Chapter 3

ON THE RIDE INTO TOWN the next morning, Lucy considered the verse she’d read earlier in her devotional book. Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

She stared out the window, clutching the large bag filled with items she’d gathered over the past week and her finished knit surprise as her driver pulled into the parking lot for the local Salvation Army. Ken Rohrer, Laurita Robinson, and Jan Scott—regular English volunteers—were already loading up the soup truck for the noontime run. The vehicle was on its last legs, she’d been told, with a shaky transmission, and Ken liked to joke that it resembled a silver Winnebago. During the winter, the heater barely kept their hands warm enough to serve food through the opening in the side, and in the deep of summer, the air conditioning frequently went out, leaving them with only two small rotating fans as defense against the pounding sun. Inside, with hot food in close quarters, Lucy and the other servers perspired until their clothes were damp, but no one complained.

Today, however, the weather was ideal, and Lucy paid her driver, reminding him when to pick her up that afternoon. She rushed over to the food truck to see what was left to be done. From inside, Laurita called, “Roast beef today!”

Smiling, Lucy climbed the back steps of the truck, placed her sack with two scarves and a warm blanket inside, and then perused the shelves and drawers, taking note. They were short on sugar packets, plastic forks, and napkins, and they needed another large serving spoon.

“Ken’s getting the coffee,” Laurita said, rushing out. “I’ll check on the donations.”

“Gut, I’ll get the rest,” Lucy replied, hoping there was enough sugar this time.

Once the truck was ready to go, Lucy settled in with Laurita and Jan on the side seats while Ken drove across town to the designated vacant lot where typically up to a hundred hungry and homeless folk would be waiting.

I hope there are no fistfights today, thought Lucy, sighing. The last run, she’d actually abandoned her serving station, rushing out with Ken and another guy to get between two angry and clearly intoxicated men. Fortunately they were able to get them calmed down without anyone having to call 9-1-1.

As they rode to the site, Lucy thought of Kiana and her little boy, Van, with whom she’d become acquainted early last spring. During her pregnancy, the slight, dark-eyed teenager had been kicked out of the house by her widower father after refusing to tell her boyfriend, who’d later found out anyway and wanted nothing to do with the baby once he was born. The poor girl had gone from one friend’s house to another until her options had dried up. She’d been forced to choose the only viable alternative for herself and little Van—a homeless shelter.

Kiana had shared her heartbreaking story early on in the friendship with Lucy, who could scarcely wait to see the young mother and her two-and-a-half-year-old boy each week.

But a couple of weeks had passed, and Kiana and Van hadn’t come to the Friday meal. Where can they be? Lucy wondered as the food truck pulled into the parking lot. The people began to form a line, but Kiana and Van were nowhere in sight.

Lifting her long dress a bit, Lucy got out of the truck to open the back door, where Jan passed the folding table down to her, followed by the coffee and water canisters, cups and condiments, and trash can. Once the drinks were set up next to the truck, Lucy opened the side serving window.

While Ken, Laurita, and Jan passed food down to the line, Lucy handled the drinks outside, her favorite duty. Most of the women who volunteered preferred to serve food. It seemed safer, more protected and insulated somewhat from the pain and suffering, but Lucy jumped at the opportunity to mingle with people, many of whom she’d come to know by first name.

“Lucy, my Amish angel,” Old Chip said with a toothless grin as he meandered up to the refreshment table, holding his plate. “Roast beef? How do we rate?”

Lucy smiled and poured his coffee the way he liked it, handing him several packets of powdered cream. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” she said, glad he was one of the first in line.

Wearing ragged jeans and an oil-stained long-sleeved shirt, Chip laughed. “What’s for eats tomorrow?”

“Maybe your favorite—mystery meat loaf.”

Once a high-level engineer, Chip had fallen into alcoholism and as a result lost his wife, family, and home. Now living on the streets and suffering the early signs of dementia, Chip grimaced good-naturedly at Lucy’s remark. He gingerly carried his plate and coffee as he made his way to the curb, where he sat with a dozen or more other men.

“Have ya seen Kiana and her son?” Lucy asked the man next in line. Stout “Stan the Man,” as he called himself, was cradling his plate with its generous helping of mashed potatoes and gravy.

