Homelessness is not as distant of an issue as it may often seem. Living in well off areas such as Johns Creek, it is easy to forget that homelessness is, in fact, as real as the minuscule inconveniences we run into in our daily lives -- like a closed down Yogurt Mountain or even the stress of final exams. However, just a thirty minute drive to downtown Atlanta shows that homelessness is an entity that plagues people of all ages, races, and genders.

In Atlanta alone, there are more than 10,000 people who are homeless. On the other hand, however, there are numerous organizations dedicated to countering this issue, including Atlanta Community Food Bank, the Atlanta Children's Shelter and Covenant House Georgia, just to name a few. Another such organization is the Atlanta Mission, which established a facility for homeless women and children called My Sister’s House.

On a sweltering Sunday afternoon, at the end of a thirty-five minute ride to the heart of downtown Atlanta, we arrive at the black iron-wrought gates of My Sister’s House. Established as an extension of Atlanta Mission, a Christian organization dedicated to “serving Metro Atlanta’s large homeless population,” it serves as a shelter for homeless women and children, providing additional services such as housing, child care and vocational training, as well as legal and medical counseling by faculty with immense heart and love.

As soon as we ring the intercom, a woman's voice calls out from the tar colored speakerphone that comes up halfway up the window of our minivan. Used to this routine, we do not think about her question as we call out in reply, “We’re here for food service with Yesana Mission." The voice on the other end cuts off as the gates slowly open with a low buzz. Once inside, we park alongside the cars of other volunteers -- all of the desirable shaded lots are taken. We sluggishly get out of the car and make our way to the doors of the facility, the path lined with newly planted gardens and wooden benches. At the door, the receptionist’s voice answers from the intercom once again and admits us inside only after we confirm we are here for food service. The cool air of the facility meets us as the glass doors slide open, and we cross the threshold into its brightly lit interior. We walk down a flight of stairs to the lower floor where the cafeteria is located and quickly make our way to the back pantry, scavenging for aprons, hairnets, and gloves, and us girls pulling back our hair into a quick ponytail while the boys pull on their caps, readying themselves for another demanding afternoon of carrying boxes of food donations from the Atlanta Community Food Bank and preparing meats.

The cafeteria itself is fairly large and could fit about a hundred people. I notice the walls are newly painted apricot and are adorned with inspirational verses in decorous frames. Blue chairs line the wooden tables, a large improvement from the pale white, plastic ones that they used to have. The kitchen is a bit smaller, yet it has space for more than twenty people to work at a time. There is a space to the right of the entrance for washing dishes and two separate stations for washing hands. There are tables set up in the front, right behind the serving stations for preparing side dishes as well as a large stove and station for deep frying. And by that there is a tall rack filled with any pots, pans,and any other kitchenware we might need. In the back are stainless steel countertops and ovens used to bake and fry chicken, both favorites on our menu. And to the right is the main pantry, where all types of boxed goods and preservatives are found as well as a freezer, where mountains of perishable items are stored. We emerge from the back in our working gear as more volunteers continue to trickle in getting ready for work.

We always spend the first ten minutes acquainting ourselves with the other volunteers, who range from the ages of six to fifty six, who come together from all different churches around Metro-Atlanta. But as soon as Yesana mission’s director, a short, dark skinned, wiry, yet sturdy woman in her mid-fifties arrives, everyone comes to attention. Her graying hair is pulled back in a tight bun and walks briskly around as she assigns each of us different tasks and directs everyone to his or her station in her authoritative voice. And of course, as always, I am given the task of peeling vegetables. The other volunteers and I take a moment to take in the sight of heaps of bags of assorted vegetables: carrots, potatoes, onions, and squash, all of which have to be sorted through and peeled. After an hour or so, we bring out the finished vegetables to another team that chops and sorts through the vegetables again, while we rest for just a minute or two before the director finds us and assigns us yet another task. Our team splits up as one high school junior gets dispatched to prepare chicken drumsticks, another is sent to crack a giant box of cartons of eggs , while I and another sophomore are designated to mix an unbelievably large bowl of salad with a bucket of Italian dressing.

