Holy Apostles Soup Kitchen

Archive for May, 2012|Monthly archive page

Friendship, Kindness

In Guest stories, Keeping hope alive on May 25, 2012 at 11:30 am

Friendship is the sunshine of life.

Kindness is being humane.

My experiences at Holy Apostles Soup Kitchen have been very rewarding and fulfilling, to the extent of me being friendly and kind to whomever I meet and greet each day, with a sense of joy and appreciation.

Each person is an individual who deserves respect, regardless of race or religion.

Kindness is a part of human nature.

To love – real love – has no mask or cover story. It’s reflected in our daily makeup and actions.

Bible study and prayer in the morning at Holy Apostles is a joy, and I appreciate it very much.

To offer a word of encouragement can dispel a denial of your situation at that moment of crisis.

We as individuals are a part of the universe – and are important in every encounter.

When a seed of kindness is planted, proof may not be noticed right away.

Being patient takes time – smile, and be merry!

Fred Street


I Got My Way

In Uncategorized on May 18, 2012 at 5:09 pm

You can have anything you want

Just think it, believe it, achieve it.

Think of something you want.

Plan it out – with some options for things that would stop you from achieving your goal.

Then make plans – actions – towards accomplishing your dream.

A little bit every day (keeps the doctor away.)


Give yourself a time frame

Check your progress at intervals.

I applied all those techniques when

I wanted to have an aura to attract positive energy

So I could help people.


With practice


Thinking positive

Being still

Seeing things I missed

It happened one day: I just felt happier.




Willing to share what I experienced.


From dedication I got my way

2 help you have a better day

Don’t walk away, the wings are here

2 light you up 4ever and a day

Don’t 4get to pray.



A Writing Fable

In Guest stories, Keeping hope alive on May 11, 2012 at 2:30 pm

In the spring of 1963, I was a junior in high school going nowhere and trying to fit in somewhere. The worst thing anyone could ask me was, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I didn’t know.

It was assumed in a southern “Cinderella” fantasy, by my hopeful family, that SOMEDAY I could find a job, “meet the right guy,” date, get married, and be a “homemaker.” I wanted something, but this scenario was not my agenda.

Spring was wonderful that year; you could smell the new earth and a promise of renewal in the air. You felt you could do anything, accomplish any dream. The buds on the trees waited to burst out. It was getting warm, and everyone welcomed the season. I had a wonderful English teacher that year, Mrs. Clancey. She was so short she reached just five feet in spike heels, but she was a power to be dealt with. She taught us from Adventures in English Literature, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Dryden, Tennyson. We chanted of “The Ancient Mariner,” “Water, water everywhere,” and we read Dickens in depth. She was someone you could talk to, and a mentor you listened to. When she said write, we wrote. I blossomed in grammar, composition, and vocabulary. I loved going to her class. I felt productive writing. It was an outlet for the creativity of my fantasies and the non-normality of my life.

I became pleased with what I was writing, and after months I took a chance on asking what she thought of my efforts. I had written what I felt was a short, sharp, and funny composition that had been read before a group of “cool” people who thought it amusing and laughed. On a fine day with gentle sunshine, I saw an opportunity to ask her during study period in the school cafteria. It was a quiet time when homework could be done. I went up to her as she walked the aisles between tables, and I asked, “What do you think of my writing?” She looked at me, someone who never appeeared interested, who had never really made an effort. She thought for a long moment, watching me wait for her answer. She finally replied, “I have other students who write much better than you do.” She smiled at me, and when I didn’t say anything she moved on.

In that one moment my world stopped. I felt the pain of just not being good enough, of failure and disappointment. To this day, whenever I think of that moment, I see the sunny cafeteria full of unfilled promise, full of cool, smart kids I didn’t jive with…I let my writing hopes die. I never bothered to write again. Until three decades later, when I saw a flyer for a writing workshop at Holy Apostles.


The Beach

In Keeping hope alive on May 4, 2012 at 11:30 am

About eight years ago, I had my four smallest children at the beach. After we had enjoyed playing and eating, after I had given them swimming lessons, I was all packed and ready to take them home. As I turned to make sure that we were together, I looked and saw them all standing near the ocean shore.  They were holding hands as they stood in perfect stair fashion. Awesomely silent. I wish I had a camera. There is just something about that sight that I don’t believe I shall ever forget.

That summer moment that I love so much was abruptly interrupted when another child, who was playing with a large stick, ran by me and accidentally rapped me on the knuckles. It hurt badly. At the moment of impact of that stick on my hand, I realized how happy I had been for just a few seconds.

Donald Mackey