By Beth Byrd
Editor-in-Chief
Sunlight poured on the little white church that day as shopping carts filled with blankets and plastic bags rested on the sidewalk. The scene resembled a Walmart parking lot.
Inside the fellowship hall, plastic forks scratched across paper plates loaded with sweet potato casserole and turkey. Volunteers poured sweet tea, served sliced pumpkin pie and handed Styrofoam cups to grimy hands.
Conversations hummed through the space, not much bigger than a living room. Hardly a chair was empty, hardly a spot on the wall not leaned against, yet the line of hungry people stretched through the room, outside the double doors, down the cement sidewalk and onto the adjacent street.
The smell of sage and sweaty socks wafted through the crisp air, filled with the sound of hymns bleeding out of a stereo down the street.
I stood beside the open doorway and gazed at the scene. I saw jeans with stains and rips, babies with no coats and tennis shoes with holes so big that toes stuck out. I smelled the unwashed hair.
I looked at the worry lines streaking over cheeks and foreheads. But as I peered into strangers’ eyes, filled with pain and sorrow, I realized there was little difference between me and these people with so many needs.
While the chilly wind blew on that November day, all I could feel was hot shame pitted in my stomach and seeping across my burning cheeks.
How could I have spent 20 years of my life not better filling these needs?
Last Thanksgiving, my church partnered with a Memphis inner-city church to provide a meal and warm clothes to a community less than an hour away from my home. While I was not a stranger to volunteer work, what I experienced that day instilled a deeper understanding of the responsibility I have to help others.
We all realize community service is good. Why else would politicians boast about how much money they donate to charities? Why else would people plaster pictures on Facebook of their mission trips to Africa? But saying one cares about people and then actually helping people are two different situations.
As I swept cornbread dressing crumbs from the floor, I realized many people have bought into the idea that they cannot make a difference. They think there are too many mouths to feed, too many children to adopt, too many problems to solve.
It is easy to fall prey to this mindset, especially during the holiday season. The media portrays the perfect holiday as filled with shopping, partying and cheer. Tending to people’s needs puts a strain on the carefree atmosphere we like to create.
People also shrink away from the fact that so much pain exists close to home. I heard that a food pantry in Tipton County recently ran out of food, which was the first time the organization had nothing to offer hungry families. According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, Tennessee’s unemployment rate is 8.5 percent. When people hear these things, many turn a blind eye as personal problems outweigh consciences.
But ignoring the problems does not change the fact that countless people cannot afford a good meal, much less the five-course dinners pictured in commercials. Many people cannot purchase Christmas presents this year. Others cannot warm their homes or buy winter clothes.
Despite these issues, venues exist for the fortunate to make a difference. Church members across this city constantly plan events to meet needs near and far. Union organizations, such as J-Crib and the Hartland outreach program, provide opportunities for students to help in ways that impact the future of Jackson’s upcoming generation. Union officials even provide an entire day with no classes for people to volunteer, Nov. 6, during Campus and Community: A Day of Remembrance and Service.
A college student may think he cannot do much. Students have responsibilities and expenses and may lack time or money to care for orphans or employ the jobless.
But as I looked in the eyes of the hurting people I served last Thanksgiving, I decided to stop lying to myself.
College – and life in general – is not just about me.
