Chicken Noodle Soup for the Soul

I'm surprised no one has responded to this thread yet. We must all be a bunch of meanies with no inspiring stories of good deeds to share.

(Notice how I'm at a loss to share one myself?)

My sister gave me a free movie pass today so I didn't have to pay for my ticket.

That was a good deed, yes?

rhymegirl said:

...That was a good deed, yes?

Click to expand...

If she were truly a saint, she would've thrown in a tub of popcorn. And a large soft drink. Oh, and some Gummy Bears as well.

One time our car battery died when we were in Atlantic City (we lived in NY at the time). We were married only a few years then and didn't have enough money to have it towed or call a mechanic. We were really upset. After about an hour a fellow stopped his car, came over to us and used his jumper cables to start the battery. We handed him two dollars for a tip but he wouldn't take it. He also gave us his card because his brother was a mechanic and would fix our car for free. We so appreciated him and even now, after 35 years of marriage, talk about how nice he and his brother were.

I almost loathe to tell this story because of the previous posts, but it needs to be said.

Five years ago, Kthrok and I were homeless on the streets of Austin, TX. We didn't know anyone there and weren't able to go back to work with the carnival we had been traveling with (it was how we got there in the first place) because we had been hit by a car in the off season (yes the same car hit us both, don't ask...REALLY long story). A week following that, we had been invited to church by another homeless guy. We were having a rough go of things that night on the corner. The two of us had no choice but to stand together cause I couldn't walk and it's impossible to move fast on crutches. And most people looked at us like we were trying to scam them. We only wished that was the case.

So Will gets us to go with him after offering us a couple bucks so we could grab a bite to eat after the services (he was a great guy) and we walk into this church in a strip mall. We had been by there I don't know how many times and never stopped, but had always been curious about it. Our first feeling was of being a bleach stain on a tuxedo. Now I have a darker complexion. My mixed heritage shows, especially when I get some sun, but this church was almost all black. It was cool with us. People are people right?

We sat and relaxed, curious as to everything that was going to happen. They had a portion of the service where everyone gets up and gives everyone else a hug or handshake. When we went to stand up, we were nicely told to stay seated, they would come to us and I thought these are some really nice people. We listened to the sermon and to this day I could tell you what it was, I will never forget it. But all of this is neither here nor there. It was what happened afterwords that got me.

The four of us were standing near the door, getting ready to leave, when a very smartly dressed gentleman came up and said one of the elders wanted to see us. My first thought was 'oh no, they're going to tell us to get out and not come back' and I went with a feeling of dread. We had to stand for a few minutes and wait for the elder to finish talking with the person ahead of us and the whole time I felt like I was waiting to go before the firing squad. By the time it was our turn I was almost sweating bullets.

She was a small woman who introduced herself as Elder Joyce, but her voice demanded your attention. She began by telling us that she was a business woman who had her own small business and how she had been doing her books that day and had found an extra hundred dollars. She had said to the Lord that night, 'Lord, I know this is not my money. Who do I give this hundred dollars to?' and she said that He had told her to give it to the homeless people who were sitting behind her that night. But she didn't stop there. She asked for her purse and took all the remaining cash from her wallet and her business partner put even more money in, then they split it four ways and gave it to us. For Kthrok and I, that meant a day or two of rest and still being able to eat. That isn't the only wonderful thing that the people of Agape Christian Ministries did for us, but you'll have to wait until tomorrow to hear more.

If you're ever in Austin, look them up. They're wonderful people and I am proud and happy to call them my family

His name was Jake and he was Will's campmate. He later convinced Will to go back to drinking after our pastor had gotten Will into rehab and he was sober. I still pray for them both, wherever they may be.

Beautiful thread, a unique way to create acts of kindness through souls food.

I encounter these experiences everyday in my life, as I like meeting new people and appreciate everyone as they are despite their social circumstance. For me, every moment is always truly cherished when I am present in the whole experience. Through my job, I continue to encounter these experiences ever more frequent, as I am there to help others. An example, when I was teaching computer class for over 50's, I made some wonderful friends through the art of giving. The support gave the individuals the confidence to take on a computer of their own. It was so warming to see the individuals enjoying their presence with the computer, a simplicity and purity resided by them. One which I can very much relate to, unfolding within the sincerity of playfulness. These experiences also reflect my own journey a great deal, and I meet these people to help me on the way of that light. I'll share one of my experiences with you, a vivid one in the air for me now.

