Freeform Independence

The other day I went and volunteered at a soup kitchen.

I know, I know what you're thinking. Sam? Really? The one who stops at nearly every (nearly because Iylia stops at every) mirror to check her hair? Who won't go out with the wrong shoes or unmatching underwear (I actually do that quite often thanks)? Feeding the homeless?

Yes. Yes I was.
I followed PERTIWI Soup Kitchen (intro-ed by this blog) on Monday night. This is what I expected:

Masses of smelly people drooling at the sight of food. Unable to control their hunger and lack of hygiene, they push and shove and fight over the bowls of soup. Raving lunatics and druggies share the same breathing space, dependant on charity for food. Sad, wasted, demented people..

Seth: You mean you expected prostitutes waving AIDS-filled syringes in the air to come trampling after you?
Me: Yes! Exactly like that!!
Seth: (Rolls eyes)

It was nothing like that. It resembled that description the way Stephenie Meyer's writing resembled Jane Austen's: basic premise is similar, but execution is completely unrecognisable.
Yes, they were homeless. And yes, they were poor. Kot. I guess. I mean, they took the free food (which came in tidy little brown baggies), so I assume they needed it. Although there was this one tourist from Pakistan or something who took a free drink before realising it was for homeless people. Technically, tourists are homeless. Except they have money. And a place to stay back in their hometown.

So these homeless people, they look like completely normal people. No beards or braids down to their knees. They obviously had baths and haircuts, and clothes that were, on the most part, clean. If they weren't lining up for the food, I wouldn't have thought they were homeless. It was not as depressing as I thought it would be, to be honest. The lady in charge, Baidah, told us that some people just choose this way of life. Some of them can't change, or don't want to. Some just never have the opportunity to escape from it once they're in it.

I can't really say what they're doing is wrong, or that their life sucks. I can't say I pity them as much as I would, say, a poverty-stricken rape victim or an old man with alzheimers. Those people have no control over what has happened to them, and not much after that either. But these homeless, to a certain extent (excluding the obviously insane and mentally or physically or age handicapped ones), do have control over their future and themselves.

But what control do any of us really have over our life anyway? No point really thinking too much about it. Just do your good deeds and hope that God is keeping score (do I get an A for effort God? Huh? Do I? Do I?). I did it out of the kindness of my heart (honest!), despite what my friends say (what my friends said:

HRHing: except that
HRHing: i bet in that moment when you were helping
HRHing: your head was screaming "Don't TOUCH ME! PLEASE DON'T ROB ME!"

Lies, O Heavenly Father. Utter lies. They should know by now that's what I think about everyone).