A Christmas Good-bye, A Christmas Welcome (Part II)

I was miserable and I was alone. I kept asking myself what did I do to deserve this? How could she just get up and leave. For South America, of all places. I’d thought that our relationship was going to lead somewhere. Christmas was just days away and all I’d been doing was moping about and feeling sorry for myself.

A good friend called. And that was all it took for me to spill my guts. After an hour or two of nothing but sobbing and self-pity, he finally said, “Are you finished? Stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something useful.”

I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. Did he not hear what I had been telling him for the last two hours and how crappy I was feeling? Some friend he was. He interrupted my string of invectives and said that he was coming by early tomorrow to pick me up and we would be heading out to a soup kitchen to do something useful.

A soup kitchen. Great. I lose my girlfriend, and my so-called friend was taking me down to a soup kitchen for Christmas. Drunks, drug addicts, the mentally ill, and, no doubt, all manner of ill-begotten people whom I would not have any association with during my normal day. Now I was going to spend time with these people during Christmas. Great.

After a twenty minute drive, we arrived in a not-so-nice part of town where the soup kitchen was located. It was early and the place was empty save for five volunteers and the Coordinator of the place. He was a nice enough fellow who gave me a tour of the facility and described all the work needed to be done. He explained that the soup kitchen opened at 11:00 a.m. and that the day’s prep work was all done by volunteers like myself. I was assigned hot dog duty--prepping the fixins, buns, and boiling the wieners.

This was not the way I wanted to spend Christmas. There was literally a ton of work to be done--sacks of onions, potatoes, carrots and boxes of veggies piled high waiting for us volunteers. The other volunteers didn’t seem to mind. In fact, they went about their business in an efficient if not professional manner. They actually seemed to be happy in this place. It didn’t seem to matter that there was another sack of carrots or potatoes that needed peeling. There was work to be done and someone did it. It was important to them. And there was a camaraderie that I haven’t experienced else where.

After finishing my umpteenth sack of onions and putting six dozen wieners into pots of boiling water, it was getting close to opening time. There was a small line-up outside. When the doors opened up, the Coordinator and some of the volunteers were at the front door with cups of hot coffee greeting people as they came in. There were men, and women. A range of ages. Seniors, young people, some in wheelchairs. All well-behaved. All happy to see the welcoming faces of the volunteers.

Among those coming in was a woman and her young child. The little girl looked to be about five-years-old. As I gawked, my friend came over and pulled me aside. He directed me to the food service assembly line. Today’s menu consisted of pasta with meat sauce, macaroni salad, fruit, a dessert and, of course, hot dogs. There was also a mountain of specially made up bags for people to take away with them. The volunteers on the line were a well-oiled machine--getting meals ready to serve with the urgency of an Indy pit crew. As I was the rookie, it was mandatory to take on the role of server. This soup kitchen was full service. No hiding in the back.

I grabbed a meal tray in each hand and headed out to the dining area where the Coordinator directed me to a couple of gents at a table. They were busy talking as I laid the trays down before them. As I walked away, one shouted, “Hey, kid. Thanks! Best of the season to you!” I smiled, and wished him and his companion a Merry Christmas.

More people started to stream in. On my way back to the kitchen, I noticed the little girl and her mother going from table to table. The mother had an apron on. She was a volunteer. The little girl was carrying a white plastic bucket. She stopped at each table and reached into the white plastic bucket. As she handed a Christmas cookie to each person, she said in the sweetest voice I’ve ever heard, “Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas!”

The smiles she brought to the people in that dining room was magic in the purest sense of the word.

We must have served up over a hundred meals in the span of a few hours. I was pretty tired, but it was a good tired.

At the end of the lunch service, the Coordinator was kind enough to introduce me to the woman and her little girl. He explained that I was the new guy responsible for the hot dogs. The little girl gave me a grin. I sat down and found out a bit more about them. The little girl told me that she and her mom made Christmas cookies every year to bring down to the soup kitchen. I asked why she did that. She simply said, “Nobody should be sad at Christmas.”

Choking back the lump in my throat, I asked if she and her mom would like to have some lunch. She said, “Yes, I’d like a hot dog, please.”

You know, a hot dog never tasted better.