Beginning at 2:30 p.m. on Wednesdays throughout the year, mass text messages go out to students reminding them to meet that afternoon at 4 p.m. outside our church—not for games, Bible study, an ice cream run or a trip, but to put our faith in action by serving the last, the least and the lost at a local soup kitchen. A sister church of ours serves their community in the town that borders ours where the median income for a household in the city is $23,081 and the poverty level sits at $20,000.
It took no convincing to ask our students to give a few hours of their time each week to serve our neighbors who need it the most. Each Wednesday, they are excited; and each Wednesday presents a new opportunity for our students to be Jesus with skin. As a leader, watching my students serve is probably one of the things that gives me the most joy. Knowing they are putting their faith into action and can serve humbly in the name of Jesus allows students to truly live out the gospel in their lives.
One of my favorite things as a leader is to watch a student who has come with us for the first time, especially the girls. The guys are really good workers at the soup kitchen—checking trash, carrying boxes, moving things, unloading the food bank truck to store the food in the pantry…but the girls, there’s a distinct difference about what makes them tick as soon as they walk through those doors. In conversations with guys and girls as a result of their soup kitchen experiences, I’ve come to the conclusion that girls desire service in more relational forms of conversation; guys desire to serve in a context where they can see the result of their labor almost instantly. The girls are quick to sit down at a table with our friends in need on Wednesdays.
This particular Wednesday was typical, packing the church van full with students to go to the soup kitchen to serve our local friends who are in need. As we rounded the corner onto First Avenue, I asked one of the students to pray. She prayed for our friends at the soup kitchen who don’t know Jesus to come to know Him; she prayed for those who do to know Him better; she prayed God would use us. That was the beginning of a Wednesday night adventure that would impact our lives forever.
Upon our arrival, the students were put right to work as always—and they did so without complaining. You see, when we’re serving Jesus’ children in such a real, tangible way, the students don’t complain about a thing. They understand the importance of sharing our faith. They understand Jesus would be sitting with these people, too, if He were here in the flesh today. Similar to worker bees, they have formations; they pack bags and bags full groceries for the food pantry and prepare the dinner we are about to serve to our friends. They laugh with one another and joke; they throw the corn instead of placing it in the bag; and they make up games to get the work done faster.
It’s 5 p.m., and the door opens. The people rush in—they’re hungry. Some haven’t eaten all day, some for a few days, some for a week. Some are clean; some are not. Some are well-groomed; some could use a touch up. Some smell nice; some could use a bath. Some have nice clothes; some of their clothes could use washing. Some are nice; some are grumpy. I like the grumpy ones—they’re a challenge. Some are thankful; and some say, “The rice is bad.” No matter which “some” they fall into, they’re all children of God; and we remind our students of that each time we serve.
This particular Wednesday was a little crazy. There were lots of cooks in the kitchen, literally and figuratively; and there were lots of people who were hungry. Once everyone was served a soup, dinner plate and dessert, the students would walk around, making sure everyone was OK. Some students chose to sit and talk with the people; some chose not to do so. I watched—I watched as my students were the hands and feet of Jesus to their local friends.
This day, there were bags and bags of donated clothing items, blankets, hats, mittens, scarves and jackets for the people to look through and take should they need them. Everyone was rummaging through them, taking what they needed, what they could use for other family and friends.
Upon close observation, I watched a man stand up with his wife next to him, and he thew a pair of royal blue Adidas pants he had just picked out of a bag to her and said, “Now go clean yourself up!” I noticed as the woman walked away that she had spilled coffee on herself—a little odd, but nothing too out of the ordinary for us to see.
About a minute later, one of the volunteers came running out of the women’s bathroom with a panicked look on her face. She loudly said, “Megan, come here; we have an emergency!” Immediately my heart sank. In all honesty, I never know what’s going to happen. I calmly walked toward her, and she took me into the bathroom.
