Is there an "honest-to-goodness"...anything?

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Today I did something I had never done before: fed the homeless.

In the outside canopies in the lot between the Presbyterian house of worship and a nearly bare home owned by my mother's hospital, I, like many of the volunteers by me, wore the burgundy shirt with the hospital logo on it. The air was nippy, but I hand my flannel Abercrombie shirt underneath it... and yet another shirt beneath that. I was to man the ambrosia table: a type of fruit salad with marshmallows and coconut shavings and whip cream that I had never heard of until I was charged with serving it. We were heavily manned-- all of our shifts had been cut from four hours to two.

As I worked the two hour shift, however, my ambrosia duties quickly morphed into a dozen others-- helping those who were handling multiple plates for their child or husband or brother, bringing out trays of turkey or mashed potatoes, offering extra dinner rolls to those eating, fetching pies and clearing spots. Some people walked in with more than half-dozen friends and family; some ate alone, reservedly chewing in corners of the canopy.

I hadn't chosen to feed the homeless; my mother had signed up my brothers and me. We had known for months that we were going to be doing it, but even hours before we went, I had done a bit of griping to myself in my room. It wasn't that I didn't want to, but, in truth, I was scared. Something scares me about walking downtown and being around those who's luck hasn't been on their side. I was scared, and I felt guilty. I never showed this side to my family about the matter, and at times, I tried to look at the plus side: "Community service equals an attractive applicant."

However, as I moved through the folding chairs filled with people talking and laughing in coats and beanies... as I helped provide extra dinner rolls to the makeshift families and the biological ones... as I watched them swoon in awe of the ambrosia, apple pie, and pumpkin pie slices I set behind their steaming plates of stuffing ham, I began to understand what it was that I had missed out on in my fear. I was around people who had lost their homes: some old and abandoned by their families while others had to fight to keep them, but I had done something. I had put smiles on their faces and cheer in their voices. I laughed with some of them, maintained friendly conversations and supplied a need for others. I guided children no taller than my waist to tables, and prepared the way for others to take abandoned places. For a couple of hours, I extended Thanksgiving past myself and my family and to others.

On this blog, I'm sure that my readers read a lot of depressing things about what it means to struggle with homosexuality and Christianity for me. My life is not easy, and I'm sure you've learned that by now. However, in my actions here, on this night, were my own, and I used a power that I've longed talked about in reminiscence and in a manifesto-styled manner, but for a long time, was hesitant about implementing into practice: I changed. I made someone full for the night, but I did something different internally, as well. I rediscovered that part of me that acts out of a simple honest-to-goodness, the part of me that found joy out of everything. I did something good in a way that can rarely be said: the kind of good without alternative motives or masked cynics. I was completely open with world around me.