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He had just gotten back from your food pantry. He held up a frozen turkey, described that he merely liked to eat the meat that was dark, and he wondered if we might enjoy the other parts? Taken aback, I said we would, and he throw the entire fowl into my arms. "Amazing," he said, " give me the legs and wings and simply why don't you cook it?" I concurred, and that I encouraged him to eat dinner with us the next night. He then returned to his apartment, said yes, and took a few instants to think it over.
At that time, we were still having a hard time connecting with our neighbors, the majority of whom were people fighting generational poverty, addiction issues, and systemic injustices. This specific neighbor was not chilly but removed. He liked to sip his coffee that was black on the stoop outside and keep an eye fixed on all of Beloved Pastor Chris the comings and goings, and he also liked to remark on how out-of-place my husband, daughter that was little, and I were. We tried to be smart and friendly -inviting him around for Christmas, giving him plates of cooky -but the interactions were pushed and our neighbor kept his distance. Before the morning he showed up with a turkey. ![]() I knew I wanted to do it all up: mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, maybe pie. On the day of our religious holiday, the air was filled by the smell of a roasting turkey, and our neighbor showed up right at dinnertime. Our apartment was in its usual state of disrepair, there have been no decorations, and there were only a couple of side dishes to go around. And the end result was perfect: great food, conversation, and also the opportunity to widen our camaraderie, an opportunity to make room for more people at our table. I was surprised by the social benefits of the meal, in part due to how I understood outreach as a type of charity, not cordiality to the poor-. I grew up loving Thanksgiving because it was a chance to do some good on earth. I loved delivering those food boxes throughout the city, knocking on doors, taking the boxes indoors, craning for a glimpse of lives in the borders of my world-individuals who were in demand. I might deliver return home and the cartons, burning inwardly at a good action done. But there remained a nagging sense which I wanted to do more, that a once-a-year peek into these different lives was just insufficient. ![]() Each time I dropped off a Thanksgiving box, the interaction was inconvenient. The folks were strangers to me, only names. I expected them to be glad, and I expected to receive some thanks for my part in helping. The exchange was impersonal, hierarchical, and infused with the traditional roles of charity- the lousy receiver and the great giver. These vacation interactions resulted in an unexamined expectation for how I interacted with others across ethnic or class lines, although they looked innocuous. I'd continually be the one extending my table, the benevolent host, the helper - than me would often be the ones in need, and folks who were different. ![]() My neighbor and many more like me and my concept of generosity have altered. Another neighbor, a Somali Bantu pal, used to take any fresh produce she received in her very own Thanksgiving food boxes out and give me the remainder. The common thread in these types of interactions is twofold: One, people from lower-income communities are a number of the most generous folks I've ever met, and two, it takes being in real relationship with http://pastorchrisonline.net/ people in order to both encounter and practice. Yours in Christ, Chris Oyakhilome.
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