When I was at University in Central London, I used to sit at Regents Park quite often during my lunch break. One day this passer by, (gentleman living off the streets) decided to join me, as I welcomed a smile to invite him to my space. I think he needed some company at that precise moment, as he shared he's experiences with ease to me. I had bought a spare sandwich earlier from the store, and some spare fruit. I feel I must have known I was destined to meet him. I gave him my spare sandwich and fruit, and he was very content in eating. He told me he just wanted the basics, and that was all that made him happy; food, water. He told me, he didn't want to be forced into being part of the system, and he was fine where he was. I also felt he was drawn to me, in a sensual warming sense, as we started to talk about children. Overall when he left, he felt more at peace for knowing that someone could take the time to be with him, as he was.

I have given homeless people money and sandwiches so many times I can't count. Even in our small town, they're increasing in numbers and I can't possibly keep up. We do our best with gift drives and food drives, but sometimes it seems like we're filling a bucket with an eye dropper.

The moment of kindness that sticks in my mind right now is the sight of two construction workers who stopped their work and stood side by side, helmets held against their chests and heads bowed while the my nephew's funeral procession slowly passed through Barrie last fall. The woman walking her dog who made the sign of the cross at the traffic lights. The canine unit officer who stood under a tree with his German shepherd beside him, saluting as we went past. The embraces and hand squeezes from co-workers during the Christmas party. The infinite generosity of hundreds of people who helped us through a difficult time. The priest who said, "Don't question why he died, but why he lived."

Here's one from today: See thread "Talking someone off a ledge..." posted by thethinker42 today (2/4). Here's a good deed if I ever saw one. Saving someone's life is the best deed one can do

Something I wrote about an encounter I had a few years back...

Living Water

He sits beside me on the concrete. His breath smells of alcohol, his clothes of stale cigarette smoke. He has a Tim Horton’s cup in one hand, and beside him a big black bag on wheels. I bury my head deeper in my book, trying to block out his presence.

“What are you reading?”

If there’s a question he could have asked which would cause me to cringe more than that one, I can’t think of it. How do I explain the complexities of ecumenical dialogue to a drunk in a bus station? But I sigh and look up. I’m too well-bred to be downright rude.

“It’s called Truth in Community,” I say. “It’s about ecumenical dialogue.” I hope the big words will shut him up, or at least encourage him to change the topic. No such luck, and I am left trying to explain the reality of the broken church and our attempts to understand each other.

“You’re a Christian.” He deduces that much, at least, from my speech. I welcome the statement gladly. I’m on solid ground here.

“Yes.”

“Are you born again?” So he has some experience of the church — evangelical and probably fundamentalist.

“All Christians are born again,” I say. I feel some pride that I can speak my political truth in his language. “I’m a minister,” I add.

He shows some surprise at this. “You’re a minister? You’re not born again?”

What does he mean by this? Does he mean that women ministers aren’t born again because Christian ministers are male? Or is it something else?

A long, rambling conversation later, I gather that his concept of “born again” involves living a life of sin, being “born again,” and then not living a life of sin. A minister, never having lived a life of sin, cannot be born again.

I tell him it’s not like that — we all sin, even born again Christians, and we all need to continually ask God’s forgiveness.

“I’m in a bad way,” he says.

I struggle to adjust to the sudden shift in the conversation. Of course he’s in a bad way, I think. He’s a drunk, judging from the bag he’s probably homeless, and he’s quite possibly drug addicted.

“I’m an alcoholic.”

No kidding. I can smell it on your breath. But I don’t say that out loud.

“I used to sleep with a woman. She was a born again Christian. By day she said I was living a life of sin, but at night she slept with me.”

I say nothing, but I think of this woman, this so-called Christian, and her hypocrisy. I wish people like that wouldn’t call themselves Christian. It gives the rest of us a bad name.

“It still hurts,” he says, placing his hand over his heart in emphasis.

He digs into his bag and pulls out a green army parka, then a bottle of cheap sherry. The bottle is almost empty. He takes the plastic lid off the coffee cup and pours the sherry into it. The lid blows away, and I think about retrieving it. He ignores it. When the now empty bottle is safe back in its hiding place and the parka back on top, he speaks again.

“I’m dying.”

I say nothing. There is nothing to say.

“I have AIDS. I’m HIV positive.”

I close my book and look him in the eye for the first time in our conversation. He’s a good-looking man — young, thin, clear olive skin, brown eyes, longish black hair that’s been combed, even if it hasn’t been recently washed.

“I slept with a woman in Gastown. Vancouver. You ever been there?” I shake my head.

“We shared a needle. Once. She was negative, and I’m positive. Can you understand it?”

He asks that question as if it’s a riddle. No, I can’t understand it, so I stay silent.

“Later she tested positive.”

The truth dawns. “There’s a ‘window period’ before you test positive...”

“And that’s when we shared the needle — in her window period.” He finishes my sentence for me.

He looks at the tunnel where a bus is exiting the station. “I feel like I’m there,” he said, pointing to the darkest part of the tunnel.

I want to give him hope, to share my optimism. “Yes, but when you’re there,” I said, pointing to the dark, “you are heading there.” I point to our right, towards the sunny blue sky.

