Like Salt to French Fries

I live to hear the words, "Can you fill a food order, please?” In my mind, I see myself going down into a lunge. Left knee touches the ground, right arm comes back like I'm starting a lawn mower. "Yesssss!"
            I bolt up the stairs, two at a time, to the top floor. I stand in front of the shelves and fill old grocery bags with pasta, peanut butter, cans of soup, and fruit cocktail. I can't stop grinning because this makes me happy.

~~~

It was almost six years ago. I was headed to BB&T. I watched my feet on the sidewalk. "Step on a crack, break your mother's back.” After awhile, I looked up and instead of being in front of the bank, I was in front of a building that said Loving in big letters.
            I reckon it had something to do with Isaiah 58:7. It'd been on my mind for almost two years. "Share your food with the hungry. Clothe the naked." The words were a shish kabab skewer that poked me under the ribs every time I heard or read them.
            I'd been praying. Waiting. Looking for a burning bush. All of a sudden, there it was.   But it wasn't burning, and it wasn't a bush. It was Christian Help, Incorporated, founded in 1975.

~~~

Every Tuesday, more often than not, I drive down Grand Street to town, to Christian Help. I peer up through the blue part of my windshield. "A parking spot right in front would be awesome, God.” Usually it's there, especially if my trunk is full.
            I walk in the front door and say, "Howdy," to whoever's at the front desk. Used to be Glinda, before she had a stroke and moved to assisted living. I always hugged her and whispered into her steel-colored curls, "Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?”
            She'd cup one of my cheeks with her cool, dry hand and smile up at me. "Good to see you, girlie."

~~~

I love them, all the ladies. I'm going on year six of volunteering and they've put in twenty five or more. I work two to three hours a week. Some of them are there every day. They're all in their seventies, at least. And Spud, who moved here from Jersey, to live with her daughter? She's ninety something. Reminds me of a grey-haired Jack in a deck of cards.
            There's also Rose and Annie, Sis and Carol too. Ethel and Earlene come on Tuesdays, like me. Glory hallelujah when Ethel brings one of her pound cakes. Thank you, Jesus when we have a pot luck lunch and Earlene brings her sauerkraut with tiny, tasty shreds of pork.
            I love the shining, antique faces of the ladies, the way their eyes and teeth flash white when I spring through the doorway of the clothes sorting room. Their smiles say they're as glad to see me as I am to see them.

~~~

I've seen a whole lot of staff come and go in six years. That's the nature of Americorp Vista, usually paid a pittance, workers. But Cheryl, the executive director, has been there since before me. God bless her because running Christian Help requires managing chaos, reassessing the greatest need, the greatest good, Monday through Friday, plus the first Saturday of the month.
            Cheryl's radiant. Maybe she goes to a tanning booth. Or she could be part Native American. Just between you and me, I think it's because she loves the Lord. Moses glowed when he came down from the mountain of God, you know.

~~~

I stopped asking the younger volunteers why they're at Christian Help. Usually it's because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now I just smile real big and say, "Welcome!  We're so glad you're here."
            One time a handsome guy, who filled out his t-shirt sleeves, asked me why I volunteer at Christian Help. I'd been waiting for that question, waiting for the chance to give the reason for the hope that I have. I had paragraphs prepared, but they evaporated. "'Cause I love Jesus.” My voice sounded wee. He squinted at me, head tilted. "Cool."

