Splurt.

The rather juicy tomatoes splattered across the cutting board. Sigh. I should have practiced my technique with the knife, but I was not aware of the tasks we were going to have here. The room was lively and lit by the intermixing chimes of cutting and chattering.

Where am I? Well, I scratched my name a few days back on a volunteer signup sheet in my English class, and now I am in downtown Phoenix at Andre House engulfed in the obnoxious stench of fresh produce. The air was itching at my nose because we were all gathered and confined in a single room. Everyone quickly blended themselves into the task at hand, preparing the food for our guests to come in another hour. This is the kitchen, a foreign frontier to me, and apparently a lively place for becoming more closely connected because I found myself speaking to people at my table.

I never did many chores at home involving the use of the kitchen. Now that I think about it, I never really did cook either. I always thought that volunteering would not really change anyone’s lives. I do not know why I even signed up in the first place; maybe because I felt the need to expose myself to something new for once.

“Ugh,” I groaned as the difficulty of slicing tomatoes grew more intense. It was worse than trying to write left handed (I am right handed). I continued to struggle until I felt the shadow of a rather large man fall over me. I turned up to see a man with short-trimmed hand buried inside some worn-out clothes. His gentle gaze suggested that he wanted to help, and with a swift motion, he quickly and masterfully demonstrated that if I keep the tomato skin side faced down, I would have an easier time with the tomatoes since the skin will keep it in place.

“That should make it easier,” he whispered.

“Thank you,” I managed to choke.

It made me feel warm inside receiving someone’s help. After having to slice the tomatoes, we regrouped for a group huddle over how to divide and conquer all the tasks for the night.

We set up the tables, readied the cups of iced water and got all the trays and dishes ready to serve the clients whom were most patient for their meal. I was the sauce boy in the serving line, and I was told to give them a smile as they came in to eat. They strolled in one by one in an orderly fashion in all shape and forms.

I managed the best smile I could, and asked, “Would you like some sauce with your beans?”

They would nod their head and I would pour the sauce into their tray. I noticed my classmate beside me gave a wonderful smile to the guests, and they would return it with a big smile of their own. I did not quite understand what sorcery was at hand, but I was dazzled by it. How does she do it? I kept awkwardly wondering about it. Was it because she accurately calculates the angle of her mouth to form the perfect smile?

I continued to ruminate about it until, a sudden “God bless you,” drew my attention back to reality, and I looked at the man. I suddenly managed to smile, a warming natural smile. Those words, although were just simple words, tell me that they have faith in society, and that God is watching over them. They have hope, and I was part of it. It was a new sensation to me, completely extraterrestrial.

When we returned back to school, I could not forget my experience, and how my efforts, may it be small, was of help to someone out there. I was not making futile efforts; I was a glimpse of hope for them. Your actions may be minute, but they can make a change in the lives of others. Never let yourself be deluded by what seems like futile efforts.