Calf length fur coat, oversized costume jewels and thick black curls that framed an aging beauty– her disposition was nothing short of graceful and her words feathery soft, but it was her smile that drew me in. It was a crooked smile lined with bright red lipstick that held a sadness that a bystander might miss. Her deep-set, chocolate eyes revealed shame– embarrassment– as they shifted downward and off to the side each time she felt seen.
I’d seen her bit her lower lip from time to time in hopes to stifle them from quivering; in hopes to keep them from revealing more of who she was. If she could have crawled into a shell, she most certainly would have. I watched her in line as she shuffled her way to the counter behind which I stood–smiling, bubbling over with excitement to be “doing my part” as I served Thanksgiving dinner to the homeless. When she finally made her way to the front of the line, she hesitated for a good, long while–so long that I began to wonder if she was able to speak. When finally her shaky voice found its footing, she humbly asked for a half a piece of pecan pie.
It’s all she wanted–half a piece of pecan pie.
She didn’t want to appear greedy. She didn’t want to impose. She wore her best clothes, maybe her only clothes and tried to blend in. I witnessed her holding on to the bit of dignity she had left as she tried to pretend that this place, this community– this handout–didn’t bother her. I watched her serve coffee to those at her plastic table covered with cheap, festive crepe paper with that smile; with an elegance that me and my designer jeans had not mastered on my side of the tracks. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I watched her from afar engaged in polite conversation, nodding and smiling as she listened to others share their stories. It was easy to see that she cared deeply– and the occasional sparkle in her eyes told me that she was listening to more than their words but to their hearts.
How a woman with such tenderness, such mercy, such inner beauty, could end up here, at a banquet for the homeless, was more than I could fathom. Handing her a half slice of pecan pie, I wanted to ask but I didn’t dare. I felt it would have been an intrusion of her privacy. Perhaps it would have brought to light what she was desperately trying to conceal.
Later, as I swept the floor as people ate in an adjoining room, I thought about each of the people I had the opportunity to serve this night–and how I expected them to be drug users, dirty and smelly, maybe even rude or aggressive. Sure, I saw some of that, but so much more than that, I saw the people in this community as individuals with their own stories, their own strengths and weaknesses. I saw how some boisterously demanded a handout and seem ungrateful only to watch them walk away exhaling relief for a temporary solution to their ongoing struggle. I saw how some allowed their tears of thanksgiving to slide quietly down their cheek and silently nod as a way to say, “Thanks.”
I was touched by humanity. I was touched by the number of needs; the kinds of needs. I was touched by the humbleness that presented itself in an array of shapes, colors, and textures. As I swept, occasionally looking out into the dining room, my own tears slid down my cheeks and that all-too-familiar lump found its way into my throat. My heart pounded restlessly and my mind searched with abandon for ways I could give more, be more, do more in response to seeing for the first time what has been under my nose all my life–people. People in need. I was an hour from home, no wallet, no extra clothes—nothing. I had nothing. I couldn’t believe I went to serve the homeless and brought nothing with me. I was grieved for my ignorance.
I kept thinking how I wanted to give everything I had. I wanted to give my best–the best of myself, the best of my possessions, but I had nothing. So I swept. I swept the best I could. I prayed as I swept. I scrubbed the counters. I scrubbed the counters the best I could. I prayed as I scrubbed. It is all I had this night—my service, my prayers, my presence.
Before I finished my task, I could not help but to stop, wrap an extra large piece of pecan pie for the woman with black curls. I made a beeline for her. She saw me coming. She averted her eyes as she sipped her coffee and fussed with the napkin on her lap. I said nothing. I just placed the cover pie plate in front of her and looked her in the eye. She trembled; physically trembled. Her sincerity rattled me and tears fell from both our eyes. I hugged her tightly taking in the waft of cheap perfume and expensive grace. Neither of us said a word. I retreated back to the kitchen and picked up my broom.
As the night began to fade and people one-by-one began to leave, I wondered if I should talk to the woman in fur. I contemplated what I would say and thought better of it and kept sweeping. I caught a glimpse of feet in wool socks—only wool socks– enter the kitchen only to look up to see her standing in the doorway. Tears in her eyes told me more about her and all I could muster was, “Happy Thanksgiving, Precious.” She cocked her head slightly, smiled, and without a word– left.
I did not want to leave. I wanted to stay in that place– that place where I received far more than I gave, where the Lord showed me that although I didn’t have material things to give away, I had Him. I had all He had made me to be–my heart, my mind, my soul, my experiences, my everything. And wherever I go, I have all I really need.
Being present with one another, bringing all that we are to the table, is a regularly understated gift. We need one another. The woman in fur taught me that. So my challenge to us this Thanksgiving is to practice being present. Prepping and cooking, and baking and decorating—those are beautiful gifts of service, of love—but nothing takes the place of you—of your heart, mind, and soul.
*This post was originally written in 2010. I’ve learned so many lessons about being present since and have had substantial opportunities to put into practice the things I’ve written about here, but this experience—well, it will forever hold a special place in my heart. Some lessons leave deeper, more significant strata groves on our hearts than others.
Saturated In Seattle 