Shaheryar Asghar ’28
Yesterday felt different; it was a day where coming to Baltimore no longer felt like an adjustment — it had settled in. The drive to Our Daily Bread wasn’t filled with curiosity or uncertainty anymore; instead, it was a quiet reflection on how this place, and the people who have made it meaningful, had started to feel like a system — familiar and personal. The idea of how change becomes comfort weighed on my mind throughout the journey. I kept wondering: how does a new setting, initially foreign, become home? How do the people we encounter transform an experience from obligation to belonging?
In these few days, a quiet bond had emerged — no longer the cautious dynamic of people thrown together by circumstance, but something deeper. It felt like we were no longer just participants in a shared project; we were part of a shared story. Yesterday, I found myself questioning why I was on this trip — not just the purpose of the work itself, but why I was here with these particular people. And somewhere in that question lay the answer.
As we approached Our Daily Bread, Jaiden’s smile stood out to me. His eagerness to be there wasn’t fueled by obligation but by a quiet, internal motivation. That genuine drive reminded me why we were all there — not because we had to be, but because we wanted to be. Inside, Dora’s excitement was equally infectious. The warmth in her voice as she recounted her previous experiences inspired all of us. It was as if she carried a quiet light, guiding the rest of us forward.
Our first task was simple — tying tea bags in bundles of ten. I found myself next to Rose, working in shared silence. But that silence wasn’t empty; it was heavy with meaning. Her quiet focus and care for such a small task reminded me that inspiration isn’t something external — it’s carried within us.
Before the doors opened, we were assigned our roles. Each task — serving, cleaning, assisting — carried its own quiet beauty. It wasn’t just about the job itself but the shared process of doing it together. For a moment, I stepped back and wondered why it was us — these specific thirteen people — standing together in that room. It felt intentional, as though we had been woven into the same story for a reason.
We had some time before the service began, and I took a quiet moment to reflect. Around me, the staff members smiled at us without saying a word. Their silent acknowledgment held so much weight — a simple gesture that reminded me we were seen, that our presence mattered. There was comfort in that unspoken connection.
When I walked into the back room for dish duty, I saw Jevin standing at the sink, receiving plate after plate with quiet consistency. He wasn’t talking to anyone, yet his focus never wavered. His silent commitment — the way he kept going without hesitation — reflected a kind of internal strength I deeply admired. In that small, repetitive task, I saw something larger: a quiet understanding that we were all relying on each other, that the process worked because we carried each other through it.
Virginia stood out too — not only for how she served the guests but for how she cared for us. She moved between roles with ease, making sure everyone was okay, her presence grounding and steady. Oluwasefunmi’s smile was a quiet force of its own. Her warmth wasn’t just in her words but in the way she made every moment feel lighter. Even in the smallest exchanges, she made the work feel less like work and more like a shared experience.
My partner in dish duty was Kurt, and what began as a task soon became something more. We found a rhythm together, the repetitive action of washing and drying plates evolving into something meaningful. In between the work, we talked about life, about why we were here, about the quiet goals that shaped us. Kurt’s presence made me realize how connection often happens in the spaces between the task itself — in the shared silence, the steady work, the understanding that you’re not doing it alone. Later, when it was time to head to the Islamic Society of Greater Baltimore for prayer, Kurt rushed through his meal so that we could leave early and I wouldn’t miss the prayer. That quiet act of care — the unspoken consideration — stayed with me.
As I left, I carried with me a quiet sense of peace and gratitude. Beyond simply being part of the process, what truly mattered was experiencing something that the team at Our Daily Bread lives through every day. Keith, who was guiding us at the back, stood out in particular. His gratitude toward us—despite the fact that we weren’t doing anything extraordinary—was humbling. It reminded me of how deeply interwoven our lives are, how the smallest acts of service and presence can reflect a quiet but profound connection. His calm and thankful presence was a quiet lesson in how interconnected we all are, even when we fail to notice it.
As we headed for the car, I was struck by how both Jazmin and Kekoa had also left early for the same reason—to make sure I could attend prayers. Their willingness to adjust their plans so that I could meet a spiritual need made me feel so deeply blessed to have them as friends. Jazmin and Kekoa have both been a quiet but constant source of support throughout this trip, and their thoughtfulness in that moment was a reflection of how much they genuinely care. Jazmin carries this lightness about her—a sense of ease and warmth that makes you feel special. Her presence feels effortless, as though her kindness flows naturally, making the weight of the day’s work feel lighter just by being around her. Kekoa’s effort to understand my religion, his quiet curiosity and openness, meant more to me than words could express. There’s something profoundly moving about being seen and understood, about someone making the effort to engage with a part of you that’s so deeply personal. That feeling of acceptance and care was a gift I will carry with me long after this trip ends.
At the mosque, the feeling was both familiar and new. The process of wudu (ablution), the quiet order of the prayer — it was grounding in a way I hadn’t felt in months. But the funeral prayer left a particular mark on me. In Islam, when a child is born, the first thing whispered in their ear is the Azaan (the call to prayer). Yet during a funeral prayer, there is no Azaan — a quiet reminder of life’s temporary nature, of the way we come full circle. That realization settled in me with a quiet weight.
After the prayer, we stayed to hear from Imam Yaseen. His words were comforting, a reminder of faith and belonging. For the first time in months, it felt like home — not in the physical sense, but in the quiet recognition of shared faith and community.
On the way back, I sat with Rabbi Goldberg and we spoke about religion — the nuances, the differences, the shared humanity beneath them all. Her openness and willingness to engage in that conversation felt motherly in a way I hadn’t realized I needed. Being so far from home often creates an ache for guidance, for the steady presence of someone who listens and understands. That conversation left me feeling deeply cared for.
Throughout the day, Julia was a quiet source of comfort. We shared conversations, moments of understanding. Her quiet kindness —letting me get ahead in line for dinner,walking alongside me without needing to fill the silence — reminded me how much friendship is built not just in grand gestures but in the quiet acts of showing up.
And then there was Keeler. Something about him radiates quiet positivity. He carries it effortlessly, not just in conversation but in the way it spreads through everyone around him. Throughout the day, his presence was steady and reassuring — whether it was helping with the serving, quietly taking care of the trash, or simply being there when someone needed an extra hand. At the mosque, his presence felt even more grounding. His gentle comments, subtle but intentional, made me feel comfortable in a setting that was deeply personal to me. It wasn’t loud reassurance — just the kind of quiet understanding that makes you feel seen without needing to explain yourself. And then at night, before falling asleep, we talked about deeper questions — philosophical ideas, the frameworks that shape how we see the world. What I cherish most about that conversation isn’t just the ideas we exchanged but the comfort I felt while having it. Peace is often seen as something you cultivate alone, through quiet introspection — but feeling that peace in someone else’s presence, knowing you are fully understood, is a rare kind of gift.
As the day ended, I was left asking myself what I was truly gaining from this trip. The practical lessons on food insecurity and service were clear, but beneath that was something deeper — the quiet realization that this experience was not about the place, but about the people. This was not my story; I was not the main character. It was a collective narrative, shaped by these twelve incredible people, each with their own quiet presence, their own significance. Even if given the chance, I would choose to remain a background character in their stories rather than the protagonist of my own.
With four days left, I know now that this experience will stay with me. Beyond the lessons on service, I am learning about humanity — about the quiet strength found in connection, in showing up for each other, in the steady rhythm of collective purpose. And that, I think, will be the takeaway that lasts.