In spite of all the food they’d collected, they ran out of most items before noon, causing grumbles with the people who came last. The “sweets and desserts” and bread tables were completely bare, and most of the canned goods were gone, leaving only dented cans of specialty foods like asparagus, artichoke hearts, pickled beets, and diced pimentos. The perishables from Dominick’s had been well picked over, and even Kat agreed they needed to toss what was left.
As they cleaned up, Kat pulled Nick aside. “What do you think of asking the volunteers to stay a few extra minutes to give feedback? This is a test run, you know, and any suggestions for next time would be helpful.”
“Good idea.” Nick grinned. “Rochelle was just saying the same thing.”
Rochelle was just saying the same thing.
Kat tried to ignore the flash of irritation, like an annoying gremlin sticking its claws in her psyche. But she’d better do it or Rochelle might do it for her. She raised her voice. “Anybody who can stay to debrief for five or ten minutes, I’d appreciate it. We need your input.”
A couple of the teens had split already, Stu had to leave for an appointment with a client, and Edesa excused herself to put Gracie down for a nap and lie down herself at her in-laws’ house nearby. But once the tables were put away and chairs set up for Sunday, Kat was glad to see that the rest gathered at the back of the room.
Comments ranged from “I thought it went great!” to “Some people took more than they were supposed to.” Some had questions: “What if two people from the same family come—do they both get to load up a bag?” and “Shouldn’t a family with six kids get more than a single person? I felt funny saying they could only take one loaf of bread.”
Kat squirmed when one of the teen girls reported a woman who cussed and made crude remarks. “I told her this was a church, and she shouldn’t take God’s name in vain, but all she said was—uh, never mind.” A few people chuckled.
There were suggestions: “We’re going to need more food,” Denny Baxter noted. “I mean, more than we had today. Word’s going to get around and more people will show up.”
“Maybe we should set up a fund and just buy stuff.”
“Could we make up a list of the foods people want most?” Yo-Yo asked. “I mean, look at what we’ve got left over. Even I don’t like pickled beets.” More laughter.
Bree was taking notes furiously. Kat caught a high sign from Nick that maybe that was enough debriefing for now.
“Okay, thanks a lot, everybody. We obviously don’t have all the answers today, but we’re learning as we go along. Please pass the word that we need more food donations! Not just for next week, but all month long.”
“People are going to get tired of that before long,” Rochelle said, half under her breath. “We need to do something more sustainable.”
Yeah, thanks a lot, Rochelle. This was their first day, after all! Kat covered her frustration by asking “Pastor Nick” to close in prayer. And once again they joined hands in a circle. But while he was praying, Kat was praying her own prayer. God, I know I’m over my head here, and I’m grateful for everyone who turned out to help today—and I admit, Rochelle’s been a big help too. But why does it feel like she’s trying to take over? This is my project, and—
“Amen,” Nick said and squeezed her hand. Kat felt a little guilty. She hadn’t really paid any attention to his prayer, though she was sure it was appropriate. And in spite of a few moments of frustration that morning, she felt excited. At least thirty people had shown up today! And most of them had gone home with a big bag of food.
Okay, now she was ready to call her parents. Should she tell them about Nick or the food pantry? Both might be a little much, but . . . oh, heck, why not!
To Kat’s delight, Pastor Cobbs called her to the front during the announcements the next morning and handed her the mike. “Give us a report on how things went with the first food pantry, Kathryn. From what I could see, it was a big success.”
Kat could barely control her excitement. It felt good to be acknowledged by the pastor. “First, let’s see the hands of everyone from SouledOut who volunteered yesterday . . . yes, I see your hand, Gracie. And you too, Conny.” Everyone laughed. “I just want to thank all of you who donated food or have signed up to help out on Saturday morning this month at the SouledOut Sisters Food Pantry—and you can blame the Yada Yada Prayer Group for the name.” More laughter. “But we couldn’t have done it without several brothers too—Peter Douglass, Denny Baxter, Josh Baxter, Pastor Nick, some of the teen boys . . . thanks.” She told how many people had been served—thirty-two by Bree’s count of the sign-ins—and said they still needed a lot of prayer and a lot more food donations. “There’s a sheet at the back with a list of the most popular items, and the ones starred have the most nutritional value. Some treats are okay, but please avoid unusual items.”
“Uh, miss?” A hand was waving in the air. “Define unusual.”
Kat was startled to see the black girl Edesa had been praying with yesterday waving the sheet of paper. She stood up. “Hi, y’all. My name’s Diane Pickering. I came to the food pantry yesterday. Uh, Miss Edesa invited me to come this morning. An’ I picked this up before service, and I noticed you don’t have okra or black-eyed peas, stuff like that on the list. Stuff a lot of black folks like.”
Kat was taken off guard. Okra? Did people actually eat that stuff? She felt her face get hot. Why couldn’t people ask stuff like that privately instead of embarrassing her in front of everybody? “Well, uh . . .”
