Thankful

Hundreds of people stood in line in the pre-dawn hours of the morning. Some jostled babies on their hips. Some shifted restlessly in their wheelchairs. Some joked and laughed, talking to make the time go by. Some simply stood, this just one more task needing to be completed before the end of the day.

They were standing in line for food at a food bank. They were waiting to receive boxes of food that would allow them to make themselves and their families a Thanksgiving meal. Each box would contain a chicken, turkey or ham; potatoes, fresh produce and onions; canned fruit and vegetables; some kind of boxed dessert mix. Everything needed for a holiday meal.

They all had stories to tell. She was a working single mother of three who could no longer stretch the paycheck far enough to pay the rent, the bills and the grocery. He'd been in an accident and didn't have health insurance. She was married, with 2.5 kids and a dog and a house in the 'burbs, who just needed a little help getting by.

Their stories were all different, but they had one thing in common: They were all hungry. After all, hunger knows no boundaries. And so they stood, united by the fact that they wanted to feed themselves and their families, aware of the fact that they couldn't and resigned to the fact that they had to ask for help.

The line shuffled forward slowly, 20 people at a time. Volunteers collected information from them: Names, identification, number of people in household. The volunteers were careful, methodical. They had a kind word and a smile to share, but they had no tolerance for those who tried to take advantage of the system.

Through the door, up the ramp, into the hallway, down the steps, into the food room. The line shifted forward, inch by inch, one person at a time. Stepping into a large room separated by a long counter and a bank of computers, those in line knew they were close to the end. Another group of volunteers took their paperwork, then started doling out boxes of food, arranged neatly in crates behind them. Bags of produce came next. Then the prize: The turkey.

One man sat off to the side, in his electric scooter. A volunteer was coming to help him with his groceries. But he couldn't wait that long. He dropped a hand, shriveled and spotted, into a bag, rummaged around. He came out with an apple and bit right in. He was sorry he couldn't wait, but he was hungry. He hadn't eaten in a day.

I stood there, taking it all in. A few moments ago, I'd been thinking of how hungry I was, how I couldn't wait to get back to the office and dig in to the cup of yogurt I'd packed for lunch. Now I watched as an old man bit into an apple, chewing ravenously, and I felt ashamed. I didn't know the first thing about being hungry.

A volunteer came to escort the old man back outside. As he scooted past, he gave me a nod, his brown eyes sober. "Happy Thanksgiving," he said. There was pride in his voice. There were tears in mine. "Happy Thanksgiving," I replied.

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Thankful. Grateful. Hopeful. That's how I am feeling this Thanksgiving. I wish the same for you.