Destiny. To be in the place one is supposed to be at the exact moment they are supposed to be there. Everything somehow came together.
From blessed donations, I made a crockpots of 16 pork loins, plus a whole broken down roasted turkey, corn and potatoes. I was by myself which was fine, but it was during the day- which I have never been before. Day Outreach can go to all the places that ae no longer safe after sundown.
I can’t believe the kids even attempted, but Mercy boyfriend crawled under the van in the sleet Monday to fix the front brakes. Half-way there. I drove Traci’s little matchbox car. Thus, I only had enough room for the crockpots, and cookies.
I was introduced to a new set of volunteers that I had never worked with before. The Day Outreach Team. They took me to places I hadn’t been to in years. Places on the Eastside. Places that were once filled with my favorite people. Places where I had heard the most extreme stories.
Ghosts of Classy Ladies, Clever Girls, Engineers, and my beloved Tiny One, hovered over dead, frosted grass. As the van pulled carefully from an unanswered curb, their ghosts slowly melted away behind me.
We made a couple of stops to people in hovels here and there along the way.
Our first swarm was at in a lot next to a boarded-up house. We initially pulled over to help one elderly woman walking alone. She was quite the character. The next thing you know, people were coming from every direction.
The old woman went on about how we were nice people who just wanted to help people. We weren’t doing it for money. We didn’t have an agenda. We weren’t like the others.
Many of the volunteers were family members of other volunteers. They had no problem stepping up to help me get the meals together quickly, and efficiently for every poor soul who the medical team would direct our way. It was quite the medley of people.
I said the same thing to every person, “Merry Christmas! You are so loved, and you are not forgotten.” And all the other mooshy things I say.
One of the last men who we helped there rode up on an old bike. He was filthy, but kind with a genuine smile. He told me that he hadn’t had a Christmas dinner in over 10 years. That this would be his first one since his grandmother died 10 years ago.
“After she wasn’t there, the family stopped getting together. It never happened again. Thank you so much!.” and he gave me one last fist bump with a dirt crusted hand.
He truly meant that thank you.
I told him that his grandmother wanted him to have Christmas dinner. God loved him no matter where he was on his journey. I told him my name was Kayla as I handed him his bag of food and cookies. He told me he had a best friend named Kayla. Then he showed me his wrist. There was a tattoo of the name Kayla written across it.
After I gave him my Christmas blessings and a Christmas dinner, he turned around and returned the blessing. We’re both punk rockers! He was so touched that he met us that day. He said,” Like it wasn’t a coincidence. It was meant to be.”
We roll on through the muck.
I’ve seen houses where the doors are boarded up, and people climbed through an open window. This next house had… just… no front door. I could see people inside sitting on the floor. The house connected to it looked functional, and it had a door. I don’t ask too many questions.
Just, “Would you like some warm, homemade food to eat?”
A sad story from a sweet, young face is my souvenir from that spot. In 2 years, she went from making $25 hr. as a carpenter and owning her own truck, to living in a house with no door and full of predators and drug addicts. She said she’s done a lot of bad things, but she’s going to rehab on Jan. 1. She knows that she knows better than to live this way. I’ll keep praying for her.
The last spot I went to was the last swarm of people that cleaned me out of food. There was also a wonderful bonus Christmas present there for me. I really truly appreciated this gift. I had just finished scooping up food for someone. Then suddenly, I heard my name squeal very loudly from the sidewalk. Next, it hollered, “Is it really you?!”
When I turned around, I saw one of my favorite beloved girls from the old “worst place” house. My beloved Clever Girl! She grabbed onto me like I was a life preserver, and I held onto her tightly for a long time. It felt so good to see her. I felt good to know that she knew she was genuinely loved. We didn’t have anything but a moment. I had long enough to give her my card. She promised to get in touch with me. She has an apartment now on the east side. I can take comfort in knowing that she’s still alive. At the very least she knows we are still out there on the streets. And that my arms are always open to her.
Even if the best we can do is crockpots and cookies from a matchbox car, we’ll find a way to bring the love to as many people who need to feel it as we can find.
Because that’s how we do it in Detroit.
Amen.