Pastor Cobbs bounded to her side and took the mike. “Like we said, church, this is a trial run.” He put his arm around Kat, who looked down at her shoes. “Your suggestion is a good one, young lady”—this to the new girl—“and I’m sure Kathryn and the others will take your suggestion to heart. But let’s give thanks to our Lord and Savior for the people, like this young lady, who came to the food pantry yesterday and—”
Heads turning and a rustling throughout the congregation made Kat look up. The front doors opened and she was startled to see Lady Lolla and a skinny white man using a cane come in. Lolla was dressed as outlandishly as ever, wearing a dingy sleeveless sheath that might have been white or cream once upon a time and ended above her knees, revealing her bony shoulders and knees. Long ropes of cheap Mardi Gras beads dangled around her neck. “’Scuse us,” Lady Lolla said, guiding the man—was that Ike?—to a seat near the back. She grinned at the people around her. “’Mornin’ . . . ’mornin’.”
Even Pastor Cobbs seemed a bit taken aback, but he quickly recovered. “Thank you, Kathryn.” He was dismissing her, and Kat gratefully hurried back to her seat next to Brygitta. “Our message this morning will be brought by Sister Avis. We also want to pray with her and Elder Peter, who will be leaving tomorrow for two weeks in South Africa . . . Sister Avis? Elder?”
Kat tried to listen as the Douglasses briefly explained the purpose of their trip, to learn more about the work former SouledOut members Nonyameko and Mark Sisulu-Smith were doing with at-risk women in KwaZulu-Natal, setting up small businesses so these women didn’t have to sell their bodies just to survive. Any other time, Kat would have joined the group of people who gathered around the Douglasses at the front to pray for their upcoming trip, but she still felt too embarrassed at the way her food pantry report had been co-opted by that mouthy girl.
But after the prayer, as Avis Douglass opened her Bible and noted the text—the Last Supper with Jesus and His disciples from the gospel of John, chapter 13—Kat fell under the spell of the rich cadence of her voice telling the familiar story. “Notice,” Avis said, “that Jesus shared the symbols of the sacrifice He was about to make—the broken bread and the cup of wine—not with a group of holy disciples who had their act together, but with a group of imperfect followers He knew would run away when the temple police arrested Him. Peter—of all people!— after Jesus had washed his feet like a servant, denied that he even knew Jesus that same night. And Judas . . . Jesus even shared the broken bread and wine with the man who betrayed Him. Who sold Him out for thirty pieces of silver.”
The room was so quiet, no one seemed to be breathing. Unusual for SouledOut, Kat thought. Where was Avis going with this?
“Jesus shared this Last Supper—what we now call communion or the Lord’s Table—with these imperfect, sinful, doubting, backstabbing so-called followers, using the very symbols we will share together this morning to remember the broken body and spilled blood of our Savior. Are we any different? All of us come to the Table imperfect, broken, guilty of denying our Savior, doubting . . . and yet Jesus offers His gift of love and forgiveness to each and every one of us. He died for you. He died for me. None of us deserves it. It was simply an act of God’s mercy and grace.”
Avis closed her Bible. “Let’s remember that as we take communion together this morning.” She sat down.
The room seemed deathly quiet. Then Pastor Cobbs and Nick brought the table forward that contained the loaf of bread and a common cup. Kat stared at the embroidered cloth covering the table, with the colorful figures of children around the world. “Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight . . .” She’d never sung that little song as a kid—didn’t go to Sunday school that often—but she’d heard it a few times since her own decision to follow Jesus at that music fest several years ago. Precious in His sight . . .
People started to go forward to receive the bread and wine. She was startled to see Lady Lolla and “Ike” sashay down the aisle too. Really? Oh brother, what a pair.
Precious in His sight . . .
The girl who’d put her on the spot joined the line moving slowly forward. Her too?
Precious in His sight . . .
Rochelle was heading for Nick, who was breaking bits from the loaf of bread for each comer. Why did she feel so threatened by Rochelle? Was she afraid Avis’s beautiful daughter was going to steal Nick—even though Nick had openly declared his love for her? Was she afraid Rochelle was going to take over the pantry—her baby, her project? She wanted the credit for it.
Kat moaned. Oh, God, I’m such a jerk sinner. Do I really care about feeding people? Getting hungry people fed? And feeding them real spiritual food too—like Edesa did when she loved on that girl and prayed with her yesterday? Or am I just one self-centered white girl who wants to steal some of Your glory?
The tears were coming hard and fast now. She felt Bree slip an arm around her. “Kat? Kat?” her friend whispered. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
Kat nodded, snuffled, blew her nose, and mopped her face. She got out of her seat and joined the line, Bree hovering behind her. When she got to where Nick was breaking off bits of bread, he looked at her with concern—she was probably a blotchy mess—but all he did was put a piece of bread in her cupped hands and murmur, “The body of Christ, broken for you, Kat.”
Broken for me . . . because I’m a sinner and need His forgiveness.
Kat stepped over to where Pastor Cobbs was holding the cup and dipped her bread into the dark liquid. “The blood of Christ, spilled for you, Kathryn,” the pastor said, smiling at her.
She placed the bread, soaked in wine, into her mouth . . . and felt herself being fed.