I remember that my fate is better than his.  Family members may tell me that it is because of a “good upbringing” that I am not like him.  “We were taught to go out in the world and make our own way,” they can tell me with confidence.  “If they had any sense at all,” my friends might add, “they would get themselves cleaned up, and would get a job.”  Would they?  I wonder how a homeless man without any possessions would ever be able to start a job.  The Salvation Army says it helped over 30 million people in 2012.  Thirty million!  Maybe they gave him a meal or two.  Perhaps they were able to give him clothes and shelter for a little while.  Perhaps they missed him in the crush of humanity they needed to help.   They can ring the bells at Christmas time while some drop coins in the kettle, but can they help him?  I mean can they help the guy with the ragged jacket and sad look who holds out the dirty coffee cup that once held a moment of warmth inside a nearby McDonald’s?  Can all of the charities in all of the cold winter cities, towns and villages help him and everyone like him who is forced to panhandle in the biting January wind?

My mother was born in 1920 and therefore grew up in what the history books refer to as the Great Depression.  Survival was tough in the big cities where your blues just mixed with the sounds of all the others.  It was tough being the oldest and when the stock market crashed and dragged down the lifestyle of millions and millions, there was no one smart enough to ask why don’t they get out of the street?  When my grandmother’s family seemed too poor to survive, a family of some means back east, relatives perhaps, offered to take my grandmother’s oldest child since she obviously could not raise the whole family.  That did not happen.  My mother told me often, “if you ever have anything to give, then give to the St. Vincent DePaul Society.  Without them, we would not have had enough to eat or good clothes to wear during The Depression.”  So whenever she saw anyone needing a handout, she did not have a disparaging word.  If someone had trouble due to disability or poverty, she would point him out to me and say with the determination of someone who had been there, “Don’t ever think you have it bad, there is always someone else who has it worse (or needs help) more than you.”

“I thought as I thanked all the stars in the sky:
There, but for you, go I.”

Related articles

• Deadlines Approaching For Holiday Assistance Programs (kake.com)
• Volunteers find blessing in service (amarillo.com)

Song lyrics:  There But For You Go I, by Lerner and Lowe, from the musical “Brigadoon”

Thanking all the stars

English: (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“I saw a man with his head bowed low.”

It’s sad really, and I do not always know what to make of it.  I see him in a number of places.  I think in recent years I have seen him more often.  It is surely the work of the poor economic times.  What else can it be?  I know some will be skeptical.  They will think he is out there because he does not want to work, that he is a loafer or worse.  Some will accuse him of being a trouble maker.  Some will call him an alcoholic or a wino.  “Don’t give him any money,” they will warn.  “He will just spend it on wine or beer.  If he gets a little more money, he will just buy a fifth or a pint.”  Can that be true?  Are all of them just looking for the next drink?

“His heart had no place to go.”

Perhaps that is not it at all.  Perhaps he hangs his head in shame.  Perhaps he is embarrassed.  Perhaps he had a lot at one time, and circumstance, in conjunction with a long recession, have forced him to seek handouts.  You would hang your head too, I suppose.  I think I would for sure.  Stealing a man’s pride is a crime that can not be imagined by those whose hard work, or luck, or acts of kindness did not bring them to this sad place, this lonely street corner or bus stop, park bench or vacant building.  What is left of your pride if you have to sleep under a bridge or alongside the river?  Where does your heart live if you live under some bushes or in a cardboard box in whatever accounts for your town’s skid row?  If your heart has no warm place to beat, is it really beating at all?

“Why don’t they go to the Salvation Army?” you might demand to know.  “Don’t they know about the Night Ministry?”  Perhaps they do or perhaps they never thought they would need to know about them.  “Certainly Catholic Charities will help them,” you insist.  “They can get clean clothes at those second-hand places,” you can proclaim with all the fervor of someone tired of seeing him in the street.  I think he may be tired of being in the street, too.  It has been a long time in the street and he just may be plain tired.  In January the cold can push pretty far south, but here in the midwest it is desperate out there.  It can turn once vibrant eyes into vacant stares.  He may not see your face as he walks up to your car with a crude sign declaring “homeless” and “please help,” but you see his and you want to forget it.  He might wish to forget too, but he can’t because the next car might have some loose change to put in his dirty paper cup.

“I looked and I thought to myself with a sigh:
There but for you go I.”

Whenever I see him, I remember that my fate is better than his.  Family members may tell me that it is because of a “good upbringing” that I am not like him.  “We were taught to go out in the world and make out own way,” they can tell me with confidence.  “If they had any sense at all,” my friends might add, “they would get themselves cleaned up, and would get a job.”  Would they?  I wonder how a homeless man without any possessions would ever be able to start a job.  The Salvation Army says it helped over a million people in 2012.  A million!  Maybe they gave him a meal or two.  Perhaps they were able to give him clothes and shelter for a little while.  Perhaps they missed him in the crush of humanity they needed to help.   They can ring the bells at Christmas time while some drop coins in the kettle, but can they help him?  I mean can they help the guy with the ragged jacket and sad look who holds out the dirty coffee cup that once held a moment of warmth inside a nearby McDonald’s?  Can all of the charities in all of the cold winter cities, towns and villages help him and everyone like him who is forced to panhandle in the biting January wind?

My mother was born in 1920 and therefore grew up in what the history books refer to as the Great Depression.  Survival was tough in the big cities where your blues just mixed with the sounds of all the others.  It was tough being the oldest and when the stock market crashed and dragged down the lifestyle of millions and millions, there was no one smart enough to ask why don’t they get out of the street?  When my grandmother’s family seemed too poor to survive, a family of some means back east, relatives perhaps, offered to take my grandmother’s oldest child since she obviously could not raise the whole family.  That did not happen.  My mother told me often, “if you ever have anything to give, then give to the St. Vincent DePaul Society.  Without them, we would not have had enough to eat or good clothes to wear during The Depression.”  So whenever she saw anyone needing a handout, she did not have a disparaging word.  If someone had trouble due to disability or poverty, she would point him out to me and say with the determination of someone who had been there, “Don’t ever think you have it bad, there is always someone else who has it worse (or needs help) more than you.”

“I thought as I thanked all the stars in the sky:
There, but for you, go I.”

Related articles

• Deadlines Approaching For Holiday Assistance Programs (kake.com)
• Volunteers find blessing in service (amarillo.com)

Song lyrics:  There But For You Go I, by Lerner and Lowe, from the musical “Brigadoon”