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The face of grace

Helen Lepp Friesen

We go sometimes to the homeless shelter. Sometimes I wonder why. Is it to appease our guilt for living in a beautiful home with abundance, right next door to such unyielding poverty? Is it to share our plenty with the destitute? Or is it perhaps to learn about grace from the endlessly compassionate sisters of mercy who run the shelter? Is it to expose our children to a life far different from their consistently packed lunches and predictable warm beds?


The doors open at 4:00 p.m. every day of the year, as poor people wander in to a sheltered place. We park our shiny minivan outside and join them, sometimes stumbling over a dirty pair of discarded underwear in the entryway. We shake hands with those who sit despondently on ragged couches waiting for the soup to be served. The sisters arm us with big white aprons and knives for chopping the salvageable vegetables from last week’s grocery shelf. But there is no shield to protect us from the stench of spoiling produce, the reek of filthy clothing and the fetid odour of despair.

It is time to serve the soup. Why am I standing on this side of the pot? Who put me here and not on the other side, with outstretched hands receiving someone else’s cast-offs?

My eight-year-old daughter Emily cradles a bowl of soup in her small hands, carries it to a table and sets it in front of an old wizened man with unkempt clothes. The sight of a child evokes a hesitant smile, then he pulls two dollars from his pocket and hands it to her. Her question of whether to accept the tip brings a nod from the sisters. She shares it with her older brother, who prefers to do Martha’s unseen job and chop vegetables in the kitchen.

A tattered man comes to the pot grumbling, “In Albuquerque, they know how to run a homeless shelter. You should go see how they do it there.” The sister only smiles and blesses him with her poised manner.

We dip our hands in greasy water to wash the grime from the plastic bowls, as we try in some way to wash a begrimed life. We sweep the mud and dirt from the floor as we try in some way to remove the smudges that stain life. As the homeless men and women go to carefully cleaned rooms for a night’s rest in yet another strange bed, we return to our home with the smell of rotten produce still lingering in our noses. With numbed appetites, we silently eat our evening meal. There are no complaints about the food, just extraordinary pleases and thank yous. Our familiar beds welcome us.

As I close my eyes, I see God on the other side of the pot. I am the one standing there with my unkempt attitudes, my tattered attempts at being good, my grumbling and complaining when life doesn’t go my way. With outstretched hands, I receive, not leftovers, but forgiveness that was bought with the biggest sacrifice of all, love that has been poured out on Sunday’s best china and peace that settles on us like a clean, starched sheet as we sleep. Christ offers His best, just as the sisters offer the prime of their life and the best of their talents to make a delicious soup for the precious people the world has forgotten. In that drama of giving and taking, I see the face of grace, for I also am the recipient of endless mercy.

Helen Lepp Friesen is a full-time mother and a part-time teacher of writing in Gallup, New Mexico.

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Last modified January 30, 2001.

© 2001 Mennonite Brethren Herald.
Published by the Canadian Conference of MB Churches.
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