~~~

To me, serving, volunteering, whatever you want to call it, is like that line in the Jerry McGuire movie:  It completes me. For years, I attended Bible study every Friday morning, learned all kinds of neat stuff. But one day, a wise woman's opinion changed my life. "Bible study is all well and fine, but sooner or later, we have to start doing what Jesus told us to.”
            I think serving is to life what salt is to French fries. I understood that the first time I filled an emergency food order. It was a religious experience. Spud's the unofficial queen of the food pantry, but she wasn't there to hear me say, "I'm doing it. I'm feeding Jesus' sheep."

~~~

I sure hope I'll still be driving down Grand Street to town, to Christian Help, for another couple decades.  After that, much as I love to hear, "Can you fill a food order?" or, "Can you help someone with an interview outfit?" what I long to hear is, "Well done, good and faithful servant.” But not yet, not until I'm at least as old as Spud.

(In loving memory of Edith Applegate Bilson, also known as "Spud.")

+Like Salt to French Fries+

I live to hear the words, "Can you fill a food order, please?"  In my mind, I see myself going down into a lunge.  Left knee touches the ground.   Right arm comes back like I'm starting a lawn mower.  "Yesssss!"
            I run up the stairs, two at a time, to the top floor.  I stand in front of the shelves and fill old grocery bags with pasta, peanut butter, soup, and fruit cocktail.  I can't stop grinning because this makes me happy.

It was almost four years ago.  I was headed to BB&T.  I watched my feet on the sidewalk.  "Step on a crack, break your mother's back."  After awhile, I looked up and instead of being in front of the bank, I was in front of a building that said loving in big letters and furniture in little letters.
            I reckon it had something to do with Isaiah 58:7.  It'd been on my mind for almost two years.  "Share your food with the hungry.  Clothe the naked." The words were a shish kebab skewer that poked me under the ribs every time I heard or read them.
            I'd been praying.  Waiting.  Looking for a burning bush.  All of a sudden, there it was.    But it wasn't burning, and it wasn't a bush.  It was Christian Help, Incorporated, founded in 1975.

Every Tuesday, more often than not, I drive down Grand Street to town.  To Christian Help.  I look through the blue part of my windshield.  "A parking spot right in front would be awesome, God."  Usually it's there.  Especially if my trunk is full.
            I walk in the front door and say, "Howdy," to whoever's at the front desk.  Used to be Glinda, before she had a stroke and went to assisted living.  I always hugged her and whispered into her steel-colored curls, "Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?" 
            She'd cup one of my cheeks with her cool, dry hand and smile up at me.  "Good to see you, girlie."

I love 'em.  All the ladies.  I'm going on year four of volunteering and they've put in twenty five or more.  I work two to three hours a week.  Some of them are there every day.  They're all in their seventies, at least.  And Spud, who moved here from Jersey, to live with her daughter?  She's ninety something.  Looks like a grey-haired Jack in a deck of cards. 
            There's also Rose and Annie.  Sis and Carol too.  Ethel and Erlene come on Tuesdays, like me.  Glory hallelujah when Ethel brings one of her pound cakes.  Thank you, Jesus when we have a pot luck lunch and Erlene brings her sauerkraut with little, tasty shreds of pork. 
            I love the shining, antique faces of the ladies.  The way their eyes and teeth flash white when I spring through the doorway of the clothes sorting room.  Their smiles say they're as glad to see me as I am to see them. 

I've seen staff come and go in four years.  That's the nature of Americorp Vista, usually paid a pittance, workers.  But Cheryl, the executive director, has been there since before me.  God bless her because running Christian Help requires managing chaos.  Reassessing the greatest need, the greatest good, Monday through Friday, plus the first Saturday of the month.
            Cheryl's radiant.  Maybe she goes to a tanning booth.  Or she could be part Native American.  Just between you and me, I think it's because she loves the Lord.  Moses glowed when he came down from the mountain of God, you know.
            I stopped asking the younger volunteers why they're at Christian Help.  Usually it's because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.  In this town that means community service--bummer to them, blessing to us.  Now whenever I see them, I just smile real big and say, "Welcome!  We're so glad you're here."
            One time a handsome guy, who filled out his t-shirt sleeves, asked me why I volunteer at Christian Help.  I'd been waiting for this.  For the chance to give the reason for the hope I have.  I had paragraphs prepared, but they evaporated. "'Cause I love Jesus."  My voice sounded tiny.  He looked at me, head tilted.  "Cool."

To me, serving, volunteering, whatever you want to call it, is like that line in the Jerry McGuire movie.  It completes me.  For years, I went to Bible study every Friday morning.  Learned all kinds of neat stuff.  But one day, someone's opinion changed my life.  "Bible study is all well and fine, but sooner or later, you have to start doing what Jesus told you to." 
