Saturday, October 08, 2005

The colour of thankfulness

It's Thanksgiving weekend here in these Canadian parts, so I'm thinking thankful thoughts. Mixed in somewhere with all those memories of things I have to be grateful for, is the memory of one thanksgiving that effected me deeper than most.

Her name was Arlene and she was a young girl trying to create a life for herself and her baby son, in the heart of Winnipeg. She had come to church with a friend, and though she was quiet, she was fun to be with. She had been raised by people who went to church, but she had kinda never fit in to their church, so she just took to staying away.

She and her big baby boy started to attend the church we were creating there in Winnipeg, but it wasn't easy to get there so she would often miss a gathering.

She never had much money but she worked hard looking after her son. She also felt a great responsibility for her sister who struggled with addictions. It was hard, but Arlene tried to look after her too.

I remember one Thanksgiving weekend. We hadn't seen Arlene for a couple of weeks and I got a call from a friend of her's who was worried about her. She said Arlene was all out of food and her sister was hanging around, probably a bit to much. She asked if we could help her.

I couldn't call Arlene because she couldn't afford a phone, but the friend was trustworthy. I decided to go and get some groceries and take them down to her apartment.

It was an overcast blustery Friday afternoon in Winnipeg as I arrived at her beat up, run down apartment door. It didn't lock any longer so anyone could enter, and I did. As I made my way down into the dark basement hallway the first thing to meet me was the smell. It was the smell of hard living and lost humanity.

The walls were dirty and broken and above the noise of the televisions you could hear babies crying and people fighting. I stood there a minute, letting it all sink in.

Hoisting up the bags of food I had brought, I moved down the hall, looking for her door, hoping she would be home. I found her door and knocked.

There was no response, so I knocked again, firmer this time.

"Who's there?" I heard from the other side of the door. Her response was meek and nervous. I assured her it was I and she peeked through the door, opened just a crack.

When she saw my face, her's lit up with a smile and she swung the door open fully, welcoming me in.

Her apartment was very modest, but well cared for given her circumstances. The little guy was learning to walk and he waddled up to me with just a big diaper on and a soother in his mouth with a grin behind it.

She saw the packages and asked what it was all about. I explained they were for her, and as I spoke those words I saw life begin to return to her eyes.

They got big and wide and teary.

She took the bags from my drooping arms with such gratitude and started talking faster than her mouth could keep up. She had been down to nothing. Nothing but a few crackers. She was trying to pace them out, only giving them to the boy when he cried a lot. As for herself, she hadn't eaten for two days, but she would be ok now that there was something to eat again.

She started unpacking the bags and putting the food away, cooing over each new thing. And I went into the tired living room with the little guy and helped them get a better signal on that beat up old TV that was in there.

After a few minutes, I got up to go so they could get on with the often overlooked simple pleasure of eating. And I knew they would be ok this thanksgiving.

With a smile from ear to ear she hugged me, thanking me again and again, and the little guy waved at me, soother still firmly planted in his mouth.

I passed through the smell and noise and dark, and pushed the door open into the cold blustery wind and I realized with new appreciation just how thankful I actually was.

It was the day I learned about true gratitude.

6 comments:

  1. WOW! Just simply WOW! That was an awesome story Randall. Wish I had stories like. I guess some walks of life give you that more then others.

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  2. Thanksgiving dinner with the new side of my family last evening was very good, but after reading this it just got so much more special.

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  3. You're quite the writer -- I missed your voice! Thanks for sharing this.

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  4. Thanks for the reminder of how much we have. Even on the difficult days we at least do not have to worry about the food. Thanks for this story.

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  5. Your story reminded me, not that it is easy for me to forget, about the time I went through a very similar situation. My daughter, Cherish, and I were down to our last box of Cornflakes and I was eating very occassionally to save the food for her since we didn't know where the next meal would be coming from. I was desperate; I felt like a failure and felt unworthy of caring for the beautiful child God had entrusted to me.



    A wonderful couple from the church I attended in Saskatoon called me to see if I would be home as they had something that they needed to drop off. He was a teacher at the Bible School just outside of S'toon and his students had a food drive. He had told them about us and they wanted to give it all to us. They brought in boxes and bags of food and nothing was overlooked: laundry soap, treats for Cherish...the list is endless. In the midst of it all was a stack of money for anything that was overlooked or any other needs we may have had.



    I will never forget them as long as I live and I will never forget how God took care of me and my daughter when we needed Him. He does provide for us. We don't have to do it on our own. Sometimes He sends us angels to help out along the way.



    Here is the opposite side of the story you told. I don't know if she feels the same way I do but I know that I thank God for "angels" like you and Peter and Caroline R every day.

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  6. Wow, cool. Thanx Ang.



    It's been my experience, especially running a food bank, that you don't always know who has food to eat and who doesn't.



    Many might be surprised that for various reasons, their neighbours could be living on crackers or dry bread.



    It happens. Closer than you think.

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