A Knight to Remember

by Yvonne Lehman

  Gloria got the message and sat quietly, listening to him mentally and verbally preparing his Bible study. “That’s what we as Christians are to do. Freely, openly share that Jesus is the answer to our sinful state and our spiritual need.”

  He glanced at her. She smiled. “Go on.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’m on a roll.” He looked up at the morning sky then ahead as he continued. “As you know, some of our residents are long-term, and a couple are lifetime. But even with those living on the street who only go to shelters during freezing nights—don’t say they’re too timid to tell others about a shelter. Don’t say they’re not eloquent. No. They tell other homeless where to go for their physical needs.” He gave a hefty sigh. “Ah, that we should be so bold to tell others about one’s eternal needs.”

  “Good sermon.”

  He nodded. “Now, if we will just do it.”

  She stood. “What I’d better do right now is get to work.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I happen to know the director and just might put in a good word for you.”

  She hugged his arm, and they headed for their duties of the day. She knew he was using the royal we, including all believers, when he said we should tell others. But it made her feel inadequate.

  Who was she to tell anybody how to live or what to do with their spiritual life?

  She wasn’t exactly a great example of success.

  nine

  Thomas hadn’t felt so euphoric in. . .well, over three years. Even longer really, since there’d been sickness and death in his family even before he began his journey of self-discovery and God-discovery. Oh, he had known God already to some extent, but not as the master of his life.

  But when he walked into the little church last night, his heart lurched. So much the same, and yet so different, as when he’d come here with his family. He’d been a boy when they came at homecoming time and listened to a sermon that was followed by everyone gathering around doors set across sawhorses and laden with food. They called it picnic-on-the-grounds, but it had been a feast.

  Chicken legs and chocolate cake had been his favorites, cooked by his grandmother, the best cook in the world. She started him cooking by letting him mix dough while he was still in a high chair. Before dismissing for the picnic, the congregation sang about the little white church in the dale.

  This morning, Thomas had awakened to someone singing that song, although that person’s little church was brown. Thomas and his dad had sung that song when he was a boy. That was when he’d learned to bellow out a song. He sat up in Caleb’s bed and looked across at Sam, who was making sounds like a combination of a moan and a yawn. Must be his wake-up ritual.

  “Who’s singing?” Thomas asked.

  Sam blinked and reached for his glasses. “That’s the RA.” He laughed. “We’ve got a few singers around here.”

  Thomas recalled Jim mentioned his singing last night.

  Sam rose and swung his legs off the side of the bed. He chuckled. “Just be thankful this isn’t wintertime and still dark. He’d be singing ‘This Little Light of Mine’ and shining a big ol’ flashlight in your eyes if you overslept. Getting up time is six.”

  Thomas thought that a fine way to wake up. Not with a flashlight in the eyes, but with singing. He felt like doing it himself.

  He slipped into his jeans and shirt, then his shoes, again grateful they hadn’t been stolen. Of course he hadn’t expected that, but the thought had been present during the past years—from experience.

  “Sleep well?” Sam asked.

  Thomas laughed. “Better than in a box.”

  “That’s for sure. We have it good here.”

  Homeless people didn’t generally talk personally or ask many questions. But this was different from an alley. This was home to most of these men. What he and Sam talked about last night was the young man who fell into the creek. Thomas could tell Sam had taken a real liking to Caleb.

  Thomas went on down while Sam was still getting into his clothes. As soon as he reached the bottom of the stairs, he hurried through the hallway and to the former sanctuary. A sign about classes and their times hung on the door. Stepping inside, Thomas smiled. The big, rustic wooden cross still hung there on the back wall. The pews were padded now. He walked on in, sat for a moment, and offered a silent prayer of thanks. Thanks that this felt like coming home although it had never been his home church. Just the place where he’d visited with his dad and had sometimes attended services with his grandmother when he was a young boy.

  The stage and podium were there, a desk on one side, a table behind it, and a bookcase on the wall opposite the desk. Looked like a church classroom.

