Had an awesome breakfast this morning. Nearly 40 people showed up for "Breakfast and the Blues".
The Breakfast was scrambled eggs, pancakes, bacon, sausage, hash browns, muffins, bagels, OJ, fresh fruit, coffee cake, ice cream and coffee. All provided by individuals, except for the coffee and bagels which were kindly donated by Timmy's.
(The miracle of the week was that, with everything that was going on, we never lost electricity once!)
Quote of the morning: "I thought it was lemonade!" in reference to a bag of milk that we'd found in the fridge. It had been there for a while.
The Blues was contributed by our guest Danny Brooks, who I'd never heard before the team started discussing this. He was gracious enough to load up his van with speakers and stands and amps and guitars and harmonicas and CDs and goodness knows what all else and drive all the way out to the far flung ends of the 905. He said he doesn't usually sing right after eating breakfast (not sure when the last time was he sang in a blue haze, either, what with Ontario's anti-smoking laws) but man, it rocked. Dude can sing.
He took time to tell us some of his own story, which has a lot in common with many of the Motel group. Drugs and alcohol and family. Things got very quiet during one story about his father. But he was never heavy handed or preachy.
When Danny was singing, feet were stomping, heads were bobbing and one guy was trying to sing along with songs he was hearing for the first time. There was cheering and laughter and applause and people dancing across the room to go get one more cup of coffee.
Fortunately, Danny wasn't distracted by all the comings and goings. People were having conversations and going to get seconds and refills. A few stood near the back having a smoke so they could hear better than if they'd stood outside. A couple of guys sat on a couch going through a bag of clothes someone had donated, and others were discussing the boxes of donations we've received from a soap company.
We've come to the attention of this company through the mother of a woman who works there, so every now and then they send us boxes of stuff that they make. This time, it's Foot Butter.
6 huge boxes of sample-size Foot Butters. Which, when you think about it (and I did have to think about it), is a good thing to be giving people who typically wear shoes that are cheap, or second hand, or the wrong size or falling apart. The feet of the poor and homeless take a beating.
But we've got so much more than we could ever give away that we've been able to share with 3 other community groups working in similar milieus.
Now, on one hand, it's nice to be thought of. This company has been very generous. The retail value of this stuff is considerable and they didn't have to do it. They even shipped it all the way from Alberta to here.
On the other hand, there are hundreds and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of these things. It looked rather daunting when I went to pick it up. My car was completely filled and I couldn't think what the heck we were going to do with it all.
Sometimes I wonder what motivates people to donate things. I roll my eyes and think, "What on earth possessed them to think that we could use this thing?" or that we'd want to eat it, or would be able to find a home for it, or choose to wear it?
I really do wonder, sometimes.
I mean, it's easy to be grateful for a couple dozen toothbrushes and tubes of toothpaste. Less easy when it's 20 gross of Foot Butter. But - it does force me to find ways to pass on the gift and to share it. To remind myself that we're not alone, at the Motel. That there are so many other people walking the same road as we.
It's easy to be grateful when someone gives you $75. Less easy when it's all in nickels and pennies. But - if every one of those pennies and nickels were dropped into the jar, a few at a time, with us in mind as a deliberate target of blessing, it's different. It means that when I'm sitting at the dining room table sorting them and counting them and stacking them and rolling them, I must thank God for the woman who gave them, and tell everybody where the money came from so they know that, every day, they're being remembered.
It's easy to be grateful for 80 cups of coffee in a cold room on a cold morning. Less easy to understand why in the name of Elsie the Cow would someone donate a gallon of ice cream to a breakfast, for Pete's sake! Until - I see L. and R. digging into the container with huge spoons, piling it on their plates and grinning like kids because they love ice cream and it's been ages since they've had any and they don't care that ice cream isn't a 'breakfast food'.
I really do wonder sometimes.
Sometimes I wonder "What were they thinking?".
Sometimes, "How did they know?"
r
The Breakfast was scrambled eggs, pancakes, bacon, sausage, hash browns, muffins, bagels, OJ, fresh fruit, coffee cake, ice cream and coffee. All provided by individuals, except for the coffee and bagels which were kindly donated by Timmy's.
(The miracle of the week was that, with everything that was going on, we never lost electricity once!)
Quote of the morning: "I thought it was lemonade!" in reference to a bag of milk that we'd found in the fridge. It had been there for a while.
The Blues was contributed by our guest Danny Brooks, who I'd never heard before the team started discussing this. He was gracious enough to load up his van with speakers and stands and amps and guitars and harmonicas and CDs and goodness knows what all else and drive all the way out to the far flung ends of the 905. He said he doesn't usually sing right after eating breakfast (not sure when the last time was he sang in a blue haze, either, what with Ontario's anti-smoking laws) but man, it rocked. Dude can sing.
He took time to tell us some of his own story, which has a lot in common with many of the Motel group. Drugs and alcohol and family. Things got very quiet during one story about his father. But he was never heavy handed or preachy.
When Danny was singing, feet were stomping, heads were bobbing and one guy was trying to sing along with songs he was hearing for the first time. There was cheering and laughter and applause and people dancing across the room to go get one more cup of coffee.
Fortunately, Danny wasn't distracted by all the comings and goings. People were having conversations and going to get seconds and refills. A few stood near the back having a smoke so they could hear better than if they'd stood outside. A couple of guys sat on a couch going through a bag of clothes someone had donated, and others were discussing the boxes of donations we've received from a soap company.
We've come to the attention of this company through the mother of a woman who works there, so every now and then they send us boxes of stuff that they make. This time, it's Foot Butter.
6 huge boxes of sample-size Foot Butters. Which, when you think about it (and I did have to think about it), is a good thing to be giving people who typically wear shoes that are cheap, or second hand, or the wrong size or falling apart. The feet of the poor and homeless take a beating.
But we've got so much more than we could ever give away that we've been able to share with 3 other community groups working in similar milieus.
Now, on one hand, it's nice to be thought of. This company has been very generous. The retail value of this stuff is considerable and they didn't have to do it. They even shipped it all the way from Alberta to here.
On the other hand, there are hundreds and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of these things. It looked rather daunting when I went to pick it up. My car was completely filled and I couldn't think what the heck we were going to do with it all.
Sometimes I wonder what motivates people to donate things. I roll my eyes and think, "What on earth possessed them to think that we could use this thing?" or that we'd want to eat it, or would be able to find a home for it, or choose to wear it?
I really do wonder, sometimes.
I mean, it's easy to be grateful for a couple dozen toothbrushes and tubes of toothpaste. Less easy when it's 20 gross of Foot Butter. But - it does force me to find ways to pass on the gift and to share it. To remind myself that we're not alone, at the Motel. That there are so many other people walking the same road as we.
It's easy to be grateful when someone gives you $75. Less easy when it's all in nickels and pennies. But - if every one of those pennies and nickels were dropped into the jar, a few at a time, with us in mind as a deliberate target of blessing, it's different. It means that when I'm sitting at the dining room table sorting them and counting them and stacking them and rolling them, I must thank God for the woman who gave them, and tell everybody where the money came from so they know that, every day, they're being remembered.
It's easy to be grateful for 80 cups of coffee in a cold room on a cold morning. Less easy to understand why in the name of Elsie the Cow would someone donate a gallon of ice cream to a breakfast, for Pete's sake! Until - I see L. and R. digging into the container with huge spoons, piling it on their plates and grinning like kids because they love ice cream and it's been ages since they've had any and they don't care that ice cream isn't a 'breakfast food'.
I really do wonder sometimes.
Sometimes I wonder "What were they thinking?".
Sometimes, "How did they know?"
r
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