While on a walk around a nearby neighborhood, I passed an open garage. Inside it, a man on a low stool sat in front of a camp stove stirring something in a large wok. Several lidded containers sat on the floor around him, along with several bottles, a few seasoning jars, and a stack of Styrofoam take-out containers.
Intrigued, I stopped and watched.
Every few seconds, he would open a container and scoop something into the wok and commence stirring. Then he'd grab a bottle or two and splash in a little liquid. In between all that, he'd reach behind him and bring out a seasoning jar, sprinkling a precise amount into the mix.
Curiosity finally compelled me forward. He greeted me with a cheerful smile and invited me into the garage. Over the next ten minutes, he explained himself, and I knew his story had to be included in this blog.
He said he was a chef, trained in his craft at some of the finest restaurants in southeast Asia. When he came to America, he continued cooking, building a great life for himself and his family. A stroke forced him into early retirement a couple years earlier, but he couldn't handle sitting around in his pretty suburban house, so he did something about it.
He couldn't go back to the numbing stress and long hours of a restaurant kitchen, but since feeding people was his passion, his service to humanity, he set up the portable wok in his garage. Now, working when his health allows, he cooks for his neighbors (on a donation basis only) and for folks like me who just happen to stroll by.
I don't remember his name, but I remember the example he set. What he chose to do in his limited circumstance is the essence of love. He's doing what he can with what he has in the service of others.
That is love.
I LOVE IT.