“I’m not sure I know who you mean,” Stan said as he grabbed the coffee Lucy offered.

“You know, straight brown hair, loud neon shirts, a little boy ’bout so big.” Lucy indicated Van’s height with her free hand.

Stan smiled with recognition. “Can’t say I’ve seen them. Not in a while anyway. Any Kool-Aid today?”

She shook her head. “We rarely have it,” she told him, deciding not to pursue her question with the others waiting. She kept an eye out for Kiana, hoping she’d still come. At one point during a lull before folk started returning for seconds, Lucy wandered over to catch a glimpse of the end of the line. But Kiana just wasn’t there.

Maybe it was a good sign—Lucy certainly hoped so. Lucy had fretted, as well, back in June when Kiana hadn’t shown up. But the following Friday, Kiana had returned and made a point of explaining that someone from a church near their shelter had come with a bus to take them, along with others in need, to a potluck meal in the church annex. “It was wonderful,” Kiana had told her, eyes sparkling. “Like a Thanksgiving feast.”

Lucy couldn’t blame her. Sometimes the soup kitchen meals were tasty, like today; other times they were hardly edible. It largely depended on donations, and the time and materials available to the cooks for food preparation. Nothing like the meals Mamm makes!

Lucy considered Kiana’s circumstances yet again and wondered how a father could put his daughter out on the street.

She noticed Ken just beyond the food table, gesturing to Lucy’s right. Turning, she gazed across the lot and spotted Kiana in her long black skirt, her little boy in her arms. Lucy’s heart leaped up.

They’re here!

Kiana and Van joined the very back of the line, and Lucy filled a number of cups ahead of time with cold water and coffee, hoping it would be enough to last a few minutes while she went to greet the young woman with dark hair and expressive eyes.

“Hey, Lucy.” Kiana grinned when she saw her.

“I’ve been wonderin’ if yous would come.”

Van smiled up at her, his blue shirt stained with food, perhaps, and there were holes along the hemline of his little gray hoodie.

Lucy patted his head, and he giggled, leaning closer to his mother.

“It’s gonna get cold soon, so I brought you a few things,” Lucy said. “Don’t leave before I get my sack to you, all right?”

Later, after Lucy returned to her post to pour more cups of coffee, she watched Kiana sit on the ground to eat, talking occasionally to her son. What must her life be like, living this way . . . not knowing what her future holds?

When it was time for mother and son to head back to the shelter, Lucy brought her sack from the truck and gave it to Kiana. Little Van hurried over and got another bowl of applesauce and one more chocolate chip cookie.

Peering eagerly inside, Kiana pulled out two small blankets and woolen scarves. Last of all, there were two pairs of knitted mittens—one for an adult and the other for a small child. “Did you make these?” she asked, eyes wide.

Lucy shrugged. “Didn’t take long, really.”

Kiana paused, studying Lucy. “You’re so nice to us.”

“I worry ’bout ya,” Lucy said with a glance back at the other workers. “And I understand your situation better than ya know.”

Tears filled Kiana’s eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered and gripped the bag, her son clinging to her skirt. Her fingernails were long, some split and dirty.

“Will I see ya here next Friday?”

Kiana nodded and blinked away more tears.

With a lump in her throat, Lucy went back to take her place once again. Yet all the while, her eyes followed Kiana and Van as they plodded across the wide grassy lot.

How do they survive?

She began to pray silently. O Lord, please keep them safe, along with all the others . . . the middle-aged man who calls himself Spider, and young Kat, who reminds Spider to wear his old sweater—remember her, God? And help stooped-over Nannie Rose, and Mort and Allen, and Dean and his sister Dawn.

Lucy felt at a loss to recall each of their names. Besides, the familiar sense of futility was returning, suffocating her words. That same horrid feeling that had taken away all hope after she’d pleaded with God, night after night . . . with nothing to show for it. Absolutely nothing.

But Lucy wasn’t the type to give up or give in. Not even when it felt like her heavenly Father had quit on her, even if praying felt like talking to a closed barn door. No, the Almighty surely couldn’t ignore everyone she prayed for, could He? And if God answered only one of her countless prayers for those who suffered, it would be worthwhile to continue.

“Even if heaven’s silent,” she whispered, “I won’t quit knockin’.”