I NEED SOME WORDS

       Today's events were overwhelming at moments—and it's difficult to find the words or a starting point—so I'll just begin at the beginning. Gate Keeper greeted me with, "Joey's not here; he's running late, but Mr. Bob is mopping the dining room and kitchen."
       I turned on the lights in the dark kitchen. The smell of old grease struck me first. I put away my coat, washed my hands, got an apron, and was just about to rummage through the walk-in fridge when Joey came in. He'd overslept, and I guess a lot of people did on this "spring forward" morning when God's time is cast aside for policy makers and sports fools.
       Joey didn't have a clue what he was going to serve for lunch, but suggested we open several dozen cans of white-meat chunk chicken for a salad. I was prepared—cutting board, knives, peeler. He gave me several packages of limp celery and two big onions. A young woman working off some community service joined us, and soon she had opened all of the chicken cans, and a few dozen cans of peaches. Joey put frozen rolls in the oven and a large pot of spinach on the stove. Lunch was underway; we had one hour until serving time.
       Mr. Bob is new to me, but not to the shelter. He told me he had lived at the shelter for a year as a pre-release. A year! Now, he's going to school and doing community service as part of his classes. He's hanging out with his aging parents, and his hoard of "old friends" has been culled to three. He knows exactly what he wants and how to get it. "You have to want a good life," he told me. "I'm never going back." He impressed me a great deal. Of course, Joey's known him a long time and thinks the world of him.
       Eternally Angry Woman was just plain hostile today. Surely she has some mental issues that keep her from staying on course emotionally. She looked at the food, she looked away. She stood there, looking away, long enough to make a statement—none of that crap for her! Then she asked the other kitchen helper to hand her a KFC box on top of the stove. Apparently, all that harrumphing over the food was just for show.
       A few others made unkind remarks about the food, but one of my buddies was there with "Miss Joy! Miss Joy!" and a big smile. Others said nothing, but I could see their bulging cheeks as they chowed down. Oh, and one fellow who has pointedly avoided making eye contact with me for weeks, and made it plainly known that he wasn't going to speak to the white lady—well, today I told him how much I like his jacket, and he just fell all over me with thank-yous and smiles. It was surely a mixed bag with the pre-release.
       When the homeless came in, it was as if they had arrived from a foreign country—the two groups are so disparate! And speaking of foreign countries, we have two babies! They are scrawny little fellows about 3 and 5, and they are with their father, a tall, extremely handsome man who speaks good English, considering it's not his native tongue. He has come ON FOOT through SIX STATES with those babies, from a country far, far away. He's had no place to stay, that we know of, for that journey. I asked Joey, "How did he come to be here?" And Joey just pointed skyward.
       I gave the man some crayons and coloring-book pages for his babies. He was so grateful. Joey had cautioned me to approach the man gently because he has little trust for others. Sad, just so sad. If you don't take this story and reproach yourself for any pity parties you're holding, shame on you!
       So Mr. Bob and Joey got really, really busy back at the chicken sink, about halfway through lunch. They were well into their endeavors before all four of us in the kitchen realized that some of the turkeys Joey was unwrapping had spoiled—long ago… Mr. Bob put a plastic bag in a big trash can for the sour ones, as Joey riffled through them looking for one that he knew was fresh. Man, oh, man. I would have thrown ALL of them in the trash—no opening! I grabbed the air freshener can from the bathroom and sprayed the kitchen thoroughly. Mr. Bob propped open the back door… I hope it's over, and no germs were spread.
       The big box of yellow squash is indeed as rotten as I had predicted last week. At least this week it was thrown out.
       The shaky kid is gone. According to Joey, the kid and one of the administrators disagreed because the higher-up wanted to throw the kid out. So he's been put out.
       Angel came to the counter with a big smile and a report that this week is better than last, reminding me in a fatherly way that sometimes we're just going to feel less young. I told him I know about that; now it's our little secret (we're aging).
       Gate Keeper is well. Mr. Huggy was probably at church, and I have no news of him. Joey is still working toward his GED, and this week he expects to finish his current course and begin the writing part of his schooling. Math will come after that—and I will teach him to not say "maff." All in good time.
       I left some goodies for the adolescents—they were at church.
       PRAY for our babies, all of them.