- (l to r) Kerryn McMeans, Sue Almond and Rob Higginbotham from Fairfax Methodist Church get ready to load up their cars with groceries, as part of their partnership with Our Daily Bread.
When I arrived at Fairfax United Methodist Church on Sunday morning to deliver food for Our Daily Bread, the hard work was done. Dozens and dozens of paper grocery bags, brimming with non-perishables, lined both sides of the church auditorium. Fairfax United Methodist Church participates four times each year with Our Daily Bread, a local nonprofit that helps to ease the plight of low income residents in the Fairfax County area of Virginia.
After several rounds of phone calls, trips to COSTCO and a food-bagging party the day before, Fairfax Methodist’s Kerryn McMeans had printed out Google map directions
from the church to about 25 recipients throughout northern Virginia, along with the recipients’ names and phone numbers. Now she was pairing volunteer drivers with families in need.
The families were identified to Our Daily Bread by the Fairfax County Department of Family Services, Kerryn told me. The food was supplemental to food stamps but these
families were truly in need. Kerryn was thrilled that I volunteered to deliver groceries to three families near my house, which was farther away from the church than most of the deliveries.
She cautioned me about how I would be received when I showed up with food. Some families would be gracious and grateful, while some would be less so.
Somewhat apprehensively, I drove off, with bags of food stuffed in my car’s front seat, back seat and trunk.
The first stop was a delivery to a family of three, headed by a single mother. The apartment complex was low-income, and I felt a little self-conscious in my red sports
car. I called the mother as I pulled in, and she said her son would meet me outside.
Minutes later a well-mannered boy of about 15 was waiting outside for me.
He took two paper bags of groceries from my car, and I, not to be outdone, took the other two. As I climbed up two flights of stairs with a full bag of canned food in each hand, I mentally vowed to get back to the gym. I also gave thanks that they didn’t live on the seventh floor.
He held the door open for me and led me into a small, clean and well-decorated apartment, and placed the bags on the coffee table, next to the votive candles set in a glass dish and surrounded by polished pebbles. It reminded me of my first apartment. The mother was nowhere in sight. Fighting the urge to talk with her son, I thanked him and drove off to stop number two.
The second family appeared to be a single father and son living in a duplex that looked to be built around the 1920’s. They also had four bags of groceries, and when the dad greeted me at the door like an old friend, I asked if he’d like to help me carry them in. With his preteen son shyly holding the door open, we took the food into the tiny house. It was definitely a bachelor pad, and smelled of bacon. I jokingly asked if I could stay for breakfast.
The third home appeared to have a child and a grandmother. It took the grandmother
awhile to answer the door, and when she did, the tube from the oxygen mask was still hanging from her nose. An open bible lay on the coffee table. She thanked me and god-blessed me, and she reminded me of my own grandmother, right down to the oxygen tank. Once again I had to fight the urge to invite myself in and visit with this sweet old woman.
And I was done. All together, it took maybe two hours of my time. And in those two hours I had met three incredibly nice people, all within my own neighborhood. But I felt a lack of connection that hung around me like sweater in August. While I wanted to get to know them and hear their stories, I sensed they didn’t want to swap histories with the food lady. My role was to deliver food and leave.
And I’m so glad I did.
