He left the conversation and embarked on his task. Ten minutes before the doors opened, every table the church owned had been set up in the fellowship hall along with every folding chair in the building. Each table had a Christmas plaid tablecloth and a floral arrangement in a glass jar with a ribbon tied around it.
The kitchen volunteers formed a serving line, while a second crew remained in the kitchen preparing to-go containers for those who couldn’t stay and eat. A third group—the teens led by the youth pastor—positioned themselves as backup. They’d act as the runners for the evening, bringing fresh food to the serving line when the trays ran low.
The after-Thanksgiving meal had grown into a massive undertaking, but the entire church worked in unison to pull it off. No one would know the frenzy of the last hour that had occurred to bring this together. All their guests would see was a hot meal and a church welcoming them with open arms.
Two minutes to show time, Donovan stood at the beginning of the serving line. He’d assist any families with children, or guests with disabilities, with getting their food and transporting it to a table. Several others held the same role, and it was Donovan’s favorite part of the evening. He enjoyed serving others, but he especially loved the interaction with people and having the opportunity to hear their stories.
He liked to believe it’s what made him a good journalist, and it’s why he stayed in Nativity, even when bigger opportunities had called. Yes, he often filled more roles than his job title listed sinceThe Daily Nativitywas a small operation compared to national newspapers—even the larger state brands—but it had heart and a sincere dedication to serve the community.
The church doors opened, and a flood of guests entered the fellowship hall. An elderly gentleman had the first spot. He wore an outdated, threadbare brown suit. His hands shook, but he accepted a plate with a smile on his weathered face. He shuffled slowly from one spot to the next as each lady placed a scoop of food on his plate. He gave each of them a profusethank you.
Donovan watched him closely, noticing the increasing shake in the man’s hands, but the food didn’t appear in danger of falling. A fine line existed between offering help and saving dignity. Walking behind the serving line, Donovan knew how to do both. He met the man at the end of the tables. “What would you like to drink, sir? I’ll grab it for you and bring it to your seat.”
The man didn’t argue, only issued a grateful and understanding smile. “A sweetened tea would be just fine, thank you.”
“Coming right up.” Donovan walked to the drink table and reached for a pre-poured cup of tea. He scanned the fellowship hall to see where the man had sat, then approached him.
The man bowed his head, and his lips moved. Donovan realized he was praying, and he stood silently until the man lifted his head before setting the drink in front of him.
“This is a wonderful thing your church does,” the man said in a gravelly voice. “My wife and I never had children, and since she died, I spend my holidays alone. This is the one day I look forward to and don’t feel so dreadfully lonely.”
Empathy and compassion sprung in Donovan. “It’s the least we can do. What is your name, sir?”
“Gary. Gary Randall.”
“Nice to meet you, Gary.” He extended a hand. “I’m Donovan Byrne, and you’re welcome to come here anytime.”
“I don’t get out much, but I do watch some of those TV preachers from time to time.”
“Even so, know you always have a place here.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Gary’s gaze dropped to his food.
When did he last have a home-cooked meal?“Enjoy your meal. If you need anything, just flag me down.”
Donovan returned to the serving line, freeing the man to eat. He spotted James Akron at the far door and hurried to speak with him for a minute before resuming his tasks. “Have a second?”
“Sure.” The rotund man had a high-pitched voice that didn’t match what one would expect him to sound like, but his enthusiasm for life and Jesus outshone every other quality about him.
“See that man wearing the brown suit in the third row of tables?” He tilted his head in that direction.
“Yes. I believe he came last year.” James tapped his chin. “Name’s Gary, I believe.”
“Gary Randall.”
James nodded. “Yes, now I remember.”
“He’s lonely, mentioned he doesn’t get out much.” Compassion for the man filled him anew. “Could you spend some time talking to him? Maybe share some of the activities and services we offer for seniors?”
“Say no more.” A wide grin stretched across James’ mouth. “It’s one of the many things I love about being the senior adult leader.”
“Thanks.” Spotting a family with four young children and all volunteers helping others, Donovan rushed to assist. He grabbed two trays to carry the plates for the kids, following the parents’ instructions on what foods the little ones would eat.
The remainder of the evening passed in a blur, and once every person had been served, eaten, and left, cleanup began. The church hired a cleaning crew to come in twice a week, but this mess went beyond their scope.
Donovan went up and down each aisle with the rolling trashcan, discarding all the plates and food left on the tables. Once finished, he tied off the bag and carried it to the dumpster outside behind the fellowship all. Getting rid of all the trash would take several trips.
He had his hand on the door, about to re-enter the church, when a movement caught his eye. The overhead lights provided enough light to see Zoe Daniels bent over with her fingers wrapped around an object. He peered more closely. A candy cane.