My eyes were immediately drawn to a woman who was hunched over the sink with her hands wrapped around her head. She was moaning in agony. I looked down at her, staring, and asked the volunteer what was going on. She said, “I think she’s had a seizure.” The volunteer left, and there I was, alone in the bathroom with a woman hunched over a sink. I lowered my head down toward the woman’s face, meeting her eyes to mine, and asked her to sit down. There was a chair in the bathroom. God is a God of details. She couldn’t sit. Instead, she fell backward and landed right on her tailbone. I picked her limp, almost lifeless body up and put her on the chair. I asked her to tell me her name; she couldn’t. I asked her to tell me where she was; she couldn’t. I asked her to sit still; she could do that. I grabbed her face with my hands and made sure her eyes were looking at mine. I said, “Tell me what happened—right now.” She knew I meant business. She began to slur and tell me she has epilepsy and has since she was 6 years old. She could barely hold her head up. I needed help.
I ran to the kitchen and got an experienced volunteer, a woman I know and trust. I calmly asked her to come with me, but widened my eyes and stared into hers so she knew I needed help. My students were around. I didn’t want them to see or know what was happening. Although they’re old enough to serve, part of me still wants to protect them at times.
As I walked back to the bathroom with my friend, I explained the situation and what I thought was happening. You see, this was no epileptic seizure. This was a severe reaction to a drug overdose or something equally as challenging and disturbing. My friend and I began to get more information out of the woman—her name, the fact that her husband was in the dining room eating, that she needed a change of clothes. While my friend went to find her something else to put on, I once again was left alone in the bathroom with a woman who was fighting for her life. I prayed out loud and asked the Lord what my job was in this situation. I asked Him what to do. I began rubbing the woman’s back across her shoulder blades, back and forth, back and forth. In circles, up and down, saying comforting things such as, “You’ll be fine,” and “It’ll be OK,” with a few “She’ll be right down with some new pants for ya,” thrown in there. The woman began to weep. She sobbed. She looked at me with scary, dark eyes, eyes that hadn’t seen much compassion or love, eyes that were crying for help. As she put her head down again, I prayed for her. I asked Jesus to infiltrate her body. I told the enemy that he had no business with her and that this one belonged to Jesus. She hunched in her chair with each prayer I prayed. I began each time to lift her back up, sitting her up straight, while continuing to rub her back.
My friend came back minutes later with some new pants for her. She couldn’t change them herself. This woman had no control over her own body; she couldn’t stand on her own two legs or hold her own head up. We changed the her pants, and I found her husband. The man, while on crutches, lovingly packed up all of their food, put it in his backpack, picked up his black plastic garbage bag filled with clothes and looked down. He said he knew she couldn’t walk home and needed help getting her there. We asked where he stayed—an all to familiar rooming house on the north side of our town. The pastor of the church offered them a ride. I hugged the woman, and she continued to sob into my arms. I let her go and walked out of the bathroom, not knowing if I would ever see her again, all the while thinking about what my students had been doing while I was called away from them.
When I returned to the dining room, my students had served, fed, cleaned up and were packaging groceries for the next day. They didn’t need me. They knew what to do because they knew who they were serving. I walked in on girls having conversations with some of the women in the kitchen, asking about their lives. My students never once stopped being relational. They never missed a beat even though I wasn’t there to guide them. We had been serving at this soup kitchen long enough for them to know exactly what comes next, and they just handled it. I was overwhelmed with joy at the very thought of my students serving without me. They didn’t need me.
Serving at that soup kitchen has changed the face and pulse of our ministry. Students understand the importance of feeding the hungry and putting our faith into action. The girls understand that having a conversation over dinner with a homeless woman and child is better than almost anything else they’ve done that day. They continually amaze me as they emulate the love of Jesus on multiple levels as we serve.
The challenge I raise to you this week is to find somewhere for your students to serve if they aren’t already serving—a place to put their faith in action, where they can live out the gospel. Find a place where people need Jesus, and bring your students to be His hands and feet. It could change their lives.
