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We all have favorite ways of giving back or paying forward.
We write checks, participate in fundraisers, run deliveries, make phone calls, collate and stick our own stamps on mailings, donate blood and hair, roll up our sleeves to actually work face-to-face with and for those who need help. We take our children along and teach them by example.
Our reward is the opportunity to do it again -- and we don't broadcast our good deeds.
That last having been said, I must bring up a particular activity to illustrate how my family's adverse economic circumstances seem to have raised me to a certain level of grace.
I like to volunteer at the Uptown Cafe. Everyone in our family has volunteered happily at this extraordinary eatery on Chicago's North Side. Although there's probably a set schedule, our synagogue's volunteer evenings at the cafe feel random, and it's always a delightful surprise when I get a call requesting our help.
To call the Uptown Cafe a "soup kitchen" would be to diminish the honor and dignity the place affords its patrons. Those who register for dinner don't shuffle through a cafeteria-type line. Instead, they are seated at pre-set tables for four. Volunteers greet and apprise diners of the menu for the evening, take their orders, serve them their meal course by course, and are encouraged to engage them in conversation. Don't have to ask me twice -- I eagerly talk to strangers.
While serving and conversing, I occasionally take a step back to gaze surreptitiously at faces and demeanors, wondering what in life's journey brings to these tables the man with the clear green eyes and British accent, or the sullen woman and her bubbly 8-year-old daughter who cheerfully demanded any pink food offered. I think the same thought that's at the forefront of every volunteer's mind: There, but for the grace of God ... .
A few weeks ago, Fred and I served at the cafe for the first time since March -- when our financial difficulties began in earnest. I found it easier than ever to interact with the cafe's patrons and was a tad startled to find subtle changes in the people I served: They made better eye contact, laughed a little looser, lingered a bit longer.
Just as I was musing about these pleasant differences, a young man asked to know on what date I next will serve in the cafe. I was taken aback since I'd never been asked this before, and he seemed disappointed when I told him I didn't know.
I attributed his inquiry to my earlier having enabled his creation of a soup-and-saltine mush by slipping him an unauthorized number of crackers. "Don't tell my boss," I had whispered, my eyes darting side to side in mock conspiracy.
But when three more people independently asked the same question, I began to suspect their inexplicably beefed-up friendliness wasn't a change in them, but was, rather, their response to a difference in me. Is it possible my family's situation had -- while I wasn't looking -- rendered me softer, kinder, more empathetic?
Next time, I'll make sure I'm able to provide a calendar date to anyone who inquires when I'll return. It'll be good to keep up with friends.
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