If
you’ve never had to stay at the RMH, then perhaps you aren’t familiar with
where the dinners come from or how that part of the RMH operation works. It takes a lot of coordination and effort by
the RMH staff and a great deal of dedication and commitment from countless
local volunteers – sororities and fraternities, school groups and teams, Girl Scout
and Boy Scout troops, church groups, families, etc. – to put meals on the table
almost every day of the year. The
quality and variety of meals varied from group to group, but one thing was
constant: the meals were provided by countless people who genuinely cared about the
folks staying at the RMH and who did their best to ease the burdens felt by the families who were so far from their homes. I had never had that many tacos, bowls of
pasta, or shredded chicken and rice meals before in my life, but those meals
were delicious, satisfying both body and soul, in no small part because of the
compassion and heart of the chefs who labored to make them.
Just
as the Ronald McDonald House is an organization that provides a much needed
charitable service to families in need, so, too, are the groups who serve the
meals. Though many dinners run together in
my memory, there are a few that stand out, for reasons both good and
so-so. The Latin meal that was so
ridiculously delectable that I chose a second helping over dessert; the
Thanksgiving Day meal with ALL the traditional, mouth-watering fixings; the
pizza – oh, the glorious, tasty, divinely inspired pizza – that was made each
month by a man who was overwhelmed with gratitude to God for being spared from
cancer; the chicken nugget, peas, and tater tot meal that could only have been
made by a group of college students on a budget; and the pre-Christmas meal
that was made by a local church group. I
wish that last meal could stand out in my memory for a more pleasant reason,
but the real reason I remember it so well is for how small I felt while
eating it and for how unworthy and low I felt when I walked away from it.
My
friend K, a fellow heart mom, and I walked to the RMH most evenings to eat
dinner together. We never really
lingered over dinner. Our mission each
evening was to eat our food fairly quickly and get back to our kiddos, though
we always stayed long enough to say thanks to whoever provided the meal. The evening in question was no
different. Because it was already
December, we walked to the House in the dark and chill. When we arrived, we were greeted by the
unmistakable aroma of a ham dinner with all the sides you could want with
it. Such yummy smells! It appeared to be a feast truly fit for a
king…if that king could get past the ham scrooge.
When
food is set out for dinner, it isn’t necessarily served to you. Of course there would be a serving utensil
available for your use, but an actual person may not be serving it onto your
plate. This evening, the members of the church group had
chosen to actually serve the food to the RMH diners. Since K and I arrived at the house a little
before serving time, we were first in line for dinner. I hadn’t realized I would be served, so I
reached for the serving fork. An older
woman came over to take it from me to begin service. With plate in hand, I stood there as she
dished out the ham slice. Yes,
slice. Not plural. The large ham was cut in half lengthwise and
was then sliced into pieces. She gave me
one slice of ham, which really amounted to half of one slice of ham, the end
piece at that. I was a bit dumbfounded
and asked if I could have another slice.
She grudgingly gave me the other half of my end piece and then told me I
could come back for seconds after everyone else had eaten.
By
that time, most of the other RMH residents were lined up, so I moved on to choose
my side dishes and then sit down to eat.
But to say that I was annoyed and perturbed would be an
understatement. I did not go to dinner
that evening looking to gorge myself on food.
I did not go there looking to get in line first so I’d be better able to
cheat everyone else out of a full meal.
I just wanted to eat something filling so that I could get back to my
baby girl.
I
finished my meal, chewing and swallowing as best I could though my throat felt
tight from the angry tears I was holding in.
Petty as it may seem in hindsight, I chose NOT to go back for
seconds. The ham scrooge may have had
control over the serving utensil that day, but I was not going to give her the
satisfaction of serving me another half slice of ham. I was not going to beg for my dinner, no
matter how hungry I was. I was not going
to humiliate myself by letting her have the upper hand or the upper serving
fork. Instead, while my friend finished
her meal, I chose to wait in the RMH lobby.
So why
spend seven paragraphs building up to what seems like a small, insignificant
anecdote wherein Bridget cries about a slice of ham that wasn’t even owed her
but was in fact given to her free of charge?
Why write about one bum dinner out of many, many tasty and enjoyable
dinners? Why?
And because of the truth of these lyrics.
If
you feed the hungry but do so without love, without compassion, without
generosity, then it is not charity. If
you give drink to the thirsty but do so grudgingly and without love and
understanding, then you serve no one but yourself. If you claim to be doing the work of God but
do so without love, then where is God in that?
Corporal works of mercy are nothing if they are done without love. Charitable works are nothing more than
self-congratulatory back patting if they are done without love, if they are done
to make you feel good about how charitable you’re being, if they are done
solely so you can check them off your to-do list.
I
had read Simcha Fisher’s blog post last August while at the hospital with Ella, and while
I sat in the RMH lobby waiting for my friend after dinner that December night, I
thought about how very small charity can make a person feel and how charity
given poorly can rob a person of her dignity and self-worth. Ms. Fisher and I were in different situations
– she receiving groceries for her hungry family and I receiving a meal while
away from home with my critically ill baby – but we were both made more uncomfortable
by and that much more aware of our unfortunate situations by people who meant
well but who had a helluva way of showing it.
It
was an eye opening experience for me to be on the receiving end of charity, and
it opened my eyes to my own attitude toward charitable giving. It opened my eyes to my own past actions and
inactions, and it opened my heart. It
forced me to examine if my charity had truly been charitable, if it had truly
been worthy to be included among the works of God here on earth. It forced me to ask myself some uncomfortable
questions. Had I ever withheld my love
while holding out a helping hand? Had I
ever half-*ssed my way through a work of mercy just to check it off a to-do
list? Had I ever given second-best just
to be able to say that I’d given? Had I
ever been the ham scrooge to someone else’s dinner plate?
Even
this many months later, I still ask myself those questions because I understand
that I’m not only responsible for my actions and choices but also for the
example I set for my kids. Charity, or the lack thereof, is learned at home. If all they
ever see me do is write a check but they never see me lend a hand, how am I
showing them what it means to be the hands of God here on earth? If all they see me do is give away my well-used,
well-worn hand-me-downs but they never see me serve the downtrodden, then how
am I showing them what it means to be the feet of God? And if all they ever hear is talk and all
they see is indifference, if the only thing I expose them to is the very little
I’m willing to do and the very little I’m willing to love, then how am I
showing them what it means to be the heart of God?
The
bigger person would be grateful to God for the ham scrooges of the world. She would be grateful for the ways God can
use even the smallest and most miserable experiences to teach her about His
love and mercy. The bigger person would
resolve to do all things with love so that no one ever feels small, low and
unworthy because of her. I am not the
bigger person…yet. I’ve got miles to go before I’ll feel worthy
to be His hands and feet for others, but by God’s good grace and His patience
with me - the slowest learner ever born - I will get there. By God, I’ll get there.
St.
Ella, pray for us!
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