Three weary, disheveled, homeless men and two scruffy, rumpled women leaned over together, gently clasped hands and bowed their heads in unison before their free sit-down holiday luncheon at a church here in the Hell’s Kitchen section of Manhattan.
Despite their obvious hunger, the five downtrodden folks paused to pray before plunging into the turkey, stuffing, marshmallowed yams, mashed potatoes, green beans and rolls brimming over the paper plates in front of them.
Shocked, I just stood there, gaping. Stunned, I quickly turned away. Tears had welled up in my eyes.
I was touched by the sight of the downtrodden gratefully thanking God for the feast before them.
You see, this holiday season, I’m taking a maiden voyage volunteering at synagogues and churches that offer special meals to the indigent. Over Thanksgiving, I scurried and scrambled to serve the indigent at two sites in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen, known for catering to the homeless.
For Christmas, I’m going to join some fellow Jews to volunteer again to feed the homeless.
All across America, from New York to San Francisco, volunteers like me are coming out in full force. You can see empathy and enthusiasm written all over our faces.
“What would you like to drink?” we ask them pleasantly.
“Can I get you some tin foil so you can take that with you?” we inquire solicitously.
“Would you like anything else?” we cheerfully wonder.
I’m embarrassed to admit that I plunged into my volunteer efforts this holiday season, in large part, because I don’t want to feel sorry for myself. I don’t want to feel lonely. I want to better appreciate my situation by helping others less fortunate.
Celebrating the holidays without my family is my decision. This year, I decided — for both personal and professional reasons — not to journey home to my family in San Francisco for Thanksgiving, Chanukah or Christmas, where I have ample feasts to choose from and plenty of relatives and friends with whom to mingle.
Rather, I’m staying behind in The Big Apple. But, as a newcomer to New York still cultivating friends, I’m finding myself with some time on my hands.
I’m relishing this twist on day-to-day reality. Instead of awkwardly, warily and nervously passing by homeless people on the street, I’m catering to them and serving them feasts. Perhaps it’s my small part to give these neglected souls home-cooked meals and stolen moments of togetherness.
Come to think of it, I love the inescapable irony. I — an upper-middle-class-raised, San Francisco Jewish native with JAP tendencies — am treating the homeless as if they were royalty. Sure enough, I’m approaching the woeful folks with deference, and they, in turn, are acting gracious and dignified.
During my brisk walk home in the cold after my waitressing experience in Hell’s Kitchen, I couldn’t get this startling image out of my mind of homeless people giving thanks.
I became convinced that this scene — the homeless saying grace before their meals — is being played out this holiday season at synagogues and churches in major cities from coast to coast.
Upon returning to my gorgeous new condo near the United Nations after my experiences feeding the homeless, I became ashamed of myself.
When had I taken time recently to say thanks for the scrumptious meal before me? For that matter, how often had I thanked my friends and family members for what they’ve done for me?
During the holiday season — from Thanksgiving through New Year’s — much is said about the value of giving thanks. But nothing drove that point home more clearly than watching the homeless doing just that.
They showed me that all of us — no matter how difficult our circumstances — have something for which to be thankful.
And so, this year, I feel a need to thank the homeless for pointing that out to me.