The first part of this story starts here.

So we had our quiet Christmas at home, presents waiting until Dad came home from work. I let the kids pick what they wanted for breakfast--fried ham for one, a bowl of coveted, once-a-year Stupid Cereal (sugar-covered neon-colored things) for the other. Coffee, the paper, and waiting.

I'll admit, I was nervous. I've never worked with the homeless before. I see them on the street downtown, asking for money, and I don't know what to do. Will they spend it on drugs, or beer? Does it matter what they spend it on? If I give money, I feel bad. If I don't, I feel bad too. I don't know what to say or do, or how to act. My husband, working on Christmas Day, is an RN with the adult mentally ill. He knows many of these people. I don't.

The time came, we got in the car with two enormous shopping bags of wrapped warm hats, and drove downtown.

The organization is officially a church without a home. They meet outside under a bridge in the summer, they borrow a church basement in the winter. They offer meals twice a week. They give what they can--toiletries, bus passes, clothing, help.

I found the church. And a group of scraggly men outside that made me want to look away. I wasn't sure where to go. There I was, in my suburban mom jeans and two kids, and these men.

"Are you looking for Paul?" one asked.

"Yes."

"Oh, he's right over here." And one of the men led us to the side door of the church. Another one waved.

"Nice hat!" said one, to my daughter in her elf hat with jingle bells.

Just like people. Imagine that.

The church basement was like any other--an open space with tables, a kitchen, a decrepit piano in a corner. We said hi, some volunteers knew each other, some didn't. My college friend who introduced me to this group wasn't there--I knew he was visiting his wife's family out of state.

Paul, the founder, was an older man with a white mohawk, tattoos, and piercings. He shook my hand, welcomed the kids, and said "Oh, you're Bob's friend! Glad to have you."

Some volunteers looked like us, in clothes that clearly said "Suburban Interloper With Job and House." Some looked like they had just made the transition from the street to volunteer. A woman with no front teeth and scraggly black hair tossed a salad. A tall, round man wearing a woman's wig and a Santa hat introduced himself as  Sarah.

What if a trans person didn't have the money for any of the hormone therapies or surgery, and wanted to be a woman? What if all she could afford is a wig from Goodwill?

Can I see this person as a human being, not as a comical-looking man wearing a wig?

"Hi Sarah," I said to woman.

Can't a homeless person be who she wants to be too?

My son was soon toting boxes of food from a car outside. My daughter and I sliced bread. We tossed salad. We set up a buffet line. We rolled plastic forks inside paper napkins.

Just like any other party. Food is food. Keeping our hands busy helps with being nervous.

And then the friends arrived. Mostly men. A few women. Two dogs, much loved. "My friends who live outside," is what this organization calls them. People who happen to not have a home. Just people.

One man with a scraggly beard, two coats, a miasma of unwashedness, and an enormous backpack, sat down at the piano. And he started to play. Beautiful, noodling jazz piano, complex melodies and rhythms, on two hands. The music I'd hear in the lobby of a fancy hotel or in a swanky bar drinking martinis.

My son was transfixed.

A homeless guy can play piano like that?

He went to listen, then borrowed my phone to video it.

There was a prayer. Blessedly short. Thanking God for loving us as we are.

If I believed in a god, I'd want one who did that. And one who wasn't into long-winded speeches.

Then we served food. My son, my daughter, and I dished up salads and ham and bread. People smiled. They talked. There was plenty. There were extra plates to take to friends who couldn't come.

The pianist kept playing.

What would it be like to have that kind of talent, and not own a piano? Who was this man before he was on the street?

When everyone was served, we got plates of our own and sat down at a table with the men. It felt weird. But OK. Paul, the founder, talked to everyone, circling the room with his plate. 

A few started to leave, and Paul asked if we'd hand out our hats. He made an announcement of what they were--if anyone needed a hat, they could take one. So my daughter, son, and I started around the room, offering hats.

And it occurred to me, going table to table, that I couldn't tell who was a volunteer and who was homeless. I didn't know.

Maybe that's the point.

So we offered hats to everyone. Some wanted them. Some took an extra for a friend. Some already had a hat and said no thanks.

One volunteer made up four extra plates, and took four hats. He was going to visit some friends under a bridge later. "They can't get around very well," he said. "I used to be one of them, so I know what it's like."

We cleaned up the kitchen, we washed dishes, thanked everyone. Bingo started. They play Bingo with the friends, and give out prizes. There were various other things to give out--toiletries, new clean sleeping bags, toothpaste, deoderant.

Homeless guys play Bingo?

In the summer when they meet outside, they play wiffleball.

Homeless people play wiffleball?

We didn't stay for Bingo. My husband would be home in an hour for our delayed Christmas. Grandma and Grandpa were coming. The kids were quiet on the drive to our house, our dog, our furnace, our carpet, our presents. My son played his video of the homeless pianist for me.

It's been a long, long time since I've been to anything resembling a church service. I gave it all up years ago, in fits of anger, annoyance, and rebellion. I'm pretty sure I'm an athiest now, but I believe in people, in the beauty of the universe. I'm happy to let everyone find comfort where they may.

But this place, that can put Jesus's ideas, the radical ones about give what you have, love the poor, into direct action, this I can buy. Skip the talk, the songs, the uncomfortable clothes, the sitting in rows, the men in funny hats, the laundry lists of what to believe and not believe. Don't worry about who ascended bodily into heaven, or whether this piece of tasteless cracker is anything but a cracker. It doesn't matter. Was Jesus the son of God? Was he just a guy who lived 2000 years ago with some radical ideas that got him killed? Does he live in our heads and talk to us?

It doesn't matter. If it works for you, great. Who cares. Just do. Serve the food. Smile and talk. Love people for who they are, today. Don't sweat the small stuff.

I think I'm going back. Maybe I'll learn to play wiffleball.

A video of our pianist friend who lives outside is here.