There’s never an idle minute to be spent in the kitchen, for after one job is done, there’s another to be completed. We spend the time busy and undisturbed but for a couple jokes here and there, and the endless chatter of the kids outside preparing desserts and general conversations of the adults as they cook. Hours pass as one by one, each entrée is finished: chicken drumsticks for the adults and chicken tenders for the children, several types of salad including one with Thousand Island and another with our Italian dressing, vegetable stew, sweet potato and marshmallow mash (a surprisingly good combination), rice, our signature Kimchi, assorted cold wraps, egg rolls and dessert, usually cookies or pie or occasionally homemade banana pudding. The smell of cooking permeates the kitchen as everything comes together. We place the foods into the compartments of the serving counter and line up-I along with the other servers- with fresh plastic gloves pulled over our hands and armed with serving spoons and tongs with several high stacks of trays at our disposal to confront a seemingly never ending line of hungry residents.

We usually finish around five o'clock, as the single women enter the cafeteria to line up for dinner. Before anything else, we bow our heads in prayer, said either by our director or a fellow volunteer. And by five thirty, our cafeteria assembly line is in full swing. We fill trays by the minute, asking each resident her meal preferences, asking if she’d like an Italian salad or attempt to brave our spicy kimchi. A few do, as they have found it to their liking over the years, but most laugh and decline. There are many familiar faces, and it’s nice that they recognize us too. Several women greet us with a smile which we gratefully return. Sometimes I wonder about each woman’s story, about how she lived and how she came to be here. But then I realize it doesn’t really matter, that what matters is how she is doing now and whether or not we are doing everything we can to help. I realize that focusing on how we can serve her here, at this moment, is much more important than any “could be’s” or “have beens”.

We serve in forty-minute shifts, one for single women and another for women with children. We take a break between them and manage to get in a meal ourselves, though it’s mostly wolfing down our dinners before the next wave of residents enter. The second shift is even more hectic women with more than one child have to keep track of numerous trays at a time and as trays tend to get mixed up between them . We do our best to get to everyone and ensure they end up with their own meals. Volunteers often stand at the front of the line to help carry them back to their tables. Slowly but surely, the line thins out and everyone is at their seats. By seven o’ clock, everyone finishes their dinners and we are free to go home. We take off our aprons and throw away our hairnets and pull off our gloves. We locate our pullovers and jackets, purses and bags, and bustle out the door as the director places wrapped leftovers into our hands. But before we reach the doors of the cafeteria, a woman yells across the room, “Let’s thank these ladies and gentlemen!” And soon the whole room is filled with cheers and applause and expressions of gratitude. We all look at each other and smile as we push through the doors with uplifted spirits, for it is empowering to see that we've helped to make at least the tiniest difference through a hearty dinner.

It is only after we exit the snug cafeteria into the cooler hallway, up the stairs and out the door into the warm, glowing evening that we notice our aching legs and sore arms. The kids run out to the playground, trying out all the swings, going down the slides, shooting hoops and spinning each other on the popular merry-go-round, relieving themselves of their restlessness from hours of working. Parents stand to the side and engage in quiet conversations, tired yet content with what was accomplished that afternoon. One by one, parents collect their children and begin the drive home. By the time we get back, it is eight o’ clock and everyone is quiet, exhausted from the day’s work and more asleep than awake.

Though demanding, there is no better way to invest time and resources than through volunteering. Volunteering itself teaches life lessons of self sacrifice and community, demonstrating what it means to serve others and make a difference, however small it may be. It conveys the need for responsibility, the need to battle the subtle yet ever-present threat of indifference, and portrays the abundance of love and kindness one can show on a single Sunday afternoon. Though one person may not be able to change much, when a community of people with the same desire to help come together, a bigger difference and impact is made in our immediate society.