The courage of those suffering can be devastating

The community meal we run in a South Melbourne church hall started with three guests, which has grown to 90, many of whom live in temporary accommodation, public housing, in their cars or on the streets. Over the last year, these folks have formed their own communities, moving to their regular spots with their dinner companions.

Those on one table share tips for rough sleeping: where the taps are, the quiet streets to park your van, where you will get moved on from. The old-timers talk to the ethereal young man with the moustache and the floral dress; they are eager with their advice and full of fatherly concern. Others discuss prison; private versus public, and stories of jailers once known. They slap the table for emphasis and the salt cellars go flying. The table of women from the local rooming house teach each other rude words in their many languages; they giggle and weep tears of laughter. They are fiercely protective of their table. They arrive and leave together.

Many pieces of pumpkin – there is dignity in choosing.Credit: iStock

One is dying of cancer; another makes everyone beaded bracelets and another has a dignity that is numinous. All are fleeing violence and despair.

Tonight, there are two people whose courage devastates.

He is still wearing a mask. Always wearing a mask. It’s been a year now, since they took out all his teeth. The free dental hospital promised him a “four week turnaround, in and out.” But here he is, a whole year later. “Any day now,” they say. “Any day.”

When I first met him, he was a cheerful chap, always ready with a story, always up for a chat.

He’s subdued now, doing his best. “I go up and down, you know, keep me self to me self.” He stands before me, choosing only the soft food and covering his masked face with his cupped hand. He can barely look at me, such is his humiliation. No teeth and nothing to be done.

He moves off to sit alone, with his soup and mashed potatoes and then, she arrives. She is bone thin, like a bird. One arm is broken and in a homemade sling.

She comes here every week to eat, and she is very particular about which piece of pumpkin will go on her plate. “No not that one - that one.”

The line is long, and the people are hungry, but our volunteers take the time to choose the exact piece of pumpkin she wants. There is a dignity in choosing.

She piles her plate high, sometimes so high, I worry it will capsize. She travels a long way to get here, navigating three types of public transport, and this is no small thing, because it is winter now and dark and she is old. Very old.

One day, I ask her why she travels so far. “For the food,” she says simply, “the hot food.”

Turns out she has no gas or electricity in her home. None. “This is my hot meal,” she says to me simply, looking up with her bright, bright eyes. “My one hot meal.”

We make sure when she leaves, she has takeaways and fruit and always bread. She shuffles out into the night.

She breaks my heart. She goes back to a house where the ivy pushes its way in, through the walls and she sits with candles, all alone.

But once a week, she is warm, and she is fed. Our church sits on Dorcas Street which was named thus after another church which was named after Dorcas, the disciple of Jesus who “did good works and sewed clothes for the poor”. This Mission Meal is the simplest part of my week because the needs are so present and so clear. There are no decisions or revisions, there is simply this: a room filled with people who are hungry and who, for a moment, are home.

Alexandra Sangster is a minister, facilitator and Darebin councillor.