“But I can’t see the light.”

“See that bus?” I ask him. “If you close your eyes, you can’t see it, but it’s still there.”

A line-up is beginning to form to our right. “How long until your bus?” he asks.

I crane my neck to look at the clock. 14:48. “About five minutes,” I reply.

“Not enough time to tell you about Gastown.”

“Try,” I urge.

“It’s Uptown Downtown.”

“You’re right. I’m confused.”

“You go there to get high. Heroin. Crack. You know — Uptown Downtown.” He smiles.

“Now I understand.” And smile back.

“I prayed to God when I was in prison. I asked Him to help me. He never answered.”

My heart constricts within me. What do I say? When I pray, God answers. Does God love me more than this beautiful, hurting young man? My very being recoils at the thought.

“I’m going to tell you something. Don’t get mad or call the cops or anything.”

I’m mildly curious. Is he going to tell me that he doesn’t believe in God? Does he think that will shock me?

“I don’t care about God anymore.”

In some ways, that’s worse than unbelief, I think. But our conversation is at an end. My bus arrives, the doors open, and the line starts filing in. I stand and pick up my backpack, then extend my right hand to him. Somewhat surprised, he takes it.

“Remember that even if you don’t love God or are angry at Him, God still loves you.” It sounds lame to my ears, but it’s the best I can do.

“I’m not angry. I just don’t care.”

Maybe it would be better if he was angry, I think. But finally I know, for the first time in this conversation, the exact right words. “You may not care about God, but God still cares about you.”

I board the bus, pay my fare, and barricade myself into a back window seat. I think, as I listen to my classical music, that I have tried to embody Christ for this man, to offer him the Living Water of God’s love, and I pray that he might take it. I sadly realize that it’s all up to him, and he probably won’t.

It’s only later — much, much later — that I begin to wonder which of us needed the Living Water, and which one of us was offering it.

My husband will never let me hear the end of this: first day of our honeymoon, San Fransisco airport. We find a wallet filled with cash shortly after getting off the plane and into the baggage terminal. I told him we had to turn it in - cash and all - and we did. I always tell him it will give him good karma into his next life.

Then there was the time the homeless woman asked me to write a letter to her son on the hood of my car, in the parking lot of a supermarket, as a thunder and lightning storm was approaching. As I recall, I was standing out there as it started to rain, still writing for her.

We used to have a old man who lived down the street from us - he had some kind of muscle problem so that he could only take a few steps at a time down to his mail box to get the mail. Would wrench your heart. Whenever I was outside and saw him struggling to reach the mailbox, I'd get the mail for him. Save him the trip.

As far as people doing things for me .... aside from the people letting me ahead in the grocery line if I only had one item ... nothing's coming to mind at the moment.

Agape, part two

I never finished what happened there at the church that night, so before I continue on, I feel I ought to do that now.

As we walked out of Agape with enough money to keep us fed for a few days and filled with a peaceful feeling, a beautiful woman approached us all. She hadn't been at the service that night she explained, but she was able to see us for what we were. She introduced herself as Deirdre. Kthrok and I came very quickly to call her Mama.

She invited all of us to come to her home in the morning for breakfast, a shower and to do a load or two of laundry. She would pick us up, all we had to do was tell her where to pick us up and she gave us a ride home that night. Will and Jake never took her up on her offer, but Kthrok and I did. We were inexplicably drawn to this wonderful woman.

The following morning, Mama Dee picked us up at the nearby HEB. It would have been very difficult for her to have found the entrance to our camp and we did not want to draw unwanted attention to the fact that we were there anyways.

She cooked us a huge Louisiana breakfast with eggs, toast, bacon and grits. I still remember being so stuffed I couldn't move. Obviously we had showers and were able to do our laundry without feeling hurried in the least. While we sat with her that day, we found out that she had been homeless herself, but had stayed at the local Salvation Army shelter because she had her teenage daughter with her. She had managed to find work and get into government housing. She didn't have much, but she was willing to share what she had.

A few days later when I came down with a severe kidney infection complete with raging back pain and fever, she insisted on us staying with her. She wouldn't here of me sleeping out in the cold while being so ill even though we repeatedly assured her that we had plenty of blankets and a camp stove to keep our tent warm. It would be three weeks before we would be able to leave her home, with her blessing.

It is now that I will tell you that Mama is black. Kthrok and I obviously are not, but that never stopped her from calling us her son and daughter, nor has it stopped us from calling her our mama, even in public. There are bonds that are stronger than blood. It is those bonds formed by God that are the strongest of all.

Mama Dee will always be our mama. We still call her to this day. Nowhere near as often as we would like to be able to and we miss her all the time. She is big reason why we would like to return to Austin someday. It's hard living so far away from your mama.