The House of Munch: Day 7 – One Moment, One Life
Today was, by all accounts, normal.
We stepped outside, greeted the long line of weary faces, and did what we always do—offered food, passed out water, listened, laughed, comforted. We sat in our usual corner, waiting for those who needed us to find their way over, providing the same unwavering presence we had each day before.
But then, one moment changed everything.
An executive team member rushed in, requesting immediate help. Without hesitation, we followed, rounding the wall into the main lobby—only to be met with a scene of pure desperation.
A client stood in the center of the room, completely overcome. They were crying, shouting, throwing their hands in the air, pacing in erratic circles. They were beyond broken, unraveling before our eyes, their pain spilling into the space around them.
Security was on edge. Staff watched cautiously. The tension was thick.
We stepped in, speaking calmly, telling them they could yell, they could scream, they could do whatever they needed—but not here, not in the center of the storm. Gently, we guided them away, moving to a quieter corner, offering a space where their pain could exist freely, without fear of consequence.
That’s when the shouts turned to sobs. Deep, body-shaking, breath-stealing sobs.
"I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what I did."
And so, we did what we have learned to do best.
We waited.
We sat in the heavy silence, in the weight of their grief, offering nothing but presence. No rush, no solutions, no quick fixes. Just space. Just understanding.
Volunteers quietly brought water, a small piece of candy, a pen—simple comforts, gentle anchors back to the moment. And then, when the time was right, we got to work.
Through slow, careful breaths, their story began to unfold.
They had been home the night of the fire. Asleep, unaware, until a desperate pounding on their door jolted them awake. Their neighbor screamed for them to leave. They had only minutes. Just enough time to grab their brother, and their twelve year old yorkie, fleeing as the mountain behind them burned.
They hadn’t been back since. They didn’t know if they had a home to return to.
They had been waiting since 3 AM, standing in line for over five hours, hoping for help. And then, a simple miscommunication at a resource table turned into a misunderstanding, which turned into a confrontation, which led to them being forced out into the lobby—frustrated, exhausted, and hopeless.
And now here they were, their pain spilling out in front of everyone.
As the story poured out, a new layer of their past surfaced—one of service, of duty. They had been in the Navy. They had worked disaster relief in Haiti after the earthquakes. They had spent years helping others. And today, they just wanted someone to see them. To truly, fully see them.
And so we did.
Once we had the full picture, we moved quickly, maneuvering volunteers to bring each necessary resource out to them directly. No more barriers. No more confusion. Just intentional, direct support. We sat with them for two hours, through all the papers and all the questionnaires.
One by one, representatives came—not just handing over information, but talking, connecting, witnessing. They didn’t just process paperwork or check off lists; they made sure this person, who had come in with nothing but frustration and despair, left with everything they needed.
And they did.
Housing assistance. Financial aid. Pet support. Emotional care. Everything they had feared they would lose, they found again.
And just like before, the tears came.
But this time, they weren’t tears of grief.
They were tears of relief. Of gratitude. Of hope.
They hugged us. They smiled.
This person, who had started the day as a security risk, left with peace in their heart.
We made a difference.
Just one.
One person out of seven billion.
One conversation.
One moment.
And yet, it was everything. It was worth everything.
And it’s an experience we will carry with us forever.
With gratitude,
The House of Munch Team
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