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The air is bitterly cold as I pull into the parking lot of a nondescript building north of Charlotte. This is where Charlotte sends “the poor” for help.
By the time the doors open, the line is long. It includes quite a few mothers with toddlers, a middle-aged man wearing a veteran’s ball cap, and at least one older lady clinging to her walker. Each hopes for a miracle: a rent payment, a tank of heating oil, help keeping the lights on and heat flowing.
Everyone files in, clutching overdue bills and proofs of income, checking in one by one at a desk marked “Welcome,” where they collect more paperwork.
As I scan the room, I see people with little in common. But every face registers anxious intensity.
I see single people and families; older and younger; White, Black and Latino. I doubt they would spend time together outside of this lobby. They are hardworking people, often holding down multiple jobs, yet struggling to stay in their homes and take care of their families right now. The common denominator is need.
This community bears one another’s burdens. Here, people and organizations come together in the form of bill payments, warm coats and even a big helping of hope for their neighbors. They live into the charge, found in almost every faith, to care for the widow, the orphan and the downtrodden.
Their work is inspiring, and necessary. But why do we push people in need into hidden corners of otherwise gleaming cities, so they can be ministered to by surrogate saints of the nonprofit sector?
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