Halloween at Grandma's House

I know it's July, but for some reason, around this time of summer I always start daydreaming of Fall.  Particularly Fall in Alexandria, where I have so many memories of celebrating the change in season.

Halloween was always celebrated well in my family.  My mom would make a big pot of gumbo- I still associate the smell of onion, bell pepper, and garlic browning in roux with Halloween.  My sister and I always carved pumpkins with my dad.  We would pick out our pumpkins in the beginning of October, but weren't allowed to carve them until the last week of October, so they wouldn't rot.

In high school, many afternoons my mom and I would seek shelter after school somewhere cool in the Fall (in Louisiana it is not necessarily cool in October...)
We would go to local craft stores, sipping drinks from sonic and looking at autumn wreaths as well as other harvest decorations.  Something about the craft store made you feel surrounded by the season in an all encompassing and relaxing way.

When I was still young enough to trick-or-treat, I would wait until dusk and go out with my sister and we would make our neighborhood rounds.  After that, it was always a family tradition to go to my grandma's house and gather with friends and family.

By the time we would get to Grandma's, it was dark outside.  Her house, framed by ancient oak trees, looked more majestic on this night than any other night of the year.  Her neighborhood reminded me of the neighborhood in the movie To Kill a Mockingbird, or maybe the one in Meet Me in St. Louis during Halloween.  Windy and old, dark and warm.  I remember walking up her cement driveway, still in costume, and peering into the window that faced the driveway.  In the window were light-up plastic jack-o-lanterns, and behind them were dozens of family members and other children in costume.  I remember the way the oak tree leaves smelled on the warm driveway, and the way that her candy corn smelled in her antique bowls.  Not to mention the smell of coffee, other baked items and anything else that a family member had brought to contribute.  It was as if she had every nook and cranny decorated for Halloween.  Hanging plastic devils and witches, cut out black cats- all tucked into corners of her house, making it magic.  I would stare at her decorations, intrigued by them, by how old and quirky they were and how much I loved them.

Grandma was always there to greet us, full hair and makeup and boasting personality.  She was so cheerful and delighted to see us always.  It seemed that her house was meant to be filled with family, always bustling away with laughter and old stories that we told again and again.

We would stay at Grandma's house until we were sleepy, and we went home feeling like Halloween was adequately celebrated.

I Need Their Prayers

There are many days where my mind is thinking about a thousand different things.  I am foggy- with the attention span of a 4 year old.  When I sit down I zone out and my eyes glaze over—my body’s sad attempt to rest.  This comes with my job and I’m getting used to it.  But with my physical exhaustion comes an emotional and spiritual exhaustion as well.  Most days I do not have the energy to write or self-reflect or pray—all practices that center and balance me.  I have begun wondering how I have functioned so well without this for so long, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I am constantly mislead by the belief that I am in total control.  And when something bad or stressful happens, I find myself crumbling to pieces and my perfect, controlled day takes a terrible turn.  So who is really in control?  And can I really do it on my own?

At the mission, we pray before every meal.  I always ask if anyone wants to volunteer to pray, and often a resident will do so.  I find it hard for myself to pray out loud, because I get nervous and self-conscious, and I’d much rather listen to someone else’s heart for a moment.  Today one of the residents prayed a long, deep prayer- one that truly reflected her relationship with God.  It was as if she were picking up on a conversation with Him that she had started earlier that day- it was not just a prayer from scratch but one that was being built on from thousands of previous conversations with the Lord. 

I stood there listening, as she prayed for the food briefly and then moved onto spiritual guidance and other things that had not crossed my mind at all that day.  The words she used sounded too comforting- words like “guidance and direction” and “peace” and “make our path straight”.  I was so relaxed by her words and I was so proud that our volunteers- who were expecting to come in after work, throw on an apron, serve for 30 minutes and be done- were caught captive to this long prayer. A prayer that lasted longer than a few moments and that didn’t revolve around the food or a memorized childhood blessing.

On the days when my mind is fuzzy and I’m feeling stressed, I let the residents pray for me in these times.  I let their words wash over me and nourish me and speak for me in ways that I cannot find the words to speak for myself.  I need their prayers because they are honest and I feel them coming from the depths of their soul, and they are speaking boldly with no one to impress and nothing to lose.  I need their prayers to be as raw and gritty and unpolished as dirt because that’s where my heart is too- it’s in a place of raw uncertainty and every day that I am alive I must make a choice to have faith in order to even be who I want to be.  I need their prayers like I need their help in the kitchen- I can’t do it alone and I rely on what they give to make it each day.  I need their prayers because I am humbled by their faith after facing many trials that I have not, and still going to God with hope. 