  His grandmother would like this. He’d listened to her story of being baptized in that creek on a cold November day and how her heart had been warm ever since. She’d raised his dad in this church.

  She’d complained about church buildings sitting empty most of the time. Maybe that’s what had spurred his dad to action.

  Hearing voices, he left the sanctuary and walked down the hall and into a dining room separated from the kitchen by a long countertop. He stood aside and observed volunteers chattering away and busying themselves with taking food from the refrigerator and the pantry, getting dishes out of a cabinet, and rattling silverware while taking it from a drawer.

  Residents sauntered into the dining area and milled around near the countertop, all seeming comfortable with each other. A hefty woman yelled out in a hefty voice, “Sausage and eggs and pancakes this morning.” She held a big spatula. “Better come on up and say if you want scrambled, fried, syrupy, or what.”

  He’d been in shelters where a person could pick and choose the prepared food, but not one where you gave your order and it was cooked on the two stoves. But this was more a residence. He liked that.

  Several hurried over, as if they’d go hungry otherwise. The woman must be the niece Jim had mentioned. The men were saying, “Morning, Lois.” “How are you this morning, Lois?” “Thanks, Lois.” So he figured her name must be Lois.

  A clean-cut guy, maybe in his early twenties, wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and slacks, leaned against the far end of the countertop. He wasn’t helping in the kitchen nor joining in with the residents.

  Their gazes met and the young man walked up to Thomas.

  “Morning.” He extended his hand. “Greg here.” Thomas shook his hand and told him his name. “You new here?”

  “Came in last night.”

  “I’m the church’s youth minister.”

  Thomas nodded. He didn’t think he needed to say he wasn’t exactly a youth, being twenty-eight. “Glad to meet you.”

  Thomas usually detected that moment when a person feels unsure what to say to a homeless person. But Greg seemed to have a confident, friendly manner about him and plunged right in. “The church youth plan a few events for the center, so you’ll probably be seeing some of them and me around here at times.”

  “Sounds good,” Thomas said. “Thank you.”

  Sensing Greg had finished, Thomas looked over where the workers and volunteers were busy with breakfast. “Lois!” he called as he rushed around the countertop while everyone stopped what they were doing and became like wide-eyed snowmen, frozen in their spots. “That man said pancakes. Let me show you what he means,” he said with an authoritative voice.

  Thinking she was about to hit him or somebody would put him in a headlock, he grinned. “You’re too pretty to be slaving over that hot stove anyway.” She did look prettier when her skeptical eyes lit up a little like she’d give him the benefit of the doubt.

  He took the spatula in his hand, wondering if he was taking his life in his hands. “Let’s get rid of this little rubber saucer.” He scooped up her pancake and put it on a nearby plate. “Now,” he called, glancing around. He spied the cereal and fruit display. “Banana pancakes coming up. Put your order in now.”

  Several did, wondering when the hands-on-hips-Lois might throw som
ething at him and sit on him. He reached for the bowl of mix, no need to go overboard his first morning, and asked Lois to hand him some bananas.

  He must have shocked her into obeying. He hadn’t done anything like this in over three years and had wondered if he still had his culinary skills. But he mixed and he poured. When the time came he peeked under the corner of the bubbly pancake, saw the edges looked right, slid the spatula under, and flipped. Lois applauded.

  Soon he served up a golden-brown pancake for its taste test. “Get your forks.” Just about every man got a fork and dug in. It passed the taste test, and the orders started. He mixed and he poured and he flipped. Workers putting supplies in the pantry and cabinets thought they’d best try some, too, after the accolades came in, even Lois.

  It had been impulsive. But fun and the urge to cook began to stir. If he didn’t contain it, he could become overwhelmed. . .before the time was right. But this felt mighty good, as if he’d accomplished the challenge of the day.

