reaching out, reaching in

[Preface: I wrote this a couple of weeks ago after volunteering at a hunger-homeless outreach place and now feel the time is ripe to share it.]

People - I think all men - were milling around the entrances. They had easygoing gates and talked with an emphasized midwestern drawl. We met Laura on our way inside - and I was immediately grateful. She is friendly in the no-nonsense way that I am not. I felt safe in her presence, like walking in with a mother hen.

I have always been quiet and reserved. In recent years, I have found my confidence, my strength, my voice. I don't often find myself in situations uncomfortable enough to revert back to shy Ellen - and I've been in a lot of diverse situations. I consider myself fortunate to have lived such a breadth of experiences. I don't think (though I'd like to) that I am atypical for a 23 and 3/4ths year old - so many of my peers are equally well-traveled and experienced (and more). So many of my experiences are memories of me finding my voice, facing what could be considered "uncomfortable" and choosing to bloom there. It is in this way that I have gained a sense of self. And yet, I follow a God who says that whoever seeks to save his/her life will lose it; and if we lose ourselves for the sake of doing things God's way, that is when we truly live out our identities.

Death, you see, leads to resurrection.

And so, when I stepped out of my car, I experienced a kind of death. Not the kind of death you hear about on the news in the "bad" parts of town, though when I tell you what died, you won't be surprised. It was my sense of being comfortable. It started in my stomach and rose almost instantaneously to an all-encompassing sense of being uncomfortable. I searched the faces of the men we passed. They were not unfriendly or unkind, but hardened by weeks, months, years without a home. Or at least without a physical address.

It might have been useful to keep my mantra from Mexico in my mind: "We have more in common than what is different." Yet in Mexico, I was welcomed by children with joy on their shy faces and here there were no children. I looked. Twice.

I checked my companions' faces to see if any expression on them might mirror my heart. No sign of fear or discomfort registered on Caleb, Jon, or Shannon's face. Our mothering new acquaintance was greeting people and navigating us through the door.

As I decided I was alone in my sense of discomfort and fears, new mini waves of emotion surged through my heart. I kept my face composed and calm while instructing my heart to remain open. My friend David's words resounded inside me, "Feed the hungry? You can't mess this up." I drew comfort from it and did my best to push aside the uncertainty, uncomfortableness, and now shame for those feelings.

We stayed from 9:30-12:15, making burritos, cleaning, slicing and plating pie, and for me, just trying to stay busy so I wouldn't think too much about the double-edged sword of being uncomfortable and feeling bad about it.

I struggled to keep my heart and mind open in what felt like an entirely different culture. It was less than an hour from my house and consisted of mostly people born and raised in the same general area as me.

Even in all of my discomfort, I saw Jesus today. He was in the workers and volunteers who consistently form the community at this particular place. They are the ones that can invite the hungry and the chefs to be part of something bigger than frying eggs and clearing dishes. They laugh with us as we (the kitchen people) ask them stupid questions and work through our own prejudices and uncomfortable-ness. So gracious of them.

It's good to be uncomfortable.
It's good to grow.
It's good even if I don't grow, to get out of what I normally do. To serve and to NOT get anything out of it except an awareness of my own discomfort.