The following is a true story. I do not know the woman's name and I never saw her again. And yet this was a watershed moment for me. It changed my life then, as I hope it will change yours now. Please contribute to Danville Foodstock in any way you can. Help us give a feast! -- LB

The Feast
A true story by Lane Baldwin
©2004 - all rights reserved

But when you give a feast, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind,
and you will be blessed, … you will be repaid …Luke 14: 13,14

One beautiful Spring day in Washington, DC, after preparing my store for opening, I went for a cappuccino before our customer's arrived. I didn't plan to attend a feast that morning, but I did.

I strolled to the coffee shop, enjoying the bright sunshine and cloudless sky. I ordered my favorite concoction and decided to add a Banana Walnut muffin to my morning ritual. The clerk selected one of two still in the case, placing it in a small bag. I glanced at the remaining muffin and was struck by how lonely and sad it looked. It seemed to beg me:

"Take me, too. All the other muffins have friends to hang out with; I'm the only one left on this shelf. Please don't leave me."

I laughed inwardly as I smiled in sympathy with that poor, humble confection. How could I refuse such a request? I asked the clerk to give me that little muffin, knowing full well I wouldn't be able to eat it.
I paid with my last few dollars, reminding myself to stop at an ATM on the way home, and left my change as a tip. As I walked out of the shop, my pockets were completely empty so, of course, a homeless person approached and asked for spare change. Isn't that the way it always is?

She was such a forlorn little woman, barely five feet tall, weighing 90 pounds only if she held a brick in each hand. Her eyes seemed filled with all the sorrows of the world and a lump raced up my throat as I was drawn into them. I wasn't sure of her age, but she was older than me and, because of her size and her gentle demeanor, she reminded me of my own mother. "Please, sir," she asked so softly I could barely hear her, "could you spare some change?"

I know what you're thinking: Just another junkie. Just another mindless fool who doesn't know enough to seek shelter. Just one more thorn in society's side. But you're wrong. This was someone's mother. This was my sister - and yours. No needle tracks on her arms, no far-away look of addiction in her eyes, no crazed thoughts in her head. Here was a woman the world had trampled into the asphalt with it's impersonal boot. And yet my urban neighbors had ignored her time and again, passing her by with no more thought than they'd give a piece of garbage in their path. I couldn't do the same.

How could I refuse her? How could I send her on her way thinking I was just one more heartless, selfish fool? I apologized with all my heart, explaining I had no money and it was then that I remembered that sad little muffin. This frail, homeless urchin and that muffin were destined to be together. That's why I'd bought it, even though I didn't understand it at the time. I smiled warmly and asked, "Have you eaten today?"

"No, sir," she whispered. "I'm tryin' to get money for food now."

"Then, please, have breakfast on me," I said as I pulled the muffin from the bag.

"I can't take your food, sir," she said soft but firm, eyes widened by concern - concern for me. "It wouldn't be right."

"You aren't taking my food, ma'am," I replied as I took the other muffin from the bag. "I bought that for you. See? I have my breakfast right here."

I'll never forget the gratitude mixed with relief that filled her eyes as she looked at that muffin, which had now puffed itself with pride and happiness of its own. As I stood and watched, her emotions spread through her, filling her with something she hadn't known for far too long: Hope. A sense that, maybe - just maybe - there was still someone who cared. Someone who saw through to the soul of another human being.

We sat on the curb, she and I, and I handed her that proud little muffin. She accepted it as if it were the most precious gift she'd ever received and when I asked if she would like to share my coffee, she triumphantly displayed her battered, half-full water bottle and declined. We sat quietly, watching the world go by. She ate in very small bites, savoring each morsel. "This is my favorite kind, sir," she told me. "I always loved my mama's muffins, you know. She dead now, but I still remember them muffins."

Her pleasure was infectious and I began to notice that these were indeed excellent muffins, much better than I normally got in that coffee shop. Why, I'd never eaten such a prize, even at my own table, and I realized that they were the best muffins in the history of the world, the tastiest, most nutritious muffins ever to grace a meal!

Mirroring her appreciation, I relished every walnut, every taste of banana, every spice. I thought of the banana tree that had given its seed so I could enjoy my food, every nut that sacrificed its life as a tree, every kernel of wheat to go under the miller's wheel.

We spoke little as we ate, and when we did, it was just small talk. Mostly we sat on the curb and enjoyed our simple breakfast. We basked in the light of kinship, though we'd never met before that day. When she had finished about half of her treat, she slowly and carefully wrapped the muffin in a paper napkin. Almost apologetically she explained, "I'm gonna save this for later, in case I don't get no dinner."

We stood, preparing to part company. "You a true gentleman, sir," she offered, head bowed. Touching her for the first time, I put a finger to her chin and guided her head up until she looked into my eyes. "Don't humble yourself to me, ma'am," I said, eyes brimming with tears. "You are a gentlewoman, and a true lady. It has been an honor to meet you and I thank you for your gift."

Her eyebrows raised in surprise. With shock, she replied, "my gift? I got no gift for you."

"But, ma'am," I said, "you've already given it to me. Today I've enjoyed the greatest feast I'll ever know and it was you that provided it for me. I'll never forget it, and I'll never forget you."

And with that, we went on with our lives, I to my store, my comfortable home, my friends and family. She to the street, her Styrofoam cup in hand, softly asking for change, for a bit of help, for another small touch of humanity deep within the savage, urban jungle. I don't know if she found it. In fact, although I worked in that store for many more months, I never saw her again. But I never stopped looking.

I live in a remote part of Illinois now, but I still think of her often. And I would ask a favor of you: If you see her on the street, tell her "Hello" from me. Tell her that I still remember her gentle kindness.

You see, it was me - not her - who was poor and starved in spirit.

And it was she who invited me to feast.

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