Little did I know when I entered the red-brick county homeless shelter, a monthly routine for the past six months, to help with meal preparation how the next few hours on that snowy December day would profoundly affect my life. Passing the craggy faces of the men eagerly waiting for the cafeteria doors to open, I sidled gingerly through the crowded vestibule like a flitting shimmering minnow to the empty cafeteria and the bustling kitchen beyond, leaving the gritty scents of cigarette smoke and body odor behind.
   

 Soon, the delectable aromas and sounds of home – the crushed lentil soup gurgling on the stove and the garlic tomato pasta sauce burping nearby – wafted through the open kitchen doorway. There, I found the other volunteers, experienced elders, busily cutting fresh vegetables and diligently scrubbing dirty pots, creating a hypnotic cadence that lead me to quickly peel and mash 80 pounds of red-skinned potatoes.
     

As the men streamed into the cafeteria, I looked up from my serving station and could barely speak. Standing hunched over his tray, an elderly man, seeming eerily familiar in his gray baseball cap and oversized and well-worn tan Carhartt jacket, waited patiently for me to heap a steaming dollop of my cheese-laden mashed potatoes onto his plate. “Grandpa?” I whispered, unable to directly look into the man’s eyes, afraid of what I might see, and instead focused on my trembling spoon. He smiled faintly and nodded once in thanks. Stunned, I watched as he slowly moved on, stirring the mashed potatoes in a feeble attempt to quickly understand my shock and, dare say, my revulsion. For a lingering moment, I thought the man was my grandpa.
     

Why would I be upset about seeing someone who looked like my grandfather? “Hmm. Hmm. Hello Miss!” I heard a voice speaking to me in my muddled state as I tried to balance the churning thoughts in my head while serving my now humbled mashed potatoes to the long line of hungry men and few women. I was shaken to think that the elderly man who not only looked familiar, but who I briefly confused with my grandfather, actually could have been my grandfather or, by extension, could have been any family member of mine.
     

Knowing someone especially a family member who needs to use the services provided by a homeless shelter was unsettling to me; but, why? I think it goes to the feeling of failure as a person, as a human being, that you could not make it in the world and have to depend on the charity of others for survival. What’s a matter with you? Can’t you pull yourself up by your boot straps? I’ve heard that many times; I believed it, until now. Honestly, I was ashamed to feel this way; I think that’s what got to me. I’m a decent person, but I began to realize that when I came into the homeless shelter to help, I was making myself feel good, I really didn’t see the people, I looked past them. I would never believe that my grandfather wouldn’t help himself, that he didn’t have pride, that he wanted to take advantage of the system. So why would I think that about others just because we weren’t related.

The incident today made me look at the person, even though I tried to look away. It forced me to go beyond sympathy toward empathy to realize that some things are beyond one’s control. I did not try to find the man or talk to him; I didn’t watch where he sat or who he talked to. I thought he needed some privacy in a public place. His story was his. My role was not to delve into the how and why of it, but to accept it and not judge, that is, not to conclude what I believed was his story.
    

Relieved when my shift ended, I grabbed my coat, whipped the wool scarf around my neck, and briskly walked out of the kitchen through the emptying dining hall of the shelter. Outside, large fluffy snowflakes showered down in gusts, daring to be the first snowstorm of the year, some hitting me in the face, others swirling around me like the overwhelming thoughts in my head.