It's 8:30 on a Thursday morning. We've had our coffee after the healing service, and the other women are moving into the library for bible study. I begin to collect mugs and paper plates and napkins, carrying them out to the two big round tables in the undercroft (church basement).
I fill the pitchers with half n' half ("You spoil these people," says our sexton. "That's the whole idea," I reply. We have this argument every Thursday.), and check that the sexton has the big coffee urn in its place and perking.
On or about 9 a.m., the 4th Street door opens and the first of our patrons arrives, looks around, and takes off his coat...
But maybe I should begin at the beginning. Many years ago, when I was a shopkeeper on the main street of our little city, my shop door was always open for anyone who needed a rest after climbing the steep hill. Often seniors from the senior housing or the old hotel around the corner would stop in to rest and to enjoy a cup of coffee and some conversation.
Others came, too, many of them society's outcasts for one reason or another. Anyone was welcome, and although it didn't make for lucrative business, these guests brought a brightness to my day. When the mentally ill Vietnam vet, or the mentally challenged twins, or the deranged daughter of a very wealthy man came to the door, my dressmaker would whisper to me, "Here comes your congregation."
Eventually we closed the shop, and a few years later I went to seminary. But I never forgot my "congregation." I wondered where they could go to get warm or to have a cuppa and conversation; I wondered where they would be welcomed. And I knew it was a ministry that our church should be providing.
We are the "downtown church"; we are located just a block up from where my shop was, and we have this large warm, bright space that is rarely used during the week. And importantly, we had handicapped access from 4th Street directly into this space. Our new Rector was excited about the possibility of providing such a ministry, but he wanted it to be accepted by the congregation.
It took a while, but eventually several people got excited about the idea, and when DB and I were on our trip to the Copper Canyon in Mexico, some dedicated volunteers from our parish opened the 4th Street Cafe'.
That was four years ago. At first there were only 4 or five people who came regularly. Each week there were 2 volunteers who came in, brought the doughnuts, made the coffee, and hosted the Cafe'. These same volunteers are still doing "their" week, but now we have grown to 16 to 24 people each week.
Because of the large number of people and the number of doughnuts we need to supply them, the church now provides the doughnuts. However, the volunteers ALL still bring something to share. Sometimes it is cookies, or fruit, or cupcakes. The volunteers on the third Thursday of the month bring homemade bread, always a big hit.
Other parishioners drop in, also. As I wrote yesterday, we have two parishioners who provide rides for people, and the church pays for a handicapped gentleman who comes from a nursing home to ride a special bus that can handle his wheelchair.
When DB and I go away, the parishioners handle the cafe' on their own, although the other clergy tries to drop in sometime each Thursday. Now we are talking about trying to find enough volunteers to be open on Tuesdays, also.
And the people? My "congregation"? They are a most interesting bunch. We have Ray, the WWII sailor I wrote about yesterday. There is Robert, a very mentally fragile man who, with Gracie, our 80-year old lady, can sing all the words to all the old radio jingles and songs from the 40's and early 50's. We all love it when they get going.
There is Joseph, a faithful member of another denomination, who is our unofficial "host"; he is the first on his feet to welcome newcomeers, to fill coffee cups and the cream pitchers, and he always helps with the cleanup.
There is B., who is a "ranter", and K. who is a conspiracy theorist. Occasionally I have to tone down their conversations, but they are still always welcomed. There is Margaret, another mentally fragile person, who has come out of her defensive shell and never misses the Cafe'.
There is Jack, in his 80's, one of our parishioners who lost his wife a couple years ago and finds companionship in our group. There is Stan, former mayor, US Representative, and Lieutenant Governor, who comes in every few weeks to join in the conversations. Margaret especially is thrilled when he arrives: "He's my mayor," she'll tell everyone.
Jim is an operatic tenor, had his own band of rock n'rollers in years past, sings in our choir, and provides the ride for Joseph and Robert. Jim and Gracie were in a Little Theater production together back in the 60's and were thrilled to find each other again. Ron, retired, has become Ray's best friend and sees to it that Ray gets to the Cafe' every week. Now that Ray is in the hospital, Ron and his wife have visited him regularly.
Liz, Bev and Elizabeth are former Head Start parents whom I knew when I worked there. We have had a long history together, and still are good friends. The three of them have tough lives, but are survivors and keep on keeping on. They are heroines to me.
Pam and Joe found us by accident. They are Native American, struggling to survive even before this bad economy. But again, hopeful that they can better themselves, and in the meantime we enjoy them when they can join us. Larry, who calls himself "Big Foot", hasn't been around for awhile. One of the difficulties that arises because we don't require last names or addresses, is that when someone like Big Foot and his girlfriend Barb miss a few weeks, we can't track them down. I keep an eye out for them when I'm in town, however.
There are many more who come and go. Sometimes we'll see people for a few weeks, then they'll go missing for a while. But eventually, everyone turns up some Thursday morning, and Joseph jumps up to greet them. Everyone calls out a welcome, coffee cups get filled and the doughnuts passed, and the conversations start up again.
It's my favorite time of the week. The volunteers echo my sentiment. And the regulars? Why they wouldn't miss it. Oh, one more regular: Gary, Jr., now 2 and a half, who began coming with his mom when he was only 10 months old. What a charmer he is! He learned to walk at 4th Street Cafe', much to everyone's delight. He was the first one that one of our gentlemen, the one who has serious Parkinson's, finally talked to. And Gary smiled and waved his hands back at him. That was a banner moment!
You never know how past experiences will impact on your life. If my dressmaker hadn't referred to the people who dropped into my shop for coffee as my congregation, would I have seriously listened to the call to the priesthood that had nagged at me for years? Would I have pushed our church to provide a safe, welcoming space for those who have little? I don't know.
But I DO know that life is good. Thanks be to God and the 4th Street Cafe'.
It's a quiet day today. DB isn't feeling well and has been sleeping a lot, so I thought I'd write about the 4th Street Cafe', its beginnings and its wonderful people.
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