As the sun is rising outside and Marvin Gaye is singing his heart out, I look up from my giant pot of grits and realize that I am functioning in sync with 12 residents in a kitchen that is providing meals and love to the people living in the shelter as well as those who come in for food off the street. 

The music we listen to is perfect for working in the kitchen. Marvin Gaye, The Temptations, Aretha Franklin, Ohio Players. All the residents know all the words and we cook and sing and sometimes even dance.  I've wanted the kitchen to become a place where we flow together as a team, working hard and having as much fun as possible in the midst of doing so.  It's a happy place to be.

At first I was apprehensive about trying to lead the kitchen alone.  When I first started at the shelter, I didn't know how I would do it.  I wondered if residents would curse me out or threaten me when I asked them to work for me- if they would resist direction and how I would handle it.  Most of them were middle aged- old enough to be my parents or grandparents.  Many of them had come in from straight off the street.  How was I going to instruct them?  Why would they want to listen to me?  How could I earn their respect? Would I earn it at all?  I was a petite young woman, and I was wondering how I would become a strong leader with authority and instruction to offer these people.

The best way that I know how to describe what the kitchen looks like when I'm there is the movie Babe.  I am Babe the pig, and the residents are the sheep.  Everyone is laughing at me because I am a pig trying to herd sheep, and why would they listen to me?  But I simply ask them nicely to follow my lead, and they thank me for asking nicely, and follow.  I don't have to bite them like a sheep dog or scare them.  I don't have to pretend like I am superior or threaten them with power. I just show them that I love them, respect them, and that I view us all as a team- and they are happy to do anything I ask them.  Amazing.

If I'm being honest, the people who I have had the most conflict with in this job have been the volunteers who come in to serve dinner at night.  Most of them are working professionals- coming in after work still dressed in their business clothes.  As they enter the kitchen, perhaps they have not met "the new cook yet"- and I'm whipping around the kitchen trying to keep things in order as they put on hair nets and aprons.  The male volunteers often look around, wondering where the leader of the kitchen is, looking straight passed me, even though I am the only one dressed in a chef coat.  Often they make jokes, saying "Oh, are you the executive chef?", being sarcastic, not realizing that I am in charge.  I simply look at them and respond "yes", and continue to carry trays of food out of the oven and check to see if the iced tea is made.  It does not make me insecure- just confused and annoyed- because at times I feel belittled and doubted by outsiders, even though the residents who work with me are well aware that I am the leader and we are functioning smoothly and happily as a kitchen staff.

I feel like the residents are my family in a way, and  sometimes I ask them why the volunteers treat me in these ways.  They tell me that the volunteers might be stunned that I am the leader at first, but by the end of their shift, they are always well aware that that is the case.

I am happy when I am working because I am using food as an avenue to serve and love others.  I get to teach and instruct, while learning as well.  Many of the residents are great cooks, and I am always asking them about their personal recipes and what types of foods they love.  I love to spend time with them, and I only work with the ones who want to work with me.  If they do not want to be in the kitchen, I let them go, and request others by name who I know would want to work.  There is no forcing anyone to do anything, and at times I have had to turn away residents who want to volunteer as extra kitchen staff because the kitchen is too full.  I've had my fair share of drama- ladies wanting to work in heals and dresses, men panicking when I ask them to do certain jobs and screaming "I can't cook though!", and sometimes too much dessert disappearing from the cooler.  But more than anything, I have a wonderful staff and I enjoy instructing and engaging with them all.

Maybe I'm just new at the job and have a romantic view of the whole thing, but working as a cook at the mission feels like my calling, and I'm glad that I'm doing it and I will constantly look for ways to do it better.

There's something magical about picking up the kitchen after dinner, singing and sweating, and knowing that we have experienced another successful meal together through our teamwork.  It feels good to work hard physically, as well as to stretch myself emotionally to care for these people.  I sleep well at night, and in a strange way, it's hard to picture myself doing anything else.

One day I watched a man who had come in off the street eat the chicken salad I made for lunch.  He ate quickly and I could tell he was very hungry.  I started crying while I watched him because I realized that what I had prepared was nourishing his body and fulfilling a need, and that he was enjoying it at the same time.  I realized how spiritual that is- to serve others and to fulfill their needs and nourish them in any way that we can.  I remembered that it was more than worth it to work this hard to feed these people.  He asked for more and I gave him seconds, and something inside of me felt alive and broken at the same time as we locked eyes and he thanked me over and over again.