  All was going well. Jim liked him, didn’t probe into his life, and said he could stay here for at least a month, which should be long enough. He was home! And he could renew his acquaintance with a kitchen since he’d pleased Lois, the director’s niece.

  He felt confident. “So, Lois, you think I could be your assistant?”

  “Fine with me. But those decisions are made by the director or his niece. Oh, there’s Gloria now.”

  Thomas looked.

  The girl in the shadows he met last night became, as all faces did for him, a study potentially to be replicated on watercolor paper or canvas. His first thought was no. He didn’t paint portraits now, he painted characters. Her face was too smoothly pretty, the full lips too smiley, the eyes too blue, reflecting the color of her T-shirt, the body lines in the jeans. . .whoa! You paint faces, remember!

  His scrutiny returned to her face about the time Greg stopped her, wearing a you-made-my-day expression. One might think hers was the same. But Thomas saw deeper than the say-cheese-now kind of smile, and he knew there was another definition of blue besides color.

  The woman had a few shadows inside herself. She might, after all, be a subject for his paintbrush.

  ten

  The moment Gloria stepped into the dining room she saw Greg heading straight for her, which had become a habit of his. He was all smiles. “Glad the meeting went well last night. The Turkey Trot is a great idea.”

  “So you read the note I left?” He must have, otherwise he wouldn’t know about the plans.

  “I wanted to thank you in person for sitting in for me.”

  “No problem. They’re very smart and dedicated. Is that. . .all? I need to get busy here.”

  He looked like it might not be all but said, “You’re one dedicated person, Gloria.” She saw the admiration in his eyes. “Well, see you later.”

  She gave a little wave and hastened to the kitchen. Greg had come to the shelter and waited for her, just to say thank you? Well, he was a young, single boy. That thought gave her pause. He was only two years younger than she. Chronologically. But she had passed the point of no return to those happy, carefree younger days.

  The impact of the adage, you’re only as old as you feel, had become her own experience. No doubt about it, she was older than Marge.

  “I’m running late,” she said as if they weren’t aware that the men were already eating, some had finished, and several had brought their plates to the counter. Sudie was cleaning one of the stoves. Lon set down a mop and pail. They all spoke.

  Lois was tying the top of a trash bag. “You might want some breakfast. We might just have us a new—”

  “Already ate,” she said, taking a plate that looked like it had been licked clean. She put it into the dishwasher. “Clara had a new recipe to try out this morning. Southern cream biscuits—”

  “Southern cream biscuits?” said a voice from the pantry, soon revealed to belong to a bearded man with a ponytail. So Thomas, if she remembered his name right, was a volunteer. She’d never seen him at church, but there could be many reasons for that. She’d never seen Caleb before either because of his deployments in the military.

  Thomas walked over and watched her dump the contents of a plate, rinse it, and place it in the dishwasher. “Southern cream biscuits sound almost as good as banana pancakes,” he said. Lois giggled. He handed Gloria another plate to contend with. “You must be the niece Jim mentioned.”

  She glanced at him and back at the plate. “He has more than one niece, so. . .depends.” She didn’t like the idea that she’d been discussed, and scrubbed hard at dried egg.

  “Depends, huh?”

  When he said that, she remembered their exchange last night about that word. She needn’t be so touchy. He was a volunteer, and she’d learned quickly volunteers were a special breed of people, kind and caring.

  He scoffed. “Jim didn’t mention she’s impertinent, so. . .” Catching her quick glance, he added, “Must not be you.”

  He backed away, and Lois was chuckling.

  She knew he was toying with her and turned toward him. “What did Jim say?”

  “He said his niece helped with the cooking.”

  Playing or not, she had to defend herself. “I’m not really a cook.”

  “Um, that settles it.” He nodded. “He was talking about you.”

  Lois was laughing aloud now. He grimaced, but his dark eyes danced. Impulsively, she stuck her hand under the running faucet and flicked the water onto his face.

  “At least it wasn’t a dish,” he said, wiping his beard with both hands as if she’d splashed more than a couple sprinkles.