            I think serving is to life, what salt is to French fries.  I understood that the first time I filled an emergency food order.  It was a religious experience.  Spud's the unofficial queen of the food pantry, but she wasn't there to hear me say, "I'm doing it.  I'm feeding Jesus' sheep."

I sure hope I'll still be driving down Grand Street to town, to Christian Help, for another couple decades.   After that, much as I love to hear, "Can you fill a food order?" or, "Can you help someone with an interview outfit?" what I long to hear is, "Well done, good and faithful servant."  But not yet.  Not until I'm at least as old as Spud.

A Twisted, Backwards, Upside Down Cinderella Story

(Inspired by the true words of one of the step sisters, who while sitting on the toilet proclaimed, “I’m done, Cinderella!”)

            Everyone knows the story of Cinderella: endless chores, evil stepmother and stepsisters, fairy godmother, charming prince, and glittering glass slipper. While I can’t promise you’ll find all of these things in this particular story, just bear with me. Because this version of Cinderella, though at times slightly embellished for your entertainment, is true.

            As the sun slowly began rising above the horizon, Cinderella struggled to open her eyes. Her stepsisters were up early this morning, screaming her name. She groaned and rolled over in bed, hoping that if she didn’t respond, they would give up and leave her alone.

            “Cinderella! Cinderella!” they yelled.

            I know it’s early in the story, but I’m going to go ahead and change things up. You see, while the sisters in this story could be demanding at times, they were not your stereotypical, evil stepsisters.

            Cinderella pulled the covers over her head and tried to ignore them until a single question shattered her resistance.

             “Can we come in and snuggle?” they pleaded.

            With a sigh, she dragged herself out of bed and opened the door. The blonde, blue-eyed beauties bounded into the room and began bouncing on her bed. Soon, a smile lit up Cinderella’s face and her frustration vanished. Time to start the day.

            After a few pillow fights and some tickling, Cinderella walked into the kitchen. She looked up as she saw her stepmother.

            Of course, this is where you’re expecting the story to turn nasty as the stepmother looks down her nose at Cinderella to snidely give her a long list of chores, right? Wrong!

            Cinderella’s stepmother gave her a bright smile and a friendly “Good morning” as she flipped a frying egg.  Not until they sat down to breakfast did Cinderella’s stepmother mention some of the things she would like Cinderella to do that day. Every one of them ended with a “please” or an “if you can.” Yet Cinderella inwardly groaned.
            As she worked through her list of things to do, her stepmother often worked alongside her, replete with kind thank you’s and expressions of gratitude. Nevertheless, there were times when Cinderella did not feel like washing dishes, sweeping, cooking, cleaning, and caring for two kids and a baby. However, this Cinderella could not blame a cruel stepmother or evil stepsisters for her woes. The problem came down to her. She was not a perfect Disney princess, and frankly, at times, she was lazy and selfish.
            Contrary to common belief though, what Cinderella lacked was not a fancy outfit or a trip to the ball. What she needed was some perseverance and the humble heart of a servant.
          Based on other Cinderella stories, you’re probably expecting this to be the part where her fairy godmother swoops in to turn her life around. Well, I hate to break it to you, but FAIRY GODMOTHERS AREN’T REAL.

            Cinderella did not need a flick of a wand or a bibbity bobbity boo--a temporary transformation that would fade away when the clock struck midnight. Yet she did need help. So instead of crying out to an imaginary fairy godmother, she knelt and prayed.
            And the Lord changed her. As days turned to weeks, she learned to serve joyfully and humbly, to put the needs of others above her own. She strove to work with her heart and not just her hands. She ceased doing the minimum and sought to do all that she could. At times, she still had to fight her selfish nature, but each day, she could feel her old self slipping away. Her clothes were just as dirty (the baby liked to spit up) and her hair just as wild (did I mention that it was ridiculously curly?), but her heart was being made over.

            Cinderella realized that being a princess isn't all about being swept off your feet. Sometimes it's about sweeping under someone else's. Being a servant and still living happily ever after.

            This Cinderella’s story may appear to have a very different ending--no ball, no glass slipper, and no prince (at least, not yet). But I assure you that her story ends just like that of any other Cinderella--with a life transformed. And because of God’s faithfulness, which far surpasses that of any fairy godmother, we can be certain that the changes in Cinderella’s heart will not slip away when the clock strikes midnight.  

