Thanksgiving, compassion and hope served with a side of heartbreak.

This Thanksgiving, as with the previous years, I volunteered to work for a local Buddhist temple in their yearly tradition of preparing and serving food to the homeless/indigent/low income/foster children in the area of San Diego. This year the temple was donated access to a large catering kitchen though they were not able to secure a larger serving venue. So Thursday morning, I reported to the catering kitchen, bright and early, at 4am.

This year with some amazing donations from various grocery stores, the volunteer staff planned to create a 400 full Thanksgiving meal with dessert meals.  Last year, the temple only got enough donations to make 200 meals and we were very sad to have to turn people away. This year, we are hoped to have enough to make deliveries out to those who could not make it to the temple and feed everyone that comes through the doors.

Many of the volunteers were regular volunteers to the temple's outreach services and pretty much were veterans like myself. This year the temple fewer new volunteers than it would have liked but managed with some the veterans doing double duty. This year, I was in charge of the ovens and preparing the food in to-go containers to be delivered out to people in the county of San Diego. Anything that gets baked, I was make sure it gets baked right and fully. So from 6am to3pm I was hustling pies, turkeys, roasted veggies, and bread like nobody's business. I had to watch ten ovens with ten corresponding timers, basting the turkeys at the right time, tossing the veggies around to make sure they get proper cooking, and not burn the heck out of the bread and pies. And I needed to make sure EVERYTHING was done baking 3pm. There was a long 15 foot stainless steel table in front of the row of ovens and there wasn't a point during the day where that table was not filled with large baking trays of stuff. And hour after hour, hot air in my face, burn marks on my arms, I hoisted what seem like metric-ton in weight of food in and out of these huge industrial ovens. When everything was done baking (an hour and a half later than expected due to one oven deciding to break down), I took a 30 minute break (apparently I feel asleep while checking my phone, only to be roused by a kindly monk offering me water) and then started to break down and portion the food out into to-go containers. After an hour of that, it was time to start preparing the food for transport to the temple.

At this point, I still had not left the kitchen (which was in another part of town from where the temple was) and had no clue as to what was happening in at the temple were they were going to actually server the food. I was eventually told that the seating area was filled up within 30 minutes of the doors opening at 5pm. And there was still people waiting outside to get in, with the line wrapped around to the back of the temple, near their back parking lot.  When I found out, my heart sank, thinking we may have to turn people away again like last year. I got my coat and drove to the temple.

Tear ducts starts aching.


Hold it together.


At the temple, I finished helping the servers prep the food for the serving line. After what seemed like an eternity of slicing of the turkey, whipping mash potatoes, and cutting all assortments of pies, I finally was able to make my way to the serving buffet to help out with the serving of the food.When I walked into the dining area, I felt something stab me in the heart, causing me to dead stop to stare. The monks had found a way to arrange the long tables to sit a little more than 100 people in their small worship hall. And every chair was full. EVERY. ONE. Men, women, young and old, full families with babies and toddlers. Most of them were homeless based on the condition of their clothing and appearance. And all of them were eating very quietly. No words were heard spoken, only the sweet ramblings or giggles of a child here and there.

Tear ducts treating to burst.


STOP IT. Seriously.


I stood there for what seemed like a minute and stared. And I found myself clenching my hand so hard that its seemed as if I was trying to embed my nails into my palm. The recognition of the pain shook me from my staring at the dinning tables, forcing me to straighten myself and walk towards the serving line. I worked the serving line till about 7:30pm and the entire time, there was no lull in the flow of people. During the entire time in the line I had to force myself to stay focused, smile, and not even think a negative thought. It was the only time in my life I had to force myself to smile and it was the hardest thing I ever had to do. At some point someone came to relieve me. But I found out as I headed to the back that more people were need to bus the tables, to remove the plates and silverware after someone was done, so that more people can be let in to eat. Instead of using disposable plates and utensils, the monks feel that everyone that is served food should be given real plates and silverware, as to fully feel the comforts of a real, home cooked meal. "They may not have a home but we should make their soul feel like it has a home when we can," as one of the monks once told me. So I grabbed a busing cart and made my way between the rows of tables.

