Breakfast time at the Inn

Breakfasts are a special time at the Inn. In contrast to dinner (where people arrive at various times throughout the night, some dead tired, some under the influence), at breakfast time, guests eat at pretty much the same time, are usually well rested (except last night we had a snorer), mellower and generally sober. We've recently started to use the round tables for meals -- more sociable than the very long table we've been using. Yesterday the five guests, 3 volunteers and 3 staff all fit around one table and enjoyed some nice conversation, ranging from favourite restaurants, to skydiving, to Dr Seuss titles and poetry.

The tone for the day had been set by Jean M, who played her flute as a wake up call. A couple nights earlier, "Marie" asked Jean if she'd play her flute and Jean agreed. The next evening when Marie arrived the first thing she mentioned was how much she was looking forward to hearing Jean play. She'd had a bad day - actually a string of bad days -- and was soon in tears telling her story: feeling used and betrayed by family and friends, making some wrong choices herself and just so tired of it all, but she also said how much better she felt at the shelter: so welcomed and safe and comfortable. Some nice women's clothing had been donated recently (thanks, Sylvie) and some almost new jackets by another person, and she chose ones she liked.  People who live on the margins "can't be choosers", i.e. they often don't get a lot of choice when it comes to clothing, food or shelter.  So, we go out of our way to offer them choices at the Inn.   They can be choosers.  At meal time we always ask if they'd like potatoes or vegetables or whatever, or how many pieces of toast would you like, etc.    A couple other people selected jackets, including "Will" who plans to only wear his new jacket to church on Sunday. He'll store it at his camp.

Some of our guests aren't used to eating with others or interacting with others, and tend to spend time on their own. I was glad to see everyone join the single table for breakfast that day, especially one fellow who's particularly quiet. When the conversation turned to books, he started to chime in as this is his favourite passtime. Someone mentioned Rudyard Kipling and he rushed away and returned with a photocopied poem by Kipling, called "The Thousandth Man". Jean P (the volunteer who made breakfast, not the Jean M who played the flute) read it aloud for everyone. It's a pretty powerful piece, and likely spoke of this man's feelings: the rarity of a good friend, who accepts you as you are, unlike the 999 who judge you "by your looks, or your acts, or your glory" and that one in a thousand person that stands by you when the whole world is against you. You can read it here: The Thousandth Man

Afterwards as we were cleaning up in the kitchen, Jean P's husband Stuart asked: "that guy with the poem -- is he homeless?" He sure is. Hard to believe -- almost as hard to believe as the sounds of flute music and poetry at breakfast time, in a homeless shelter.