The Day I Saved the Environment and What That Taught Me about Food

caution: this post is rated PG for language and content

This post may be teetering somewhere closer to the theological world than the one of health and nutrition. At least that was my first thought. Then I began to wonder if perhaps the reason so many of us are such poor examples of what it means to eat and drink to the glory of God is because the latter world has yet to collide and fuse with the former. What we believe about God doesn't affect the way we think about food. An unbeliever can certainly lead a healthy lifestyle just as well as a Christian can. However, his motives will be clearly for his own happiness and wellbeing. How sad when a Christian has no higher motive than these. For the sake of being perfectly clear, when I say “a Christian” I, by all means, am referring to myself.

One of the best things about living in Atlanta is that people come here. Whether it’s a layover in the airport, a night on our couch on the way through or an all out visit, many dear friends are able to drop in on us for convenience, pleasure, or both. Saturday it was a three hour layover in the airport with one of my dearest friends. I had been inspired the evening before to use public transportation to save a little money and a little environment. I set off armed with several books, magazines, a notebook and a lunchbox turned brunchbox to share with my friend on her layover. I’ll be honest; I was looking for a story. The first bus held little excitement and as hard as I searched the sleepy eyes and souls of my fellow environment-savers, I could find little to spark my fingers afire. I acknowledged the racial ratio but found nothing write-worthy other than the over alliterative phrase. It was 7:30 a.m. and no one looked interested in conversing. I read Anne of the Island content to enjoy my morning in silence.

I was almost to the airport on the crowded train when I heard the unmistakable rasp of an older African-American male missing a few teeth. Behind me the voice said, “Anyone know who feed the homeless in Atlanta?” No response from anyone. I realized what a stupid thing it was for me not to know at least where to tell people to get help. I racked my brain but had no idea what to tell the man. After several minutes of unbroken silence he said “Good answer, thank you. I’m a 58 year old homeless man. I need to know where to get some food.” Silence continued until we reached the airport. I remembered my package of food and turned around to look for the man. I could at least offer him a little something to hold him over ‘til he found some help. When I turned I saw an elderly white couple facing the other direction and several younger men. A face that matched the voice I had heard was nowhere to be seen. I continued to throw several glances over my shoulder in different directions and saw no one befitting of my “charity.” Just as I was beginning to think I was crazy or being put through some sort of test by the Lord, my stop came and I began to exit. I looked back for him one last time as I followed the flow of traffic. He had been lying on the seat directly behind me and I had overlooked him. I never saw his face. I often wonder, in these situations, if I will be a goat on the day that Christ separates them from the sheep. I wonder if I had heard Christ’s own toothless voice if I would have stood up immediately and searched the train until I found its origin. One does have to wonder…

The visit with my friend was, as usual, too short and I was back on Marta before I knew it. It was crowded again but this time with a plethora of life, color, language and culture. I tried to keep my eyes on my book but they would occasionally be caught probing the characters in the dialogue surrounding me. I finally had been swept back into the world of “Anne” when a voice from maybe two rows behind me rose from the center isle above the chatter, “Y’all got any spare change?” It was a woman this time, “Anybody got any change so I can get me some food?” I smiled. There was still a can of pineapple, a cup of applesauce and some granola left in my bag. I leaned toward the woman a little bit hoping I could catch her attention without the rest of the trains. Her eyes stared straight ahead. She wasn’t looking at anyone. “Anybody got any spare change? I really need to get some food.” The sudden silence stared at her but no one else did. “Ma’am,” I said in my very timid non-theatrical voice which she did not hear. “Ma’am,” slightly more forceful this time, she heard my approach as I reached for the yellow lunchbox made brunchbox at my feet, “I have some food here you can...” I had it about halfway up when she screeched “Don’t answer me like that bitch!” I could feel my little white face turning to match the red of my shirt. I knew that as a little red person, I would be in the definite minority on the train. “You said you needed some food ma’am, I just thou…” “Man, you eat it. You eat it bitch.” Her voice became louder and angrier with every phrase. “Don’t talk to me like that. Don’t talk to me like that!” After smiling and muttering a quick “okay” I had my head buried back with Anne before she finished her statements and hauled it off to the next train. The commotion that followed made me wish I had a tape recorder. Little pockets of people all over the car exploded in “She didn’t want food, she just wanted money to buy her boos,” and “Ignorant woman. That lady was nice enough to offer her some food, she didn’t want no food,” I heard in a thick urban tongue, “she just wanted her drug money.”

So anyone reading this or riding the train with me can assess the woman’s side of the story. She wanted my “change” not my food. The man on the first train may have been very different. I will never know. However, that’s not the reason I write this story. I will never see someone and know their thoughts. I can not look in a person’s eyes and see their heart. I can only give them mine with my hands and my mouth. My responsibility with food does not rest in whether poor people will take it or not, it rests in me giving it to them with a whole and happy heart. It does not lie in thinking only about food, it lies in understanding to the best of my ability what I put in my body. It should not abide with legalistic restriction but with liberated and wise moderation.

My responsibility to fellow human beings is not to be angered for being embarrassed on a train but to be sad for a soul who thinks “change” will fill her Hunger.