Large and In Charge

It's not exactly a bustling night, but it's cold out so we've got a pretty good crowd running around the the building. Two volunteers are bringing out ground beef and taco shells, and another is trying to keep the swearing to a minimum (a study in futility, that. we're as guilty as they are.) There are a few expectant glances my direction as the kids shuffle into a line, ready to pray and eat. Glenn - ostensibly, my head of security, motions that it's showtime. I've never really done this before.

"Alright," I shout through my strep throat, jumping onto a chair so that the whole room can see me. "Can I have everyone's attention please?!" The kids all shush each other in unison, except for Andre who screams "bitch!" right as the rest of the talking dies.

"LANGUAGE!" bellows Glenn. There are no words for how big Glenn is. Inevitably, the first time you meet him, you'll be struck dumb by either his massive girth; the second time, you'll realize that he's neck-craning tall too. He's the sort of guy you want for security, so long as you can keep him to task.

"Where's Dave?!" one of the kids calls.

"This will just take a minute!" I crack. "As most of you know, Dave and Amy won't be here anymore, so now I'll be the only one in charge from now on."

"Why did Dave have to leave?!" someone shouts. There are a few murmurs of assent and I know that the answer to that question is complicated.

"It had nothing to do with any of you," I answer, truthfully enough. "Anyway, nothing around here is really going to change. Just remember, I want this place to be safe for everyone who comes in. That means, whatever's happening on the streets - leave it on the streets."

"I miss Dave!"

"If something has to be settled, take it outside the building. There won't be any fighting here."

Glenn mutters to me, trying to remind me to say something - but I'm on a roll and the kids are getting restless. The ground beef is cooling and Laura, the cook - bless her heart - is covering the food anxiously.

"So, tonight we have tacos and rice for you, also soda and coffee. I think we have enough for secoooonds..." I draw that out as I look questioningly at Laura who shrugs her shoulders. "We might have enough for seconds. I'll pray and then we can eat."

There is another chorus of "shhh!"'s as kids slip off caps and clasp hands. It's strange, to see a group of kids so steeped in keeping it real still feeling obligated to give prayer its due. It now, as it has before, leaves me a little unsure of what exactly to pray. How does one pray for this group?

"Father, thank you for bringing us all here and thanks for this food." I sound like a five-year-old at a church potluck, I know, and here's hoping that God can sift through what I say. "Look after our brains, Father - help us to join all our thoughts to you." - a line from a Sufjan song I've always liked - "and keep our bodies and souls safe." There are some mutters and a few giggles, and it's time to wrap this up. "Thanks, God - we love you so much. Amen."

"AMEN!" everyone chimes as the spell breaks and a sort of comfortable chaos settles in. Laura and Alora uncover pots and start dishing out food. Glenn glances over at me, and I almost have to stay on the chair to have a normal conversation with him.

"Pretty good for your first time," he says. I sense this is more a critique than a compliment, but this hide's thickened a bit over the past few months and it doesn't bother me much. "You shouldn't tell them to take it outside the building, though. They'll just fight in the parking lot - you should tell them to take it off church property."

"Thanks," I say. He's right, and sure enough, I'm chasing a scuffling couple off the parking lot and into the street later that night. I watch them fade down the street, winking in and out as their fight carries them from street light to street light. I stand in the cold, watching my breath puff out as Taylor, a spritely volunteer with luminous eyes and bouncing curls runs up behind me. Maja is acting up again, casting spells in the foyer. I walk back into the church and a familiar feeling takes over again, equal parts surrender and relief: A miniature prayer to God that is more felt than spoken, but runs something like, "all of me to help all of them."

The Continuation.

CONTINUED...

Blank stares hum in a room that, abruptly, feels all business. My grant proposal is staring each of these pastors in the face, like an expectant child. I'm playing it cool, leaned back, arms crossed, face set with an expression that I hope reads: "whatever, you know? It's not like I NEED your money."

The Hawaiian pastor shuffles a bit, shifting to skeptical mode. "So, who exactly are you feeding with this?"

I'm pretty well-rehearsed for this part. "The homeless in our neighborhood."

"How many?"

"Varies. Fifty to sixty a night."

"What are they like?" asks the children's pastor, a heavy-set soccor mom with a brunette bob and flowers on her blouse.

"Most of them are kids, many of them are sexually confused. Gender confused. They come out to their parents or friends and don't find the acceptance they thought they would. So they come to Chicago, band together in these little gangs, and get mixed up in drugs, prostitution and never really get a handle on their sexuality."

"They're all gay?"

"No. Some are. Some are bi. Some are straight. Some pretend to be whatever will get them friends. A lot of them are transvestites."

"You work with these people?"

"I live with them."

It sounds dramatic, I know - like I'm one of those people who are living their Christian walk in the extreme (like Jesus!) Maybe. It's not nearly as romantic once you're in the thing. It's mopping floors and brewing coffee. It's keeping toilet paper stocked and crunching budget numbers. A church is a church, I suppose.

"Transvestites!" The pastor exclaims, "well, you should invite Pastor Brad over there!" He motions to a young, quiet-looking pastor with long fingers and shy eyes. "He'd fit right in with the transvestites!"

Everyone laughs at this, save Pastor Brad, who smiles sheepishly into his cup of coffee. I watch Pastor Brad and realize that I'm not the only one floundering in this church. This religion.

"But seriously," Pastor Hawaii says, folding his hands in a mentorly fashion. "You and I both know that I could drop pennies into your work there from now till the Lord comes, and it wouldn't do any good. Right now, I have a 1.1 million dollar a year budget...that I'm not meeting."

He says I'm not meeting as if to correct any mistaken assumptions I might have about the livelihood of this church. As if he was saying, "don't kid yourself, hotshot. It ain't easy having all this."

"And," Pastor Hawaii says, peering over his glasses at me. "You're asking for...what does this break down to... less than a hundred dollars a week to feed all these people."

"Fifty dollars a week."

"That's not very much money, Tyler."

"It's what I've been doing."

"Well." The pastor whistles. "Who'd you find to cater these for less than a dollar a head?"

"I cook it myself - me and the volunteers."

"Fifty dollars a week?"

"We've gotten pretty good at shopping on a budget."

"It just doesn't sound feasible to me."

"It's what we do."

"But you see how that doesn't sound possible."

"It's possible."

"How?"

"Coupons."

"It's not much food then."

"It's not a feast, no."

"Fifty dollars isn't much."

"So give me more then!"

There are some awkward stares around the table, a hot silence that reddens the cheeks and statics the ears. Eyes fluttering about, wondering if I had said that last bit in anger.

I'm miles beyond angry.

The Pastor chuckles a bit, sensing the need to boost the spirits. "Look. Tyler. What you're doing is amazing out there. Amazing. We want to help. I mean, Pastor Brad will probably can't wait to start volunteering!"

Laughter - but for Brad - and the meeting is back where it started. Everyone's laughing and I'm feeling sick in my guts. There's a white board in the corner with the words, "God is good! All the time!"" scrawled on it in red marker.

I could have scripted the rest of it out before it happened. They need to talk it over. Look at the budget. Make calls. Pray. They'll be in touch. So good to chat. Let's pray. "Father, we thank you for the work that Tyler is doing..."

I leave, never wanting to hear from them again.

And I don't.