I just received a call from the Meals on Wheels coordinator. He was checking to see if dad should be getting the renal, low-sodium, or regular diet. Last week I had said perhaps the renal was too unappetizing, and Mr. Johnson, who heads the volunteers, had remembered me mentioning this. When he noticed this morning that I had not called to change to back from the renal to the regular menu, he took it upon himself to telephone me.

How kind is that? How thoughtful is that? This seventy-four year old man, unrelated to us in any way, extends a compassionate hand this morning to help make my father's life more pleasant. I hadn't bothered to make the call, actually, because this weekend dad has basically stopped eating. I fed him a little mango jello yesterday that we’d bought at the local Mexican grocery, which was an Alpha-Beta when mom and I started shopping there almost 40 years ago. It's changed with the times, as the demographic of Pomona has changed, and when I shopped there yesterday for my dying dad, the permanence and inevitability of change seemed to me the one true meaning of life, just as letting go and surrendering to change seems to be the one true meaning of mine.

So, since he's no longer able to take in much food as his body shuts down, I know it would make sense to cancel the Meals on Wheels delivery altogether. I discussed this with my husband this morning, and he suggested I wait a few days, as he sensed that this action had a painful finality to it which I simply didn't need to face quite yet.

Isn't it interesting how we bargain with reality thusly, negotiating our way around it? By not canceling Meals I buy myself a tiny respite from the truth, that my wonderful, dignified, powerful father has been reduced to a helpless shell, one which no longer needs much nutrition and soon will need none.

But reality intervened anyway this morning, as I was working on my syllabus for tomorrow's first day of Feminist Theory class, in the form of that call from the Volunteer Coordinator--who was, coincidentally, my seventh-grade Spanish teacher. The rumor going around Emerson Junior High back then was that he had stepped down as principle of Pomona High School to take a job teaching us instead when the race riots became too much for him to bear. I heard that he'd actually been held aloft in his volkswagon by an angry mob. So I first met him in the 1970s as Señor Johnson.

Decades later we encountered one another again as I signed mom, and then later pop, up for Meals. I also volunteered my time at that point, so my husband and I have been delivering hot lunches to anonymous old people in south Pomona for the last six years; other volunteers have been delivering to my dad that entire time as well. I got to thank Lynn Johnson for that this morning, as he wished my dad a peaceful end to life. I told him how much I appreciated everyone's service all these years, coming into my dad's home to say hello and bring him food. There's an awesome amount of work that goes into this entirely non-profit venture, and I often reflect on what power it is that causes people to work on behalf of others for no visible benefit whatsoever.

A man called recently to see why dad wasn't home to receive his meal and I explained that he was at the doctor. This stranger said he'd heard the television on and just wanted to make sure everything was o.k, that he'd known dad for years and he cared about him. I was touched and surprised, yet I identified with his feelings, for my husband and I have definitely grown to care for those folks we deliver to, worried when they don't answer the door, saddened when we see signs of deterioration, grieving when they move on to care homes or die.

So why do this? Especially in a culture where we are taught to discount the elderly and remain largely isolated from them? Why take on unnecessary burdens and pain?

Well at first it just seemed appropriate to give back, since I was asking for these resources to be expended on my dad and I was lucky enough to have the time to be able to contribute to the system myself. But I quickly began to realize personal benefits from becoming a volunteer. No matter what my problems, which can of course loom large if I let them, I find that doing service to others helps me to get my perspective back.

For example, one of our regulars, Mr. H., lives in a tiny little trailer where he spends his time in a wheelchair watching television since both of his feet have been amputated. He seems relatively young and vital enough that I grieve for his isolation, and I fantasize about winning the lottery so that I could get him state-of-the-art prosthetic legs. I don't really know the situation, of course, since it's none of my business, and saying "hey what did you do with your feet and why don't you have fake ones?" seems a bit cheeky. So instead I deliver him a meal, chat, take out the trash, and go on my way, both relieved for my feet and happy to be a part of humanity, serving this man in need, in spite of the fact that I don't "have" to.

When we first began visiting him, my husband reported that Mr. H has a huge porn collection, and we considered the ways that such material can be of service to people like him, those who are what we used to call "shut-ins." This reality serves as a humbling reminder to me that being a feminist does not mean having all the answers or even understanding all the questions.

But I have found that while life may not be simple, life can be lived very simply: do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
And so I serve food to these elders of my tribe, veritable strangers but part of our human family, simply because it's the right thing to do. Yep, it’s that simple. And when we serve others we become a channel for the universal love which exists if only we will let it.

Simple.