I was on my way to help with Thanksgiving food box deliveries for people who had no means of transportation. 

When I arrived at the auditorium, the room was bustling with good-hearted people busily packing boxes.  Mountain of all types of food was stacked high on tables as far as the eye could see. I immediately jumped in and helped, then loaded my car with the deliveries.

My first stop was at an apartment complex inhabited by the elderly.  The lobby was filled with white-haired women very curious as to who I was and what I was doing there.  I made my way to the fourth floor where a tiny, fragile-looking woman in a worn quilted robe opened the door.  She smiled weakly as I entered her small, cramped apartment.  I noticed portable oxygen tanks on the floor and a walker propped in the corner. Her bent frame shuffled along showing me the way to a table on which to place the groceries. Her voice was no more than a whisper as she thanked me and mentioned her son might come over later for a visit.  I hoped that he would.

My second stop was at a worn, low income apartment complex. I was making two deliveries there, and as I entered the lobby, two women with apparent health issues met me in the lobby with portable shopping carts ready and waiting.  I had only one of the deliveries in my hands, and the woman receiving them protested that I should have food for her friend as well.  I looked at the sad face of the other woman and assured her that hers was in my car, and she would be next.  When I came back into the lobby, the woman smiled broadly and eagerly took the food from my hands.  She thanked me profusely and wished me a good day as she happily wheeled her groceries onto the elevator.

Stop three was in another apartment complex along a desolate country road.  I drove to the back where the woman had directed me, saying she would be working but her sixteen year old son would be home to accept the delivery.  The overweight boy came out in bare feet – his hair cut into a Mohawk, tattoos up his arms and silver rings in his ears.  I couldn’t help but question what the future would hold for him.  He took the box looking at the contents curiously.  I wondered what would be left by the time his mom came home from work, but I wished him well and hoped he would enjoy. 

My last stop was to a run-down trailer park.  In a word, it was shabby, and I don’t mean to be unkind.  A petite, dark-haired woman in her forties answered the door and eagerly took the box.  She questioned me about whether my organization could provide transportation for her since epilepsy prevented her from driving.  I told her I would have the counselor contact her to answer her questions.  I got into my car and drove off wishing I could have done more for h

I reflected on the gifts God has given me as I drove home. Although my finances were not great, I was driving my own car.  I had my health, a warm home to go to, food in the pantry and my family to love. I passed a church along the way with a marquee that said, “Whatsoever you do for the least of my brothers, that you do unto me.”   I may have delivered food today to people in need, but they, in fact, did something greater for me by humbling my heart.