IN GOD'S SERVICE Coley Gallagher (Unit 216) Community Family Life Services When it was too hot to walk this summer, I'd board the Metro at 7:30, the riders looking tired; some leaned their heads against the windows for short naps between stops. Now it is cool, dry October in D.C. Until it gets too cold for my thin Florida blood, I'll walk to work past the Supreme Court and through the Capital. I study everyone: the sharply dressed congressionals, the friendly Capital guards, the sloppy men who appear to have slept on the ground nearby. They always seem so different to me. I'm usually the first to arrive at my project, DC's Community Family Life Services. I prefer the quiet of morning to start my best thinking. The Community Family Life services is a modest place. The administrative office, where I write grants, correspondence, appeal letters, recruit volunteers, plan events and conduct many other less serious tasks, is a falling-down row house. Community Family Life Services provides emergency rental and utility assistance, housing, job training, education, and child advocacy to low-income and homeless families. I do not work directly with our clients. Sequestered in the development office, it would be easy for me to forget about the people we serve at Community Family Life. Sometimes my only contact with them is if I ask for "pardon" on our steps when I go to buy a cup of tea or when they confess to me that their electricity is shut off if I answer the phone. I enjoy meeting those men and women in need. I am always humbled by their humility. Humility being one of the many lessons God teaches me through his most broken people. Another valuable lesson for me is that we are all - the congressional, the guard, the homeless, the desperate client, the college-educated volunteer - in need. That is, in need of God and, therefore, very alike. It is critical that I remember to look for similarities. My gifts are of the administrative variety. I can organize a newsletter, solicit donors, or write a thank you with great skill and ease. I was, at first, concerned that this service was not direct enough, not close enough to those who suffered or lived without. Now I believe it is absolutely essential: without money, we could not administer a single program; without good donor relations, our largest funding-base would dry up; without promotional materials, the public would never be interested in Community Family Life. I love what I do. It's very different from what some of my house mates do, yet similar to the projects of others. I feel like it is absolutely perfect for me, but that's usually how God works in my life. I'd like to tell a story about a little boy I met this summer. I hardly knew him, but he really affected me. It's a story about a child I met only, for five minutes. Our agency is in a converted row-house. The offices are upstairs, while intake and services operate in the basement. CFLS is closed for lunch between 12:30 & 1:30. At about 1:00 one day last summer, someone rang at the upstairs door. I answered it over the intercom and it was a woman looking for one of the social workers, Rich Thomlinson (great guy-early thirties, kind). I went to the door and she turned out to be an older, African-American lady (mid-forties) and she looked hot. I could tell she was dressed up: she had on a long-sleeved, black dress made out of some poly-blend and one of those braces delivery men often wear for lifting around her waist. She explained to me that Rich told her to come as soon as she could. She thought it would take much longer than it did to walk to the bus, catch the bus and walk some more to CFLS, but here she was. Rich was at lunch and usually we send people away to wait until the social services staff returns at 1:30, but for some reason I was touched by this woman, and I invited her in. Just then I saw this little peanut of a child poke his head out from behind her. He too, was dressed up in long pants and a long-sleeved shirt. He was probably her grandson, as often times the generations are closer together in our client's families. They weren't fancy-dressed up, but clean and well presented. I told them there was no room for them to wait upstairs, but that I could take them downstairs where it was cool to wait for Rich. We began to walk through the building and on down the stairs when the little boy said, with the most serious and adorable voice, "This is a very nice place you have here." I instantly choked up and looked back smiling at him as he looked around the poorly lit halls, straining to see in the half-opened office doors. Our offices are comfortable, even homey, but the place is kind of a dump: dark, cluttered, musty. But his compliment was spontaneous and sincere; not a bit staged. As I led them down to a bench to wait, Rich came through the door carrying his lunch. He told them he'd be right with them and I asked the little boy if he wanted some coke. He then asked his granny if it was alright for him to have it since he nodded, "yes." His grandmother was complaining about the heat and the walk and how they came all the way from past the stadium. She told me he was probably thirsty from all the walking and that, yes, he could have some coke. I lumbered up two flights and poured him some soda. On the way down, I spied him sitting completely still and erect, as his grandmother filled out some papers Rich had given her. She reminded him to thank me, which he did, as I handed him his drink. I offered her some water and she told me, no, they didn't want to be anymore trouble. At this point I couldn't leave this child. He was so beautiful and curious and tragic. Of course I was sorry for him because for some reason or another he and his grandmother required our services, which means they are poor. But that wasn't all of it. I truly liked him. His teeny-tiny adult way, his compliment. He had no complaints of the heat or misbehaving after his journey from all the way out near RFK (stadium), in long sleeves and dungarees on such a hot day. I wanted to do more for him. I asked him quietly while his grandmother spoke with Rich, "Can you read yet?" "Of course I can read!" was his prompt, but not impolite reply. I asked whether he could read, not because he was poor and black, but because he was so small. I offered him a book and then his Granny said not to bother about it because she didn't want me running back up and down the stairs on that child's account. Rich then said he had books downstairs, so I had no more excuses to be down there. Before I headed up I asked him his name. His grandmother answered, "Bruce." Bruce? I thought that was a strange and rather short name for so fine and bright a boy. I said goodbye to Bruce and his granny and as I climbed the stairs he called back another thank you and goodbye. I did not see them again and keep meaning to, but forgetting to ask Rich if they're okay. The thought of Bruce is one of the few things that moves me at this time in this city. I don't know him, but I love that child. I have begun to pray for him and will continue until I forget someday. Will you please pray for him too?