Introducing people I met -- including me
A congregation of Presbyterians in my town annually accepts the task of delivering meals for a week to people who need, or at least want, them. So Carrol and I signed up to deliver meals on Route 9 for three days this week.
Route 9 weaves its path through a trailer park, a housing project, and a neighborhood created more than sixty years ago. It goes through no gated communities, no suburbs with manicured lawns, and the only huge homes on the route have long since been converted to apartments.
The people on Route 9, at least the ones we delivered meals to, aren’t much different than the houses they live in. One resident is blind and lives in a house that isn’t much to look at. Even though blind, she brightens one’s day by her friendliness.
One man lives far back from the street, keeps the blinds and curtains shut, and wants his meal left outside the door. If he were a motel guest, he would probably hang one of those little “do not disturb” signs on the doorknob as soon as he checked in.
The lady with the yapping dog that pants incessantly is leashed to an oxygen tank and comes to the door while stepping carefully around the dog and over the long plastic hose attached to her nose.
The widow around the corner is a living reminder of my wife’s mother after she became a widow; quiet, modest, undemanding, and no trouble to her neighbors. The big difference is that this woman doesn’t have nine daughters and four sons checking on her.
At the last house, the one with the two dilapidated mailboxes, a frail young man is waiting at the door for his meal and the one for the man in the other apartment. He says, “Thank you,” in the same way I say it at MacDonald’s.
Who are these people on Route 9? Who am I?
Each of them lives alone and eats alone. I still eat most of my meals with my wife of fifty years.
Most of the Route Niners have the red, white, and blue Medicare card and pull it out of their purse or billfold regularly because they have medical issues. The most treasured card in my billfold grants me permission to drive. Different cards for different folks.
I suspect a ringing telephone is a welcome sound in their homes. For me, uninvited contact with the world is an interruption and inconvenience.
I eat home cooked meals prepared by someone who loves me. They eat institutional food prepared by a job-holding stranger.
I can see; drive; get out and around; go where I want when I want; eat only the food I like; and have opportunity to do good. The folks on Route 9 qualify for Meals on Wheels.
My ancestor Abraham was blessed so he could be a blessing – and so am I. Other people, a select few really, are put in my life, not for the purpose of comparison, judgment, pity, or example; but for me to bless. For three days, the people on Route 9 made it possible – easy – for me to be the person I am meant to be.
Route 9 weaves its path through a trailer park, a housing project, and a neighborhood created more than sixty years ago. It goes through no gated communities, no suburbs with manicured lawns, and the only huge homes on the route have long since been converted to apartments.
The people on Route 9, at least the ones we delivered meals to, aren’t much different than the houses they live in. One resident is blind and lives in a house that isn’t much to look at. Even though blind, she brightens one’s day by her friendliness.
One man lives far back from the street, keeps the blinds and curtains shut, and wants his meal left outside the door. If he were a motel guest, he would probably hang one of those little “do not disturb” signs on the doorknob as soon as he checked in.
The lady with the yapping dog that pants incessantly is leashed to an oxygen tank and comes to the door while stepping carefully around the dog and over the long plastic hose attached to her nose.
The widow around the corner is a living reminder of my wife’s mother after she became a widow; quiet, modest, undemanding, and no trouble to her neighbors. The big difference is that this woman doesn’t have nine daughters and four sons checking on her.
At the last house, the one with the two dilapidated mailboxes, a frail young man is waiting at the door for his meal and the one for the man in the other apartment. He says, “Thank you,” in the same way I say it at MacDonald’s.
Who are these people on Route 9? Who am I?
Each of them lives alone and eats alone. I still eat most of my meals with my wife of fifty years.
Most of the Route Niners have the red, white, and blue Medicare card and pull it out of their purse or billfold regularly because they have medical issues. The most treasured card in my billfold grants me permission to drive. Different cards for different folks.
I suspect a ringing telephone is a welcome sound in their homes. For me, uninvited contact with the world is an interruption and inconvenience.
I eat home cooked meals prepared by someone who loves me. They eat institutional food prepared by a job-holding stranger.
I can see; drive; get out and around; go where I want when I want; eat only the food I like; and have opportunity to do good. The folks on Route 9 qualify for Meals on Wheels.
My ancestor Abraham was blessed so he could be a blessing – and so am I. Other people, a select few really, are put in my life, not for the purpose of comparison, judgment, pity, or example; but for me to bless. For three days, the people on Route 9 made it possible – easy – for me to be the person I am meant to be.
Labels: Meals on Wheels
posted by John | 12:00 PM
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