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To Serve

a lesson in compassion

By Jefferey A AyersPublished 2 years ago 8 min read
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To Serve
Photo by Rod Long on Unsplash

What does it mean to serve? Is it any act that benefits others? Is it taking time to give, ignoring the personal gain? Is it to deliver something? Or, is it something more? As an AmeriCorps member, I am constantly challenged to restructure my perspective on the concept of service. When I joined, it was implied that just by being a member, I would be serving a community. As time went on, I was encouraged to engage further in my service. I work with at-risk youth. I talk to them about success and character. I help them set goals. I play sports, watch movies, and even garden with them. My service is to be there; everything else is my reward. When it came time to team up with the other members and to commit to a day of service in remembrance of Martin Luther King Jr. on his birthday, I got a firm reminder of the reciprocity of the emotional rewards that accompany servitude.

For the sake of full disclosure, I feel inclined to mention that I was not enthusiastic about MLK Jr. day and the service that would be required of me. I am not a person who likes to labor without any extrinsic compensation, nor do I exert myself for a project of which I would see no finished product. I guess the assertion could be made, with cause, that I am a bit selfish, lazy, and closed-minded. I admit to this without debate; therefore, when the team decided that we would spend the day at a women’s shelter, cooking for the residents, I was not the most eager member of the group. I was actually looking more forward to getting home the night of than serving throughout that day. That was until I learned the address of the shelter at which we would be serving.

There are many Women’s shelters throughout the Portland-Metro area. Several of which are undisclosed to the public for the safety of their residents. Because of this, I was taken aback when I learned exactly where we would be serving. We were going to go spend the day at a shelter with which I was already familiar. I had been there before, visiting one of their residents. That resident… my mother.

My mother and I had a strained relationship for many years. For the majority of my life, she battled drug addiction and was an active participant in the sex trade. As a matter of fact, I would never have been born if this were not the life she had fallen into. I am a product of Methamphetamine and prostitution, and for many years, I was ashamed and angry about it. When I was in my 20s, she finally walked away from that life. That didn’t mean that I was ready to walk away from the shadow of her past that followed me around. She was not there as my grandfather lost his battle with emphysema, but pulled herself together in time to come help me carry my grandmother as she withered away, succumbing to dementia. For the first time in my life, she was next to me, fighting by my side, and I was not alone. In 2014, we had to put my grandmother into a nursing home, and my mother and I were both left without a place to call home.

I bounced around between a few friends and quickly found myself back on my feet. She landed on the streets. Over the next few years, my mother struggled to find a place to stay for any significant amount of time. She applied for disability benefits and got them. She was then able to get onto the waitlist for low-income housing. She obtained a place in a women’s shelter to hold her over until she could, for the first time in my life, be in a place of her own. Less than a month after she walked out of that shelter for the last time, I walked in, even if just for a day, to serve those who were still walking the path that she was finally able to leave behind.

The first thing I did when I found out where we would be serving is call my mother. I wanted to share that moment with her, to let her know that I would go meet and serve the people whom she had told me about. She was so happy to hear it that she began to cry. At the time, I thought it was an overreaction and that she was being silly. I would soon learn why it had meant so much to her.

MLK Jr. day arrived. I woke up early, showered, got dressed, and left. The trek to the light rail was shady at best due to the snow and ice that we had been receiving throughout the area over the previous week. The journey did nothing to bolster my demeanor.  I made it to the center without incident and with two things on my mind: getting the work over with and delivering hellos to the staff for my mother. The rest of my team arrived, and we got to work.

As we were preparing the food, one of the staff members was there helping us get familiar with the kitchen area and answering any questions we had. She was working that day while fighting pneumonia. Nothing was going to stop her from being there for the women she served every day. I told her that my mother sent her best wishes, and her excitement was palpable. For the remainder of the day, I had women approaching me to tell me how amazing my mother was and how they had heard so much about me. It broke down the wall of indifference that I had put up and allowed me to truly take in the moment.

We served two meals that day. The first meal was a baked ziti with some garlic bread and salad. The second, chili and cornbread with a variety of toppings, two salads, and dessert. We made both meals from scratch, making sure to provide a quality meal for the women we were serving. We put our hearts into the work we were doing, and the love and gratitude from the women were satiating. I had never felt so rewarded, solely by gratefulness.

The time came to serve lunch. The women meandered in slowly at first, but then came in droves. We had a food line set up, and as they came through, they showered us with praise and sincere thank yous. One woman came in only for the bread. She ate about a loaf worth, and left with a sated appetite and warm smile. The time of service flew by, and the women ate, socialized, thanked us again and again, and left. After lunch, a few women dropped in to meet me and say hello. One of these women was the bunk mate of my mother. Like so many others that day, she just wanted to tell me how amazing of a woman my mother was and to meet the son that she had heard so much about.

The next meal was much easier to prepare for than the one that had just passed. Not only was I still flying high from the showers of praise bestowed upon me from lunch, but the meal itself was a simple one. We prepared a hearty chili and some cornbread and allowed the meal to cook while the AmeriCorps team socialized and worked on strengthening our connection and sense of comradery.  Both dishes were a hit among the women, and the bread lady even came back for more… bread.

When the service was through, we cleaned up and prepared to depart. I made my rounds to the women I met for one last set of goodbyes and was beset with a full bag of well wishes for my mother and many more hugs. I then stepped outside to call my mother and tell her about the day that had just taken place. At the end of the conversation, she cried and told me how proud of me she was. I then told her for the first time that I, too, was proud, not of what I had done, but of the person she had become.

It was time to go home. I bundled up and ambled my way back through the ice to the lightrail. The trek through the ice was much less demoralizing this time around. Each uneasy step was offset by the feeling of gratitude toward the members of my team and the women with whom we had just passed the day. When I got home, I happily let exhaustion catch up to me, and I slept a sleep that had been evading me for many months. The sense of bliss that followed me to bed that night made every second I spent in that kitchen a gift rather than an expense.

So, what does it mean to serve? With the help of the AmeriCorps team and a group of hungry strangers on MLK Jr. Day, 2017, I finally learned what it means. It is more than an act that benefits others, more than taking time to give without the expectation of reciprocity, and so much more than delivering a service or good. To serve is to open yourself up to another. It means building yourself through the empowerment of your community and its members. I found a sense of acceptance and forgiveness for my past and a connection with who I have become through the simple act of providing a meal for some amazing people in need. Service, itself, is the reciprocity that many people seek. It is empowering and worth every moment.

humanity
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About the Creator

Jefferey A Ayers

I am an aspiring writer who was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest. I joined vocal out of desire, and curiosity. This will be the first time I have put my writing out in the public, and I look forward to hearing what you all think.

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