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I had not been to the Vineyard Church food bank since August, when I was housing a 19-year-old for four months.  Between that visitor and my son, who is 6’2” and in the 11th grade, my food budget was on a tightrope.  I returned Saturday and became the 90th family to come through the door that morning to collect food for my family.  Vineyard Church not only opened the door to my hunger needs, they provided each family who wanted one a turkey voucher to Super One in Kenwood.  
A way to a man’s heart is a meal.  A way to a hungry soul is food.  I had a strong sweep of emotion overcome me as I stood waiting for the church assistant to come by with her grocery cart ready to fill bags up for my family of two.  It reminded me of when I was homeless once 14 years ago after thinking I was homesick for Minnesota and coming back to the Midwest.  I came home from Los Angeles temporarily for six months, only to find that my poor planning forced me into a shelter.  
My identical twin sister was living in the posh part of L.A., “the Melrose district,” where the celebs shop for vintage clothing and catch a latte here and there.  She got transferred by Los Angeles County from L.A. to Torrance and decided to move.  I was forced to move, too, but I worked in Beverly Hills and did not have a car, so I had to get my own place.   I had to rent a room in the Hollywood Vine Lodge motel, one block north of Capitol Records.  My son was about 15 months old.  In the morning, I had to take three buses to work to get to the Beverly Hills Medical Plaza, where Ozzy Osbourne and the like got their routine medical care.  I had to get off the bus near Melrose to drop my son off at the babysitter’s and then get back on the bus to go to work.   
I got tired of living in a hotel and taking six buses a day, so I decided in January of 2000 I would go live with my ex-boyfriend in Baldwin, Wisconsin.  When I got there, to a farm, there was hardly any heat and we were in the country.  I didn’t immediately return affection, and after a while the man I was staying with got fed up.  He pushed my son in the kitchen one day, so I left.  I had to live in a homeless shelter in nearby Minneapolis.  We were at a church during the day and then got bussed to different churches at night to sleep.  One time my long-distance running friend from my past, Karen Maney, brought my son a book and some presents at a church I was staying at.  She lived in a nearby suburb.  With this schedule, it was hard to find a job, but I managed to at the Minneapolis Public Library.  I then transferred to another facility called Women of Nations, the only Native American battered woman’s shelter in the U.S.  I lived there while working at the library.  
Being homeless is not a lifestyle choice.  I did not do drugs or anything super risky to be there.  I just made some bad decisions.  I trusted my homesick desire over reason.  Being homeless does have one benefit.  It makes you feel isolated and forgotten, but it also makes you feel grateful for each moment of each day when you had a normal life.  Being homeless with a child is even more devastating.  Women of Nations provided a source of comfort and support I would have been unable to receive living in a hotel.  Eventually, I got on my feet and moved back to Los Angeles.  I did have to live in Boyle Heights, which is East Los Angeles right over the downtown bridge.  
Being around the homeless or those struggling at Thanksgiving is the right kind of blessing.  It is a reminder that we are all one step away from being vulnerable.  I can pick the most successful time in my life and brag about those victories and accomplishments, but my true self is the one that can find grace and a resemblance to others along with their suffering.  I could not break down in tears in front of a bunch of Duluth strangers I had never met.  I sat next to a 14-year-old or so with four different colors of hair who was angry at her mother not taking her to do “fun stuff.”  She was complaining to her mother’s older friend.  “My mother said we were going to do fun stuff, like shopping, going places.  That’s what I mean by fun.”  She had a sad, forlorn look on her face and kept her head down.  A volunteer came by with recipes, and the young teenager alphabetically organized all the recipes.  She seemed content then.  
As my number was called, a man with a smiling face handed me three pounds of ground turkey.  I waited for the cart.  Another happy volunteer lifted two giant brown paper bags of food into the cart.  She then offered the miscellaneous section for me to pick from.  They weighed the food and carried it to my car.  I walked to my car while telling the volunteer, “I can carry a few bags.”  He said, “No, I got it.”  
I walked away that day with much more than groceries and a turkey voucher.  I left with that nostalgic feeling that I am one step closer to humanity, that the anger I feel every day trying to survive is just the underside of my soul aching for one notion of grace.  My tears were washed away by one person, one organization that cares about that stranger who may not have enough.  It’s that rock on the hill off Arrowhead Road where you turn in and find the word of truth in action.  I want to be a mother who plans better, who has fewer bills and can manage.  But I will be strong in my weak state. I will be strong because of kind strangers.