Midwest Memo
Impressions
by Alan Shultz

When I stay over in the city, I often frequent a rather tired independent grocery store. It's a place that's long on expiration dates and short on reliable refrigeration. Items on the shelves are sometimes dusty, other times missing and often seem overpriced compared to the big chains. Freezer burn is not a stranger to the frozen food section. More than once I've chickened out on the food item I originally came in for, walking out instead with an over-priced roll of paper towels - just to make a speedy exit.

There are other shoppers at the same store who complain out loud about the place. They make their noise just outside of earshot of the owner. The high prices, the lousy lighting, the dirty, cracked tile floors - what's there to like? And since misery loves company, I've been known to chime in when the complaints get listed and categorized.

You name it, it's been said.

Yet my fellow shoppers and I, we keep coming back. I frequent this particular grocery store for the same reason that everyone else does. It's convenient. And, truth be told, there are bargains sprinkled in amongst the fully priced items.

I was in line to pay for a very non-essential ice cream bar the other evening. It was almost closing time. I thought it was just me and the grocer in the place as I approached the counter. But out of nowhere a fellow scooted right beside me at the cash register. I smelled my fellow shopper before I actually saw him. When I turned towards the man I was greeted by an older fellow with a toothy grin and many layers of clothing. He had at least a couple stocking caps on. The man was clearly homeless, everything about his appearance attested to his unfortunate situation.

The owner of the grocery was at the register this particular evening.

"Let me see what you've got there," the grocer said to the homeless man.

I wondered to myself how I had suddenly lost my place in line.

The homeless man showed the grocer his items. There was a box of crackers, some canned meat, an apple and some cookies.

"OK," said the grocer.

And that was that.

And suddenly, out into the cold, cold night the homeless man made his exit shouting back towards the grocer a long litany of thanks.

The cash register remained remarkably silent.

Note, no cash passed hands on the transaction I just described.

No money.

No legal tender.

This is the part of the story where the noise in the background should sound like the

needle being drug scratching across the phonograph

record.

In an instant, my entire impression of the entrepreneur standing in front of me changed radically.

The grocer, the one with the dingy lighting and the tired produce, it turns out this man feeds the homeless. He does it with little fanfare and even less credit. I would not know this had I not been chasing after my ice cream on that particular night, at that given time. In retrospect, I think I interrupted what must be some sort of routine between the grocer and the homeless man.

Late at night, about quitting time, when others are gone and opinions and observers are few, charity takes place. The charity is done in secret, in a formula and in a manner that finds roots in the text of the Bible.

It is humbling to me to know that even now there is so much I do not know. It gives me a chance to put down some of the heavy burden of criticism and judgment I carry and cling to so desperately.

We are admonished to feed the hungry. I can attest that this act of charity is sometimes done in secret by those who do so in secret.