Love and Care

Yesterday, I went on my first Wednesday night strike with Love and Care Ministries. And although I felt awkward at the beginning (what's new), towards the end, I found that I felt more comfortable with the people I was with than I had in a long time.

A night strike is when a group of volunteers take sandwiches, cookies, drinks, and chips (all together in recycled bread bags) to homeless people. I know, sounds like service that's too good to be true. But it is real. It's simple, and it's real.

I arrived at the Love and Care Ministries headquarters around 5:20, not knowing what to do or where to go. When I walked in the building, a middle aged couple was stuffing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches into bags. Immediately I stereotyped them. The woman looked like every other upper middle class woman with her large hoop earrings and bedazzled belt. The man looked like the husband of that type of woman, just an average Joe who probably works for a bank or something. Anyway, I walked up, we introduced ourselves, and I started to help bagging. We started talking about where we were from, what school I go to, what church they go to, that sort of thing. All the while, a few other people trickled through the kitchen where we were working, loading things into a large moving truck. We finished bagging and started putting the boxes of food into the truck. While doing so, the couple and I began to talk about movies, because I told them that that's what I wanted to do. I found out that the couple loves old movies, but also watches recent, good films like I do, mainly because of the woman. Preparations wrapped up, and after sitting on the truck for about ten minutes, we had our group in a circle. There was a woman who looked 50-ish, had multiple piercings and tattoos, was tall and skinny. A man dressed like a full cowboy, complete with the hat, long white hair, beard, and boots and his (strangely) normal looking wife were talking with a man who was were what looked like a mechanic's uniform. I soon found out he was the truck driver. Then there was three girls that looked my age, one with braided hair, topped with a red raider hat. She reminded me of someone, but I cannot remember now who.

Anyway, we said a prayer, loaded up into the back of the truck (which reminded me of a rhote dang from Thailand, except bigger) and drove. We went to several different housing complexes and handed out food to people. That's it. We would ask their names, and the others in the group would ask if there was anything they could pray about for them. We went to a place under a bridge where 5 homeless people were, and some of the people in our group, the veterans I suppose, knew them by name. There was a lady with a dog whose name was the word for best friend in french; a man who claimed to be a part of the House of Yahweh; a man who kept reminding us that being homeless wasn't his thing, he was only in this situation for a short time; and two men who seemed normal as anyone else.

We went into a neighborhood, and as the wife of the cowboy prayed with one lady, another lady sprinted out of her house screaming "I need some of that too!", referring to prayer. A few of us intertwined arms and prayed for her, and cowboy's wife was positively stirred by this experience.

We brought food to a man named Mr. Jones, and while we were en route when his name was mentioned for the first time, I obviously sang the chorus of the song with the same name by Counting Crows. It was then that I discovered that Counting Crows were the bedazzled wife's favorite band. My respect for them grew.

All in all, as the sun set, I found myself at home with these people. We talked about small things that are inconsequential, but it didn't matter because we were doing exactly what Jesus told us to. I'm going back next week.