But I know this.
For one Saturday morning in October, when he had nothing and no one, five old women who’d just had the thing they loved most taken from them chose to give it away all over again.
To a stranger.
Because that’s what thirty years in a church basement kitchen actually taught us. Underneath all the roasting pans and coffee urns and canned green beans.
It taught us that love, the real kind, the kind that gets up at six in the morning for people who will never even know your name, doesn’t keep count of what it’s owed.
It only keeps asking one question.
Who’s hungry?
And then it goes downstairs and finds out.
