THE INNER CIRCLE

Doug’s fingers turn brown from potato residue clinging to his hands as he scoops them into the flimsy plastic bags held open by men, women and children. His hands take on a deeper brackish color as he adds overly ripe pears, apples and tomatoes to the bags. A large circle has quickly formed around the Food For Others van making its first stop at the Willston Apartment Complex, in eastern Fairfax County, where the crowd eagerly anticipates the offerings.

Polite, gracious and evenly disposed to the group, he often responds to their, “thank yous” with “God bless you” or a sweet “you’re welcome.” He knows many by their first name and welcomes them and asks about their schooling or family while sliding yellow squash into their bags.

On some nights, there is less food available than meets the need. On others, there may be abundance. Whatever the amount, it is never enough to serve the number of people and their families. The men passing out the food know this as do those waiting in their circle. Around the van, in the cold, in the rain or in the heat, it does not matter, when you are hungry.

Tonight it’s dark at 6:30 in the evening and difficult to see under the poor lighting in the neighborhood, as the four or five of us, struggle with the boxes, measuring, counting and hopefully equalizing the share of loose carrots, greens and other food that we take for granted in their usual packaged format. But here, it is the leftovers from the fields, market or donation that have their earthiness still ripe on its contents, smelly, sticky or sometimes strange as a five-quart container of McDonald’s special sauce for fish, that has the crowd, oohing and ahhing and asking what it is and what to do with it. We tell them it’s a sauce for cooking and to use it on their fish, but most of us do not really know its use, and we silently hope they will take the jug.

We finish and toss the empty boxes into the van as the crowd quickly packs up the bags on carts or in their hands and merge into the dark recesses of the building. A few “thank yous” are yelled out to us, and Doug responds with a “God bless you.” The empty van heads west on Route 50 to the warehouse while we tell each other stories and engage in small talk.

Arriving home, I clean up for dinner, and my mind says, “You did good tonight.” But it is never enough. You know that deep inside.

— Scott Tilley

Courtesy of The Church of the Good Shepherd United Methodist