Where He Needs To Be: Helping feed act of faith for first sergeant

  • Published
  • By Tech. Sgt. Jason Schaap
  • 931st ARG Public Affairs
Despair can take on many forms. For Master Sgt. Bob Livingston, despair has many names, many faces, and it visits him the third Saturday of every month.

That is when Sergeant Livingston and other members of his church volunteer their morning to provide a free breakfast near downtown Wichita, Kan. Hungry and 99 percent homeless, around 100 people usually make their way to the meal.

"I start to see them about 10 blocks out," Sergeant Livingston said, referring to his early-morning drive to the old church where the breakfasts are offered. They start to arrive soon after he does.

Breakfast is in the basement. Volunteers prepare food in an adjoining kitchen while the crowd makes it way through the food line and sit together at circular folding tables. Some obviously know each other and chat their way through the meal. Many silently stare their way through any object, or person, in front of them.

Sergeant Livingston knows there are faces he will never see again. Dire need, personified and amassed, makes reality too recognizable for some. "It's just too devastating," he said. "They don't come back."

Some of those who do come back know Sergeant Livingston as "Preacher," a nickname born from his words of encouragement and tendency to be out in front. A first sergeant for three sections of the 931st ARG, Sergeant Livingston brought his ability to lead with him when he started helping with the breakfasts two years ago.

"I just knew right away this is where I needed to be," Sergeant Livingston said about why he continued to volunteer.

His living room can testify to his desire to help lead the way. He and his wife, Sally, recently filled the room with 66 boxes of clothes to be made available at the breakfasts. The clothes came from donors he tracked down.

There were two tables of clothes at the breakfasts to choose from. Now there are six.

Sergeant Livingston also looks out for other things in need, like shoes and backpacks.

"I talk to these guys," he said. "I know what they need and when they need it."

At a breakfast in mid-April, Sergeant Livingston stood at the end of the food line. A man he recognized approached him, but without food. "You're not eating?" Sergeant Livingston asked while shaking his hand. No, the man replied, just getting some clothes for a Bible study later that night.

As the line continued, so did Sergeant Livingston's greetings. Most didn't say much as they passed, but they didn't need to. Life on the streets does not need to be heard. It can be felt.

"These people are cold," he later said, referring to the handshakes he has grown used to. "It's like grabbing an ice cube."

Brian Colvin sat on a side bench after breakfast, watching Sergeant Livingston hand out bus passes to people before they left. A roofer originally from Oklahoma City, Okla., Colvin said he traveled to Wichita in 2006 looking for work after a hail storm battered houses throughout the city. What he eventually found was unemployment, homelessness, and devastation.

"You wouldn't have recognized me," Colvin said, describing the physical result of his situation. "I literally had nothing."

Until one Saturday morning.

"I followed the pack of people and they led me here," Colvin said.

He met Sergeant Livingston, who encouraged him to trust in God.

And that's just what Colvin did. God, he said, blessed him with work, a home and a "fresh start."

Some happy, many sad, stories are what Sergeant Livingston said he has a lot of.

There is Steven Raines, a breakfast regular and veteran. He helped cap burning oil wells during the first Gulf War before he wound up on the street, Raines said.

There was the man who showed up late one day when the volunteers were cleaning up. The food was gone. Angry, the man said he'd go find a dumpster. The volunteers found him when they took out the garbage.

"There he was," Sergeant Livingston said, in the dumpster, breaking open bags and eating what he found.

The volunteers were again cleaning up at the April breakfast when another latecomer walked in. "Happens every time," Sergeant Livingston said to himself, looking up from the broom in his hands.

"I just got off of work," the man says. "My boss' truck is outside running."

"We can probably get you some peanut butter sandwiches," Livingston tells him, the kitchen not totally closed yet.

The man crosses the long basement toward the volunteers. His clothes look newer. "I got a job, I got a bank account," he tells them proudly.

Sergeant Livingston smiles, then heads inside the kitchen to help with the sandwiches.