Carrying in loads of aluminum trays of noodles loaded with chicken, mountains of green salad and hot vegetables, fresh rolls by the hundreds along with multiple gallons of milk, orange juice and lemonade, and package after package of cookies for dessert, we arrived at the Austin Street Shelter within the deepest of the bowels of downtown Dallas.

            Two hours before, our washing machine had frozen on it annual "won't run after it's filled itself to the brim with water" position.  That had been the last straw for Patty and me as we had tried to traverse through the one crisis after another weird day that was now to be followed by a full-moon.  The only thing we felt sure would be missing would be the witch flying past it in the night.

            With five other members of our church, Episcopal Church of the Incarnation, we brought in the food.  Only one of us had ever been there before.  There were more than three hundred cots lined up, one after another, row after row.  Each cot with the 12 square feet of floor below it, was the entire home of a person -- many men and about eighty women, most of them with their children.

            It was very quiet; no rowdiness.  The air conditioning made the huge room very comfortable.  There was no body odor, not a bit.  The only smell that hit me in the face was that of a cigarette or two that had apparently been smoked somewhere in the building.

            The man who met us at the door, Scotty he said his name was, thanked us over and over again, and that was before our gifts of food had been unveiled.  He said that frequently groups of pseudo-benevolents bring over peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and don't stay around to serve them.  Others promise to provide dinner one evening and never show up.  Can you imagine?

            For me it was hard not to keep from crying, the very idea that groups in the name of God would be so cavalier toward the feelings and health of those who can't fend for themselves, and can only give back to their benefactors six words, "Thank you.  May God bless you."  It must not be enough payment for some, although it's totally impossible to understand why.

            The Austin Street Shelter is and has been overseen by two ministers.  They met in a homeless environment just like this one, married, and became ordained Episcopal priest.  For more than twenty years, they've somehow been able to return peace and continuity of life to thousands who could have never re-bridged that gap by themselves.  Others haven't yet made it.  Most keep trying.

            I had only heard of the Reverends Harry and Beulah "Bubba" Dailey before last night.  When Patty and I got home from this spiritual adventure, I didn't see any need whatsoever to pray for the recovery of the Maytag.  Instead, I thanked God for leading us to see and experience the ministry of Father Harry and Mother Bubba.  

            And in my prayer to ask forgiveness for those whose benevolence for the down trodden doesn't extend past a couple of lathered-up peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, or not showing up at all.

            The Austin Street Shelter is at 2929 Hickery Street, the corner of Hickory and Austin streets.