Chapter V — Fill the Pot

A Different Kind of Church

After months of frustration inside a system that measured need instead of humanity, I found grace again in an unexpected place—a folding table on a Sunday morning.

Every week, a line formed outside a small building near downtown Salt Lake. Steam from crock-pots and roasting pans drifted through the cold air, mingling with the scent of coffee and cinnamon rolls. The mission was called Fill the Pot. It started with a leap of faith—Reverend Jay Ragsdale, inspired by his brother Lee’s experience with homelessness, walked into Pioneer Park one day with nothing but some Tic-tac’s, his Bible, and a calling from God. That act of faith became the foundation for what the ministry is today: serving our brothers and sisters in need, not just with home-cooked meals, but with encouragement and love.

Reverend Jay and his wife, Toni, have been at it for over 18 years, never missing a Sunday. They serve hundreds of hot meals every week, along with clothing, hygiene items, and support for employment, education, addiction, and mental health. Their goal is simple: bring hope, let people know they matter, and help them get back on their feet. Fill the Pot’s motto could just as well be: “Grace Served Here.”

There isn’t space to sit inside, so people stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the lot, balancing paper plates heavy with food that always tastes like home. Someone might play old gospel tunes through a tinny speaker. Volunteers work the line, pouring coffee, handing out napkins, and making sure no one is left behind. There are no sermons that drag on—just a few words, simple and heartfelt.

“This might not be your season,” Reverend Jay would say, “but when it is, God will be on time. He’s never late.”

The crowd would murmur an amen. Some bowed their heads. Others just closed their eyes and breathed deep, letting the warmth and hope settle in their chests. For a few moments, we weren’t clients or cases—we were a congregation of the hungry and the hopeful. In that space, labels fell away. There was no “us” and “them.” Only people, all in need of something, all receiving more than they expected.

Bread and Blood

Not every Sunday carried peace. One morning, as the line stretched down the sidewalk, two men began to argue — a small spark that caught quick. Before anyone could step between them, one pulled a knife and struck the other in the side. For a second, time froze. Then panic broke loose.

I remember the sound before I saw the blood — a gasp, then shouting. I was halfway forward when Max moved. Old instincts kicked in. The same Max I’d once known thirty years before — the medic from Vietnam who used to teach first aid with me — was suddenly back in the zone. He dropped to his knees beside the man, pressing his hands against the wound, voice steady as he barked for someone to call 911.

By pure providence, a UTA police officer was turning the corner at that very moment. Within minutes, sirens closed in. The man with the knife tossed his blades into a dumpster and tried to fade into the crowd. “ You guys didn’t see anything, ” he warned. But we had. We told the officers exactly what happened.

The injured man lived. He was lucky — lucky that Max was there, that help came fast, that community didn’t turn away.

It wasn’t peace that made that Sunday holy. It was the mercy that followed. People who owned nothing shared everything they could — a towel, a prayer, a hand to steady the stretcher. Even violence couldn’t erase what that meal meant.

Grace in the Aftermath

Later, as the Reverend prayed for both men — the wounded and the one in handcuffs — I realized faith isn’t found in spotless sanctuaries. It lives in parking lots and paper plates, in forgiveness that dares to appear where the world least expects it.

That day reminded me of a story from Luke 17 — ten men with leprosy who called out to Jesus for mercy. He healed them all, but only one came back to say thank you. I used to think that story was about gratitude. Now I think it’s about recognition — seeing where the healing came from and acknowledging it.

Fill the Pot was that kind of place. We came for food, but we left with reminders of mercy. Grace didn’t look like a miracle. It looked like Max on his knees, saving a life. It looked like a woman handing out pie slices to the officers. It looked like Bill standing next to me, shaking his head and saying softly, “ Man, God really does work in mysterious ways. ”

The calm came later, after the adrenaline drained and the sirens faded from memory. It wasn’t a choir of angels—just a quiet tug. The kind that says, “Pay attention. Breathe.”

I thought of Fill the Pot, of the blood on the sidewalk, and Max’s hands steady against the wound. I thought of how the line re-formed after the ambulance left—how people returned to holding paper plates and balancing hope and hunger at once. That’s when I heard it: not a command, but a direction. Be faithful in the small things.