A Christmas Party with --- George

Truro is one of many towns with a special tradition at Christmas time --- a hearty meal for those with limited means. It’s a chance for a community to pull together and provide good home cooked food, a fest of love and relationship. It’s a worthwhile trend in many communities, where otherwise ‘down and out’ souls may miss the smells and memorable taste of such family delicacies.

 

These disadvantaged folks look forward to such a treat, as provided by one church in the Downtown. Of course nothing takes place without volunteers, even shy ones like George. His name is changed to protect his true identity. But I see him before me, right now, carrying two plates of steaming happiness. Home-cooked food. Yummy thoughts precede him, as he heads to tables surrounded by waiting guests.

 

They’re street people, but what the heck, they like to eat too; especially with home cooking. 

 

The church is busy with

Christmas cheer, potatoes, peas

and gravy with slabs of beef,

a different treat this time, and I

am one who will be bringing

a plate your way. By the way, my

name is George.

 

George has a particular problem. At times, it is uncomfortable to have him around. He knows all about it. We understand the travails he endures each day. You see, he has Tourette’s. There are times when whistles and clicking sounds, join facial tics as they dance to the tune of his squeezing hands. Some are afraid of him --- I’m used to him by now.

 

Sometimes while walking his solitary route, George hurts his foot after kicking a telephone pole. It’s one way to get rid of some mixed-up stuff inside his head.

 

But today, well, if he could only stand by like a little mouse and watch himself working. He is so determined to be polite, after taking his meds, all cleaned-up and tidy. Passing plates to new friends astonishes them as they notice his newfound discipline. “Please pass this plate,” is a new slogan today. It’s an opportunity to show he does have control over his body. 

 

It’s a new pattern

of kindness from me to you

friend from the streets, clothed in

sorrow, sheets of plastic

to cover your heads,

three layers of coats to warm

your souls. I know, because

I’m one of you.

 

Newcomers around Truro, Nova Scotia have also gathered in this packed hall for the occasion. The word traveled afar: A Christmas Dinner on the 20th of December, at the Downtown Church. A weekly meal developed over the years, brought in as many as 150, but today there must be around 250-300 in Kane’s Kitchen.

 

It’s named after one special person who created this idea, and he has since passed on. On every occasion the cooking is finalized under the direction of one dear couple who really care about those without what many of us take for granted. 

 

George is usually too embarrassed to come for the regular Wednesday noon meal, having difficulty controlling his emotions and body movements. To hold a plate steadily, without a spill is an achievement he continually strives for.

 

Even sitting quietly without being bumped by accident, takes a vast amount of patience. The feeling that overcomes him triggers a desire to fling his plate of food. And in his mind at that misty moment, longs to watch vegetables and main course meal gather flight in their rush to meet the wall. It’s too real, too often.

 

And it really bothers George exceedingly, as he closes his eyes once again wishing to eliminate those images, recurring as a kaleidoscope of past failures. He must. He must.

 

He planned far in advance to come to this Christmas meal. He knew about 250-300 were expected this year. Especially since announcements in the daily paper read: Kane’s Kitchen Christmas Dinner (free). He wished to be part of this year’s celebration. Before he understood why, he was almost forced to come. Some kind soul asked him to be a serving volunteer. Serve? Volunteer? Are they full of peas and carrots? he wondered at the time.

 

Something made him say, “Yes.” Imagine, he’s one of the volunteers. He made sure he took his medication, and dressed up really nice. Imagine, he’s a server, a volunteer --- Yippee. 

 

The pastor covered the meal

through blessings, as anxious

tummies waited. No strings

attached, the meal’s ‘free’ kept

alive in their thoughts. “I’m

one of the servers,” George

whispered quietly, to himself.

 

There’s that dear couple rousting themselves amid the excitement. They’re a couple full of love, and kindness. Had a restaurant or two, even more they say. Gave it up, too busy, hard, tiresome. Now here they are; shopping, planning, cooking for folks like George, a go-getter who has found a good path today.

 

Voices from each table now loose among the aisles, chairs scraping, tummies tucked closer to tables, condiments passed around, and a stream of volunteers coming from the kitchen, heading towards upraised chins. Leading the pack of servers is George, proud among the din.

 

As George looks around, young

and older ones are smacking lips in

satisfaction, getting full, coffee

and biscuits followed by a desert

of trifle. He finds fulfillment in

this mansion of peace.

 

George is no longer just a silhouette, but more like a sentinel, clothed in sunshine. His face is beaming, moustache curled in a smile --- a rare one for him. He looks around, finding himself in a sea of new friends. George knows he’ll be bold enough to ask to serve the Christmas meal, once again. He also knows he should be confident enough to shout, loud and clear:

 

“MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!”