Over pizza, homelessness gets a face

"Here are the pizzas," my husband announced, stacking six pepperoni and mushroom pies in our car trunk. On my lap, a large lettuce salad tossed and turned as we made our way to the church reception hall.

"I'm starving," my eldest daughter complained, her appetite whetted by the enticing aroma of tomato sauce and melted cheese. I knew she meant nothing by this comment, but it made me wince. After all, we were on our way to serve dinner to the homeless – people who certainly know a lot more about true hunger than my children ever will.

Mother Teresa once said, "If you can't feed a hundred people, then feed just one." That night, our family had volunteered to feed eight church "guests" – homeless families – as part of the Interfaith Hospitality Network, a circle of churches that provide housing, meals, and guidance to the homeless.

I was feeling good about helping others, but a wave of apprehension rose within me as we neared the church. What would our guests think about my suburban family looking as though we'd dropped right out of a Lands' End catalog? I wondered what we would talk about. What if our girls mentioned our upcoming Florida vacation, their stuffed animal collections, or our three-car garage, bursting at the seams with bikes, scooters, and basketballs?

Inside the church hall, my husband and I set up a buffet table. "Set out the napkins," I instructed the girls.

Then I saw a young boy about my daughter's age, grinning ear to ear. "Hi there!" my husband called, returning the boy's wave. "Dinner's ready!"

Wide-eyed, my two girls watched as the boy hastily made his way toward the pizza. His mother followed, then the other family – a couple with two adult children and an infant grandchild.

"Remember to let our guests go first," I reminded my girls. But they were already standing back, staring a little too long at the reality of homelessness.

Weary from a day of job-searching, the boy's mother took time to say "hi" to us before helping her son fill his plate with pizza and salad.

The other family, a chatty bunch, extended their hands in greeting, clearly appreciative of our hospitality. I was taken aback by the weight of their load – a disabled son limped toward the dinner table and their daughter, looking not much older than a teenager, strapped her son into a highchair. Clad in an old, slightly soiled sleeper, he nibbled on chewy pizza crust, blissfully unaware of his family's struggles.

"What grade are you in?" I asked the young boy, who sat with his mother at our table.

"He's in first," his mom answered for him. She didn't seem to want to talk; yet I was uncomfortable with her silence. I chattered on about anything and everything, like the annoying chickadee outside my bedroom window – tweeting and singing, refusing to let anyone enjoy a moment of peace.

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