Rotary Experience with Hope of the Poor
By Creative Writer Rotarian Bob Bosco
By Creative Writer Rotarian Bob Bosco
Danny laid the guitar on his lap caressing it like an old friend.
Bella sitting next to him held her violin lovingly beneath her chin.
The violin offered its sweet sustained notes. Soon Danny was gently strumming cords and singing tender melodies about humans and angels and our common mission to care for one another.
The audience was a group of people willing to serve. I was one of twelve.
We were sitting in an old church. Its ancient Romanesque architecture housed us safely from the chaos of the outside world. The hefty forms and supports of the building created a tan gray environment made lighter by the small colorful stained glass windows along the side walls.
The residue of a holy energy from past events that took place here, filled our pores with anticipation.
Danny and Bella explained why we were there and defined the protocols for our actions. Then we were ready to begin our mission - to offer coffee, food and ourselves - to those who had no home - to those that simply needed to be seen, better yet, to be heard.
Making our way through the maze of halls and steep stairs, we eventually approached a garage door from the inside.
Before the door opened, we glanced about seeing 50 paper cups brimming over with oatmeal and brown sugar and as many coffee cups waiting for fulfillment.
There were two large dispensers of hot coffee at the ready. Nearby were all the accoutrements …. three flavors of syrups with plungers, plastic honey squirt bottles, containers of sugar, cinnamon, cocoa powder and bowls of milk. There was a washtub filled with bottles of water along with various packets of fizzy additives.
All these options would be dangling before those in waiting. Each individual could choose exactly the combination their individuality demanded. If they asked for everything, they would say “Around the World” please. Or the other extreme was possible, “Just Black Coffee If You Please”. This well thought out ritual was intentional - to highlight the dignity of individual identity.
Finally, while still in our dim space, the garage door began to slowly lift. Gradually, slowly the beautiful light of a sunny fall day illuminated our atmosphere. The light lit our ankles, rose up to our legs, filled our torso and finally made it to our faces, glowing.
Then our faces connected with the myriad of faces in waiting, standing in line, each ready to ask for … oatmeal with or without cinnamon … ready to ask for coffee with any of an array of flavors … ready to ask for fresh water with or without fizz .. ready to ask to be seen … ready to ask to be heard.
Many brief exchanges took place:
‘How are you feeling today?’
‘What is your name?’
‘Enjoying the sunny weather?’
‘That’s quite a load you have there?’
‘How is the oatmeal? Need some milk in it?’
Sometimes these queries evolved into concise yet personal revelations, other times just a good solid eye contact with a soft expression was enough.
Eventually we servers were all done dispensing. The crowd of those in need had dissipated. We all were milling about, now standing outdoors checking in with each other. We were officially closed.
I turned and noticed one lone disheveled lady sitting on a nearby curb. Without thinking I approached her and asked if she wanted any oatmeal or coffee. She said ‘yes’, then emphatically ’I’m hungry’. My heart sank as I flashed back to my own refrigerator overflowing with nature’s harvest in my own spacious home.
Her name was ‘Beatrice’. I turned away from her to gather a couple cups of freshly made oatmeal in hot water with extra cinnamon and a generous dollop of honey, then steaming coffee with cold milk and a squirt of maple sweetness. I bent down to her place on the curb and presented it to her. It became a sacred ritual. She smiled and I smiled back.
This aging church building had become a house for human compassion.
Now this day was complete.
And now I knew tomorrow would be different.
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