Day Six: Stories

The House of Munch: Day 6 – A Day of Stories

Today was different. Overnight, the executive team transformed the entire event. The chaotic, frenzied environment of the day before had been replaced with a sense of order. Fences were set up to guide the crowds, heat lamps bathed the early morning lines in a warm glow, and food and water stations were strategically placed to prevent the desperation that had boiled over before. It was a remarkable feat of adaptive problem-solving—a testament to what happens when people listen, learn, and adjust.

But no matter how much the logistics improved, one thing remained unchanged: the fear, the grief, and the heavy uncertainty hanging in the air.

We arrived early, stepping straight into a sea of exhausted faces. Many had been waiting since 3 AM, wrapped in blankets against the cold, hoping today would be the day they received help. By the time we officially opened at 10 AM, the line was already too long. The doors had to be closed to newcomers.

Security warned us before we engaged with the crowd. People had been turned away again. Tensions could spike. Desperation could turn to aggression. It was a risk. But that was exactly why we were there.

Without hesitation, we stepped forward. And we weren’t alone. In fact, more volunteers than necessary joined us—arms loaded with supplies, hearts open, ready to give whatever they could.

Yes, people were upset. Yes, frustration filled the air. Yes, the risk was real.

But we did it anyway.

And something incredible happened.

Just like the day before, the moment we offered even the smallest act of care—a bottle of water, a simple nod of understanding, a moment of shared humanity—the air began to shift. It was subtle at first. People unclenched their fists. Conversations softened. The energy changed.

That’s when the stories started.

One person told us they had been trying to get inside for three days but had been turned away each time. Today was their last chance. They had no way of coming back.

Another explained how they had simply gone into a grocery store on a normal afternoon, only to step outside and find their neighborhood swallowed by fire.

One stood before us in stunned silence, tears streaming down their face. They had been homeless for years, fighting their way back to stability, and had just moved into a new home. One week later, it was gone.

Some were angry. Not at us, but at the sheer unfairness of it all. One survivor, overwhelmed with frustration and grief, shouted into the void, pleading not just for help, but for acknowledgment. For someone to hear them. To see them.

And then, amidst all the devastation, someone who had lost both their parents and their home asked us something unexpected: Could we help him brainstorm venues for a relief concert he wanted to organize to raise money for his destroyed community. 

It was a reminder that even in grief, people search for ways to rebuild. Even in loss, they seek connection.

We listened to every story. Every word. Every silence.

And it wasn’t just the survivors who needed us.

Inside the break room, the staff—committed, resilient, yet clearly exhausted—finally let their walls down. These were the people who had spent days, absorbing the grief of others. Carrying it. Pushing through without a moment to process.

We sat with them. We let them talk. We let them breathe.

Some tried and failed to hold back the tears they had restrained for days. Another admitted they had been waking up in the middle of the night, unable to shake the things they had heard from survivors. One volunteer, cheeks red and marked from the facemask they'd been wearing all day, rubbed their hands through their hair and said, simply, “It's just so hard.”

They weren’t just workers. They were human. And they, too, needed care.

We prayed with hopeless mothers. We held crying men. We sat in silence with those who didn’t need words—just presence.

And then, when the day finally slowed, when the crowds had dispersed and the site had gone quiet, we turned to each other.

We sat together, our team—this strange, wonderful group of people who had arrived as strangers and were now something else entirely.

We talked. Not just about the work we had done, but about ourselves. Our own lives. Our own pain. The things that had brought us here.

We laughed—really laughed. We shared our struggles, our triumphs, our heartbreaks.

And in that moment, as we sat shoulder to shoulder, recounting the day’s events, something shifted once more.

We realized that this wasn’t just about helping others.

It was about connection.

It was about being human together.

It was about the unspoken understanding that we were part of something much bigger than ourselves.

We had come here to serve, to listen, to hold space for those in need.

But in the end, we were changed, too.

Today wasn’t just about relief efforts. It wasn’t just about handing out water or providing comfort.

Today was about stories.
Today was about love.
Today was about family.

And that’s something we will carry with us long after this journey ends.

With gratitude,
The House of Munch Team