“So you also, when you have done everything you were told to do, should say, ‘We are unworthy servants. We have only done our duty.’” Luke 17:10

(This story, ladies and gentlemen, is a guest post, written by our oldest daughter, Josephine Joy.  Josy is currently in Honduras, serving at Rancho Oasis for Youth--http://ro4y.blogspot.com// Her trip to Honduras is the third component of her gap year.  You can read about her endeavors on her blog--Adventures of a Potter's Daughter--http://www.josytarantini.blogspot.com/.  Hope you enjoy this piece as much as I did.)

Like Salt to French Fries

I live to hear the words, "Can you fill a food order, please?"  In my mind, I see myself going down into a lunge.  Left knee touches the ground.   Right arm comes back like I'm starting a lawn mower.  "Yesssss!"

I run up the stairs, two at a time, to the top floor.  I stand in front of the shelves and fill old grocery bags with pasta, peanut butter, soup, and fruit cocktail.  I can't stop grinning 'cause this makes me happy.


It was almost four years ago.  I was headed to BB&T.  I watched my feet on the sidewalk.  "Step on a crack, break your mother's back."  After awhile, I looked up and instead of being in front of the bank, I was in front of a building that said loving in big letters and furniture in little letters.

I reckon it had something to do with Isaiah 58:7.  It'd been on my mind for almost two years.  "Share your food with the hungry.  Clothe the naked."  Stuff like that.  The words were a shish kebab skewer that poked me right under the ribs every time I heard or read them.

I'd been praying.  Waiting.  Looking for a burning bush.  All of a sudden, there it was.    But it wasn't burning, and it wasn't a bush.  It was Christian Help, Incorporated, founded in 1975.


Every Tuesday, more often than not, I drive down Grand Street to town.  I look through the blue part of my windshield.  "A parking spot right in front would be awesome, God."  Usually it's there.  Especially if my trunk is full.

I walk in the front door and say, "Howdy," to whoever's at the front desk.  Used to be Glinda, before she had a stroke and went to assisted living.  I always hugged her and whispered into her steel-colored curls, "Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?" 

She'd cup one of my cheeks with her cool, dry hand and smile up at me.  "Good to see you, girlie."

I love 'em.  All the ladies.  I'm going on year four of volunteering and they've put in twenty five or more.  I work two to three hours a week.  Some of them are there every day.  They're all in their seventies, at least.  And Spud, who moved here from Jersey, to live with her daughter?  She's ninety something.  Looks like a grey-haired Jack in a deck of cards. 

There's Rose and Annie.  Sis and Carol too.  Ethel and Erlene come on Tuesdays, like me.  Glory hallelujah when Ethel brings one of her cakes.  Thank you, Jesus when we have a pot luck lunch and Erlene brings her sauerkraut with little, tasty shreds of  pork. 

I love the shining, antique faces of the ladies.  The way their eyes and teeth flash white when I spring through the doorway of the clothes sorting room.  Their smiles say they're as glad to see me as I am to see them. 


I've seen staff come and go in four years.  That's the nature of Americorp Vista, usually paid a pittance, workers.  But Cheryl, the executive director, has been there since before me.  God bless her 'cause running Christian Help requires managing chaos.  Reassessing the greatest need, the greatest good, Monday through Friday, plus the first Saturday of the month.

Cheryl's radiant.  Maybe she goes to a tanning booth.  Or she could be part Native American.  Just between you and me, I think it's 'cause she loves the Lord.  Moses glowed when he came down from the mountain of God, you know.

I stopped asking the younger volunteers why they're at Christian Help.  Usually it's 'cause they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Now I just smile real big and say, "Welcome!  We're so glad you're here." 

One time a handsome guy, who filled out his t-shirt sleeves, asked me why I volunteer at Christian Help.  I'd been waiting for this.  For the chance to give the reason for the hope I have.  I had paragraphs prepared but they evaporated.  "'Cause I love Jesus."  My voice sounded tiny.  He looked at me, head tilted.  "Cool."


To me, serving, volunteering, whatever you wanna call it, is like that line in the Jerry McGuire movie.  It completes me.  For years, I went to Bible study every Friday morning.  Learned all kinds of neat stuff.  But one day, someone's opinion changed my life.  "Bible study is all well and fine, but sooner or later, you have to start doing what Jesus told you to." 

I think serving is to life what salt is to french fries.  I understood that the  first time I filled an emergency food order.  It was a religious experience.  Spud's the unofficial queen of the food pantry, but she wasn't there to hear me say, "I'm doing it.  I'm feeding Jesus' sheep."


I sure hope I'm still driving down Grand Street to town, to Christian Help, for another couple decades.   After that, much as I love to hear, "Can you fill a food order?" or, "Can you help someone with an interview outfit?" what I long to hear is, "Well done, good and faithful servant."  But not yet.  Not 'til I'm at least as old as Spud.