  She wasn’t sure what it was about him, but she’d never think of doing that to one of the other workers. Or anyone for that matter. But, if a little thing like that could make him and Lois happy, so be it.

  Hearing a chuckle, she looked over and saw Jim standing at the counter. He held up a restraining hand to Gloria. “Now those weren’t my exact words, Gloria. I think we have a Joker here, straight out of the comic book.”

  Thomas held out both hands and reared back. “If we’re playing Batman, maybe a Catwoman, too.”

  “You best remember that,” she threatened, reaching for the sprayer and clawing toward him with her other hand.

  Jim spoke up. “May be time to get you some clothes, Thomas, and get to that painting.”

  “Yes sir.” Thomas looked around, said thanks to all of them, and walked out, leaving them with the dirty dishes.

  Gloria watched them walk out of the kitchen. What kind of volunteer was he? She turned to Lois. “You know him?”

  Lois shook her head. “Never saw him before in my life.”

  eleven

  Jim led the way out of the dining area and into the hallway. He was quiet, and Thomas wondered if he’d overstepped. There was protocol to observe, like he would do with Jim, an employee with an employer, child with a parent, and numerous other situations. “Hope I wasn’t too familiar with the cooking or your niece.”

  Jim grinned. “I was sitting back watching,” he said. “Spiced up the morning a bit. Everybody enjoyed it, and the workers appreciate any help they can get.” He stopped at the first door on the right, labeled Clothes Closet. “Gloria didn’t seem to mind. It’s good to see her having a little fun.”

  Thomas could understand that. Working in a shelter could be fulfilling but not generally what one called fun. But for him, after spending three years with his companions being homeless men, his home alleys and shelters, and his next meal at the mercy of others, it sure felt good being around women again and being. . .almost home.

  Jim opened the door and switched on the light. Suits and shirts hung along one wall on hangers, with dress shoes on the floor beneath them. Opposite them were folded clothes stacked on shelves. The bottom shelf held a row of what appeared to be new tennis shoes. Farther along were obviously used ones.

  They found clothes suitable to paint in, instead of Thomas messing up the holey jeans
and T-shirt that hadn’t impressed James. When they returned to the kitchen, Thomas saw the ladder and paint waiting. The two stoves were in the middle of the floor; Lon was sweeping where one had sat and another resident was washing grease stains off the opposite wall.

  Thomas raised his eyebrows. “I suppose you want it finished before lunch.”

  “You do that and you can paint the whole town.” He chuckled. “I expect soup and sandwiches to be brought in for lunch.”

  “Soup,” Thomas mused, as his grandmother’s specialty flashed vividly in his memory. He hadn’t meant to say aloud what tripped through his mind. Many times he wondered if he were like Esau who sold his birthright for a bowl of soup, or in his case, a soup recipe.

  Jim studied him for a moment then mentioned supper. “An ample supply of salad makings, fruit, and precooked meats will arrive. Some hot food. Like at church homecomings, you know.”

  “Oh yeah,” Thomas said. “Church ladies know how to put out a spread.”

  Jim gave him another look. “Why don’t we get a cup of that coffee and sit over there while these men are finishing up?”

  They did, and Jim said, “I’d like to give you a little back-ground on this shelter.”

  Thomas drank his coffee, just watching the cup most of the time. He could have told Jim the story. The congregation outgrew the little Wildwood Church. The decision to tear it down or not almost split the church until a man donated a lot of money to put it to some good use. Then he fell on hard times not of his own making, and the money stopped coming. Soon after that he had a heart attack.

  The ones who wanted to save the little church decided to honor the man who had given so much of his time through the years to the church and this community. His mother had been a member there all her life.

  “I admired the man very much,” Jim said, nodding for a moment. Glancing at Jim, Thomas knew the man was struggling to control his emotions. “A picture of him hangs in the church hallway along with those of pastors and others who have contributed in special ways.”