Under one warm roof

On any given night, there are 2,000 homeless people in Montgomery County.

One hundred and fifty of them are standing outside a Silver Spring soup kitchen on Nov. 23, waiting for staff to open the doors. A little boy in a coat and winter hat stands with an upraised palm, wondering if there will be rain. A middle-aged man sits huddled on the sidewalk, staring at nothing. A sleek Toyota Matrix arrives with volunteers; they are nodded towards a different door. Just a few more minutes now. It's almost six o'clock.

Waiting outside of Shepherd's Table is routine for many of the people here, whether they have no place to stay or just not enough money to buy food. Although Montgomery County ranks among the most affluent counties in the nation, Shepherd's Table serves as a glimpse of the area's significant, year-round poverty problem.

Tonight, as usual, those that eat at Shepherd's Table are given individual meal tickets and ushered into the cafeteria by Patsy Mungo, the cafeteria coordinator. The line flows single file toward the food stations at the far end. Volunteers behind the counters serve them English muffins, salads, bread slices, cauliflower, sausages and pie. A murmur fills the room as people take their seats around the tables.

A man in his 20s steps into the cafeteria without picking up a meal ticket. Mungo holds him back. "Speedy Gonzalez," she teases. He gives her a goofy smile, takes his ticket and steps through.

Later on, an elderly man brings his finished plate to the trash can, where Mungo takes the plate from him and gently says, "I got that for you, sugar."

The warmth here is indicative of what the Shepherd's Table staff always strives for, according to its communication and development coordinator, Adrienne McBride. "The volunteers try to make them feel like this is their safe place," she says.

The staff has succeeded in making Roberto, a Table regular, feel welcome. "This is a nice place, and I hope it never disappear," he says with a Latino accent. A 50-year-old homeless man, Roberto is forced to come nightly. "I don't have a choice," he says. "I don't own any house."

Roberto has been coming to Shepherd's Table for years, loosely supported by friends and churches to help him get by. He hopes to be able to support himself soon. "What I would like to do is learn to fix computers; then I can be on my own," he says. "That's my dream."

Ginger Lucas, a young adult eating there that night, has a dream of her own. She hopes to purchase a place where she and her children can live together. As of now, she is separated from her two daughters, who live in Washington, D.C., and her son, who lives in New York. Although she hopes to eventually support her kids, she's been having difficulty supporting herself.

Lucas was ousted from her house because of family tension three years ago and has been eating at Shepherd's Table ever since. Just last year, her parents were killed in an automobile accident. Now she juggles coping with surviving. "I'm just taking it one day at a time," she says. Lucas hopes to take classes for her GED and wants to continue her education at ITT Technical Institute.

Others like Lucas have used Shepherd's Table as a stepping stone to finding stability. Antonio Wallace first came to this soup kitchen in 2002 after being released from jail for dealing drugs. "I was messing up, and they helped me get back on track," he says. The soup kitchen not only provided food for Wallace but also helped him to establish his public identification; the soup kitchen's address has served as his mailing address for job applications. As the main provider for his family living in Northwest D.C., he now works at Mattress Warehouse in Olney.

John Mullen, a regular who is happily inclined to high-fiving and well-wishing acquaintances, first came to Shepherd's Table during a turning point in his life, too. He began eating there after the Housing Opportunity Commission got him out of the shelter system and into his own home near City Place Mall. The government has given Mullen checks because of his bipolar disability and severe depression, but he still comes to Shepherd's Table to eat. In coming here, he's frequently seen people from his old shelter and met new friends as well. One of them, Derek, is on his way out.

Mullen clasps hands with him. "You have a good Thanksgiving," he says.

Derek's here because money got tight at home. "You too," he replies.

Mullen's high regard for the people at Shepherd's Table shows itself through what he gives back to them. Whenever he can, Mullen contributes as a volunteer.

The situation is similar for Thierry Musel, the soup kitchen's French cook. Musel had a drinking problem for 29 years and, as a result, went through homeless shelters.

After being forced to eat at Shepherd's Table, Musel eventually overcame his drinking habit and began working as the Table's main cook. Musel even gave up a job at a lavish restaurant to work here on weekends, and he's never regretted the decision "especially when he sees what good he's doing the people in the cafeteria. "It's making me happy to see them eating [my] food," he says. "Some of the guys, we've been in rehab together."

Musel adds that he couldn't do his job without the help of volunteer staff. "Without the volunteers, we don't exist," he says. Shepherd's Table receives help from a different church each night.

One such church is the Unitarian Universal Church of Silver Spring, with which senior Kendra Williams volunteers every three weeks. Williams serves bread and desserts to the people in line with a sense of fulfillment each time. "I feel like I'm contributing to the community," she says. "A lot of the people are really appreciative."

Junior Tess Minnick volunteered at Shepherd's Table with friends and relishes the experience. Minnick went because she thought "helping sounded fun," and she wasn't disappointed. As she served desserts, she made friends with several people who ate there, changing some of her old perspectives. "You get a chance to talk with people you normally try to avoid," she says. "And you realize there's more to them than you know."

The people at Shepherd's Table have had an even larger impact on Mungo. On Dec. 2, she stands by the cafeteria door, mostly done with ushering people through. Staring ahead at the occupied tables, she strongly emphasizes why she chose this line of work: "God put me here," she says. "It lets me know where I came from. When I look at these people, I see myself. God has blessed me."

A woman in a red coat walks into the cafeteria.

"You want a ticket?" Mungo asks.