She is the first person to arrive at Santa Maria Mission on Tuesday mornings.
She’s there before the coordinator, before the volunteers, and before the hundreds of “clients” who come to the church every week for free groceries and a hot meal. This morning as the others start to wander in, Gloria, who declined to give a last name, has white rice, black beans, and ground beef and potatoes cooking in huge vats set atop propane burners. She has been giving back to her community since arriving from Mexico over 15 years ago. For her, this is a spiritual act: an offering to the Lord who gives her so much.
Many of the homeless Gloria and others serve are military veterans who, for whatever reason, wound up in dire straits.
“For many, it’s the first hot meal they’ll have all week. It’s a privilege to serve it to them,” says Jerry Gimenez, the mission coordinator.
Santa Maria Mission has been serving the needy citizens of Tampa’s USF area since 2002, long before the congregation even had a structure to house its Sunday services. For several years, they met outside beneath the trees. At the time, the abandoned lots around the neighborhood provided refuge to many of those homeless veterans.
Now, in the current political climate, some of those spooning out hot food are in need of refuge themselves.
Church attendees are largely Mexican and Central American, and their mass is always performed in Spanish. Many members of the congregation are undocumented, and whole families live in fear that someone will not return home at the end of the day.
For them, these Tuesday meals, and the church itself, are a respite from the constant stress of being found out. Members organized a weekly pantry distribution and hot meal for those in need as a way to give back to the church for offering them weekly sacraments.
That was 15 years ago. Since then, the mission has joined forces with Feed America Tampa Bay and expanded its offerings to provide clothes as well as gifts for local children around the holidays. During school breaks, the numbers of young people increase drastically. Santa Maria Mission also invites Miracles in Motion, an agency that cares for people with disabilities, to the weekly repast. The volunteers set up a long table for Miracles clients behind the kitchen and serve them first.
The congregation was able to obtain its land off 15th Street and 140th Avenue thanks to its mother parish, St. Mary, and built the breezy, open-air church 12 years ago. St. Mary’s is only two miles away from Santa Maria, but it might as well be a hundred in terms of economic disparity. Members of St. Mary’s congregation often sign up as volunteers to distribute groceries or ladle hot food. One volunteer, Elena Azzarelli, calls the work she and other volunteers do at Santa Maria’s “tender.” Although she comes from a wealthy community, she knows the pain of having a loved one living on the street.
“Everyone is equal in God’s eyes,” she tells me, her eyes misting.
Even though Tampa does not favor the mass deportation of undocumented immigrants, it’s no sanctuary city either. There’s always the fear that authorities will send community members back to their former countries of residence — because it already has.
Recently, a father from the mission community was picked up by ICE after sending money at the check cashing store, leaving behind a daughter in need of surgery.
“No tengo papeles,” Gloria tells me matter-of-factly as she adds seasoning to her pot of ground beef.
She’s undocumented, too, but she’s not afraid.
“I put it in the hands of mi Señor.”
Gimenez says that many of the volunteers used to be clients at the pantry. “They get here before I do!” he says with a laugh. He’s a believer that true work gives people dignity, and he likes to give people that opportunity. “Having a purpose empowers them and gives them ownership of the mission.”
Bobby, a Navy veteran who was drafted for two tours in Vietnam, has been coming to the mission for nine years, ever since his VA counselor brought him. Because Vietnam was a conflict and never declared a war, Bobby doesn’t get the same wartime benefits as soldiers who served in Iraqi Freedom and Desert Storm. He’s got a range of health problems, from congestive heart failure to diabetes, but he always manages a wide smile when the volunteers hand him a plate of hot food.
Pat McIntyre served 16 years in the U.S. Coast Guard. She’d been coming to the pantry for several years when Jerry asked her if she would consider volunteering. It’s been two years since she started supervising the registration table, collecting information from the people, handing out tickets, and maintaining order. “This is the best pantry around,” she tells me proudly. “You can choose what you want.”
The line of people is usually around the corner by 8 a.m. when the gate opens; by 12:30, the mission will have served between 175 and 200 people. McIntyre keeps track of who’s diabetic, who has a dog (they also give away dog food), and which families need baby food.
As we talk, a young man returns to McIntyre’s table after checking out the groceries.
“I can’t use any of that stuff,” he says, pointing toward the tables piled high with cabbage, potatoes, and frozen meat. “I’m on the streets.”
Without a word, McIntyre has him sign a list for homeless clients and hands him a grocery bag containing canned food that doesn’t need preparation.
“Some people are in real bad shape,” she says quietly after wishing him luck.
This article appears in Mar 23-30, 2017.