Have you ever been hungry? I don’t mean like the munchies after a few hours of studying. I’m talking about the kind that pangs in your stomach until you’re in agony and it’s all you can think about.

Imagine feeling that all day. Every day.

I spent a day at the Desiard Street Homeless Shelter.

The shelter is a grungy place with bricks blackened with age and bars on the windows. It’s tucked away in a part town few people go through on purpose.

The people in line for the daily lunch vary. They’re young. Old. Black. White. It doesn’t matter. Poverty doesn’t care.

Every time I close my eyes, I see their faces. Grimace. Smiles. Shame. Joy.

Their faces hit me hard. But the one’s that I remember most are not the sunken and grave ones, not the happy and thankful ones. No. It’s the blank ones—the empty faces of those who were simply lost.

As the people came through the line to get a couple slices of turkey and spoonful of rice, they took me on a roller coaster ride of emotion.

Each one had a personality. Each had a story. And each had a life.

One older woman wore little foam disks—the kind kids will use to shoot out of a toy gun, on her hands. She used them for jewelry.

Another man smiled a nearly toothless grin because that day was his birthday. He was happy just to be alive another year.

A family came in. They had a little boy with them. He was 3.

He wore pajamas that, much like his face, needed a wash.

The little boy walked up to me with a huge smile and introduced himself. His name was Danny.

Danny and I talked for a moment, and then he jolted across the room with that heartbreaking smile and the limitless energy and joy of a 3 year old to talk to the next stranger.

Danny smiles because he’s happy. He’s happy because he doesn’t know he’s got any reason not to be. This is the only life he’s known.

When I heard his grandmother tell him he needed to eat his peas, much to his disdain, because it was all he would have to eat until tomorrow, my roller coaster dropped out of midair and made my stomach settle in my throat.

The shelter was shorthanded that day, like most days. Area churches usually staff the shelter with volunteers, but it’s hard for some people to get away from work or their own lives long enough to pass out food.

I was there only to observe, but I soon found myself wearing those plastic gloves and scooping out a dash of English peas to those in line. I couldn’t say no.

I remember thinking as I left the shelter that I wanted to do more. But what could I do?

What can I do to give these people hope? What can I do to show Danny that even though the world can be a harsh place, there will always be hope for those who seek it?

The Desiard Street Shelter is a grungy place with bricks blackened with age and bars on the windows. It opens at 9 a.m. and closes at 1 p.m. every day but Sunday.

It’s usually shorthanded, but it just gained a regular volunteer.

Anyone care to join me?