Ms Bowaite’s Monologue

Well, let me tell you, it was a sign from Heaven. That’s right, a sign sent to me from above. Sunday the sermon was all about service, and the message made my whole body tingle. But that’s not all; the next day, that Heaven-sent guidance was underscored for me when I was doing my regular Bible study. I close my eyes and open the Bible, then I put my finger down on the page, and that’s where I start reading. Well, what do you know! My finger hit on Revelations 2:19. I know thy works, and charity, and service, and faith, and thy patience . . . .So that clinched it. I was being called to go forth and serve!

I immediately thought about our food bank. I could go there, maybe hand out cans to the poor or organize the inventory or something. So I got on the phone. Right away! You can’t keep Heaven waiting, after all. I talked to Shirley on the phone. She was a pleasant young woman and very eager for my help—another confirmation of this Divine calling. But when she said she needed help the most on Wednesday afternoons, my heart sank; that’s my manicure day; it has been for years. But I rose to the occasion and said I’d be there at 1:00 sharp and work until 4:00 every Wednesday.

So, I had to call my manicurist, Delores. That was hard; Delores is very particular. I carefully explained why I would need to see her on a different day from now on. I told her about my calling. She didn’t seem that interested but said I could come on Thursday mornings at 9:30. Nine-thirty she said! Nine-thirty in the morning! But what could I do but graciously accept her willingness to work me into her busy schedule?

I showed up at the food bank on Wednesday; I even got there a little early. Shirley is a bit plain and her hair was unkempt that day, but she greeted me very warmly, I must say. I asked her how I should address her; she looked puzzled at first, but then replied,”Oh, Shirley is fine. “

“And you?” she asked.

“Ms Bowaite,” I replied in my most cordial tone.

The place was depressing: just a counter, a few old, mismatched chairs and a big warehouse-type room with shelves and bins, not a thought to interior design or feng shui. No wonder the people who shuffled in for food during my shift looked so despondent. I couldn’t imagine why someone didn’t fix the place up or, better yet, fine a more suitable building.

Oh, and speaking of the patrons, I have to admit that I was shocked to see men come in who had not shaved in days and who (please excuse my frankness) had probably not showered in days either. And there were women, very young women, who dragged two or three small children in with them. For heaven’s sake, do women these days not know about morals, or at least birth control? (Oh, I do hope I am not being offensive by being so blunt as I relate my story to you). I have to add that I was also surprised to see fat women come to a food bank! They obviously have plenty of food. Don’t even get me started telling you about the quivering flesh as they raised their arms -- and the tank tops that showcased them! But, of course, Judge not.

Anyway, my first task was to put new cans onto shelves. There was a makeshift organizational system: green beans here, peaches there. Later, a load of potatoes came in. They were straight from some farm and were as dirty as you can imagine. Shirley asked if I would start washing them. I told her I would be happy to until 4:00. Someone dug up some rubber gloves for me. They looked like they had been worn by countless other helpers. I didn’t know which was worse, putting my hands into heaven-only-knows-what gloves or washing the filthy potatoes without gloves. I opted for the gloves and sighed with relief that I’d be seeing Delores tomorrow. After all this manual labor, hopefully she would not berate me for my obvious lack of attention to my nails.

So then I was shown where I could wash the potatoes and where the drying racks for them were. You can’t imagine the dirt that rolled off as I carefully washed each potato. Things were going along pretty well, I guess, until about 3:30, then disaster struck: I picked up a stinking, putrid, disgusting rotting potato out of the burlap bag. Oh the smell! I nearly (excuse my language) threw up! Trying to sound relatively calm, I called Shirley over and told her about my terrible discovery. Shirley wrinkled her nose ever so slightly and told me there are often some rotten potatoes in with the others. (She was implying there may be more! Can you imagine?) She calmly showed me a garbage bin with a plastic liner and told me that’s where the bad ones go. Well, at that point, I looked at the clock and was so relieved to see it was finally 3:50. I could start getting ready to go. Saved from the stench of the potatoes!

I was exhausted from the hours of hard work. Ah, but three whole hours of service! As I was leaving, Shirley thanked me for my help and said she’d see me again next week. But already I was trying to work up the courage to ask Delores if I could have back my Wednesday afternoons with her. I’m sure she’ll be surly about my wanting to change back again, but Wednesday afternoons work so well for me, and I hate the smell of rotting potatoes