The day I will never forget

As the day draws to a close, thousands of workers: teachers, businessmen, artists, doctors, lawyers, journalists, as well as a variety of others rush home after the long day. As their feet quickly carry them to their cars and onward home, they may see a lonely, quiet, despaired soul wandering the streets of the city.

Quickly, the businessman darts his eyes the other way and hurries to his BMW; the artist dare not think of any other being, as he cannot afford giving and would not risk feeling guilty. The teacher rapidly diverts her attention. The dying man’s situation seems distant. It takes a moment to not allow the thoughts of him to grip their hearts. Swiftly, the passer-byers resume their vital flights.

The problem of homelessness is flourishing. It is growing and it is real.

Every day, millions of people face the streets with no other place to turn. As we gaze upon the homeless, it is difficult to picture ourselves in that situation. We often do not want to. Humans relish in the feelings of comfort, warmth and contentment.

I do not know what I had expected when I heard of Rescue Missions, but it was not what my eyes beheld. I was slightly taken back by the circumstance of the shelter. The white paint peeling off the walls, the old blue countertop, the fridge door coming ol.f its hinges. All of it was for some reason a shock to me.

I suppose I have become so accustomed to seeing spotless floors and gleaming kitchens that in my selfishness I reasoned that this place needed to be better looking. I was so naïve. The people who came here were hungry. They were not interested in interior design. They were homeless.

It was four o’clock and my shift began. For one and a half hours I would be serving food to people who were either homeless or had a job that did not pay them enough to buy them food to eat. Those one and a half hours changed my life.

As I served the peppered salmon with carefully cut round pieces of bright yellow lemon, the people seemed so far away. Only a rectangular piece of clear, yet scratched plastic separated myself from them, but it may as well have been another world behind it. Never before had I faced humans with such dire circumstances. The broken hearts, the dirty clothes. I did not want to see it. I yearned to escape back into the safety net of my home.

I tried to smile but I could not. A thousand thoughts rushed through my head. Would they judge me if I smiled? Here I was dressed in my favorite clean, boot-cut jeans, comfy sweater, and stiff grey flats. Who was I? I would never understand them.

I did not want to think that maybe someday that would be me. No! I was going to go to college. I have amazing parents and good friends that care about me. That would never be me.

I refused to let those thoughts consume my mind. But again, they came.

“What if that was you? What would you want people to do for you? Would a smile help?”

The kindness of the people pained me. Their full-hearted satisfaction and smiles warmed my hurting, questioning heart. Why were they so grateful? I had never received such open kindness and sincere smiles. Never.

From all of the people in my life, those who already have so much, are never as thankful for a meal as these wonderful people were. Their situations scared me though. I did not want to think if this was their only meal they were having that day. I did not want to wonder if they had a place to sleep that night or if they were going to be out in the cold snowy night while I would be asleep in my warm bed.

I didn’t know. Worse, I didn’t want to know. The prospect of that frightened me and would force me to come out of my comfort zone. I wasn’t prepared for that yet.

The powerful smell of the salmon suffocated me. The door to the outside world was behind me, beckoning me to leave. A part of me wanted to tear away from the wet kitchen floor underneath my cold feet and reach out to the mothers, fathers and the few younger adults and question them about what had brought them here.

What had occurred so that the only option of survival was charity? Where had they gone wrong? The journalist in me yearned to cross the threshold of the kitchen that separated those giving and those receiving.

But I couldn’t.

I was desperate to escape from the never-ending line of hungry people and escape into the small red sanctuary where the piano awaited me. There, I would be able to seek the comfort my soul desired. My heart ached to speak as my fingers would contact the black and white keys.

I stayed. I couldn’t leave. My feet were somehow tied to the floor. I couldn’t — wouldn’t leave these people here. I had to stay.

As the famished crowd appeared, the guilt sank in. How could I care so much about how I looked, what I wore, or how my house appeared…? Why did I focus so much on things of such little importance? Had God not given me more than enough?

At my core, I realized I am selfish. I have been so busy glancing at those well off all around me that I had somehow missed this disadvantaged multitude that society had overlooked.

They say comparison is the thief of joy. This may be true, until you compare yourself with the destitute.

That day, I promised myself I would change. I vowed that I would not concentrate so much on high school and the pop culture of America that I would miss the homeless and remember that there is more to life than what I am living.

The blur of faces may not stay with me, but their actions, their words, and the appearance of their circumstances always will.

When I stepped outside the brightly lit building, I felt as if I stepped into another world, where the thought of humans crying themselves to sleep was far from the minds of the citizens.

I quickly stepped into our car and slowly began pulling out of the church parking lot. As my sister and I drove, we passed two old men huddling near a trash can. Their eyes were somber. And as I glanced closer, I realized I had just fed these men minutes, or was it hours, earlier. They looked as if they did not know which way to go. No home to stay at.

That is when I realized it. It was our mission to give, to be the hope to the broken and empty souls. I realized this: we were made to be courageous.

We drove away, leaving the homeless behind and reaching the security of my home an hour later, the hungry and poverty-stricken miles away. I knew I needed to do something; I knew I did not do enough. I willed to have made a difference.

That day I will never forget.

Yelena Sinyawski is a currently a sophomore at Wasilla High School enrolled in Journalism.