As I made my way up and down the line, a few of the people stopped me to thank me. Not for cleaning but for the food, the warmth, the service. They looked me in the eyes and were so genuinely grateful for their food. And with every kind word, it was a fight to keep myself in painful check. As I was talking to a war veteran about what his favorite part of the meal was, a little girl comes running up to me, crash hugging into my right leg. I looked down to see an adorable little girl with big green eyes, a round faced with cherry pie filling still encrusted around her mouth, a disheveled head of hair, wearing cloths that don't really fit her. I gently pried her off my leg, ducked down, and asked her what her name was. She whispered that her name was Marie, smiled shyly, and said that she liked pie.

It was the first time that night I laughed. It felt so good to laugh.

Shortly there after a woman came rushed up to me, apologizing for her daughter's hug attack. As she picked Marie up, I looked at the woman's face and noticed she had a black right eye and bruising around her parts of her neck and face. I tried not to stare but she caught me doing so. She tugged up on her collar when she noticed me looking at her and walked away with Marie in her arms. As the mother turned to walk away, Marie looked over her mom's shoulder and waved at me, smiling. I waved back with my heart dropping like a stone to the floor.

Tear ducts rupture.


Oh, fuck.


With my eyes starting to water, tears brimming on the edge threatening to dive off, I made a short apology to the veteran. I bowed my head down, chin touching my chest, and pushed the busing cart as fast as I could to a corner. I abruptly left the dinning room, dashed through the corridors, through the temple's small kitchen and burst through a backdoor that lead into a parking lot.

I became a slobbering, heaving, asthmatic mess of a person. And I could not control myself to save my life. The tears would not stop but I was going to try to have the dignity to not make any noise. Oh help me if anyone found me this way. I lost all track of how long I was there crying but I was so preoccupied with crying that I didn't notice that one of the nuns coming towards me. She crouched down next next to me and attempted to hand me napkins. She stared at me and in Chinese asked me if I was okay. I just couldn't respond right away. I wasn't sure why but I just couldn't say a word. I couldn't even look her in the face. And to make things worse, this particular monk that found me, the wonderful soul that she is, looked nearly identical to my long passed mother. Ugh.

From any outsider's point of view, there was absolutely no reason for me to be crying and I felt so foolish for doing so. I was so embarrassed that the monk found me in such a condition. Yet, I was so overwhelmed with sadness. To see a hall full of people, eating at the temple because they didn't have a home to have Thanksgiving dinner. To see so many people just without and in need just broke me. And I felt so helpless at the same time because as much as I was helping to feed them that night, I couldn't do a damn thing to help them tomorrow or the day after that. I couldn't help a little girl like Marie and her battered mother.

The nun just stared at me for a few more seconds and said to me in Chinese, "Every year you come and help and every year one of the monks find you crying. This year, I found you. Why do you help if it makes you so sad?"

I actually stopped and thought about it. Every year, it becomes instinctive for me to volunteer for the temple during Thanksgiving and every year, I end up crying at some point but it was never this overwhelming. Maybe because I overworked myself even more this year. Or maybe I'm just to embarrassed to answer her.

"I really do not know," I told to her in Chinese between snivels and breaths.


She smiled at me and laughed a little at me, which really took me by surprise. I gave her a questioning look as I wiped my eyes. But in her gentlest voice, she thanked me for be a good soul, got up and walked away.

...

It's been nearly 24 hours since, and I am still emotionally raw from this. I am still saddened by what I have seen and now I am slight angry. I am angry at the world that so many people can be without food or a home. In a country as rich as this one, there are still people that go hungry every day. And the more I think about it the angrier I get. And yet what I can do to help barely scratches the surface, to improve the lives in a significant amount of people. And now that I have had more time to think about it, I think I have come to realize why I cry every year for the last four years. Every year, I volunteer to help because I want to give back to those that are not as fortune as I am. And every year, I am always reminded of how unfair this world can be and how so unbalanced society is. And the foolishly hopeful part of me also wants to see less and less people show up each year, showing me that the world is getting to be a better place.

I look back at my blogs to realize that this is the first time I have written anything remotely around Thanksgiving. And now I know why. Every year, its the same sadness I experience. Only this time, I made note of it. Maybe someone will read this and help me do something about this. Maybe someone will help and do a small part to change the homeless and needy in their area. And maybe, just maybe, someday I don't have to volunteer just to cry my eyes out.