My church holds a community lunch.
We bring and prepare food,
And serve it to anyone who comes.
Saturday's lunch may have been
The last I ever serve at New Utrecht.
I look out at the faces,
And recall stories
I have learned over these months.
There are the grandparents
Raising their grandkids,
Because their parents are deceased.
There are the Latina moms,
Anna and Emi,
Looking for work to support their kids.
There is Louise with her autumnal-colored hair,
Whose watch I fixed,
And helped her up and down the stairs.
Today she spoke about
Her husband, and daughter, and son.
Where is her family, I wonder.
Why does she live in an assisted living facility?
The people who attend lunch
Are a rich assortment of real people.
Old and young,
Families and loners,
People who usually respond to a smile
As though no one has smiled at them in years.
Some don't smile back.
Those are the ones I really worry about.
Lines from "Eleanor Rigby"
Run through my head:
"All the lonely people -
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people -
Where do they all belong?"
How many are here for the food,
And how many are here for the company?
There are points throughout the lunch
When I think otherworldly thoughts.
I think about
What a meal would be like in Heaven.
Would it be buffet style,
Or would we be served?
If served, served by whom?
Would there be music?
Would we recognize each other?
How would we find each other?
Strange, circuitous thoughts
As I serve baked ziti, broccoli, and string beans.
You are serving lunch to eternal beings,
The thought sounds in my head.
You are serving lunch to someone
You may be dining next to in Heaven.
I look around,
And out,
And Beyond,
And pray that
I will have more chances
To serve a community lunch...
More chances to combat
The poverty and loneliness
That haunt so many lives.
God,
Grant that it may be so...
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