My alternative Parents' Weekend: a college student and her parents find that an afternoon at the local homeless meal program brings them closer than any shopping trip, fancy dinner, or football game ever could.

It was their last college Parents' Weekend, as I, the youngest of their three daughters, was graduating from Loyola College in Baltimore in the spring. My parents were Parents' Weekend veterans and had perfected a standard routine that revolved around food, shopping, and little treats. It was a chance to spoil their daughter far from home, and they loved it. Each year followed a similar schedule with trips to the local mall and fancy dinners out. But that last year was different.

On the last Sunday of each month I supervised the children at Beans and Bread, a meal program for the poor and homeless in the Fells Point neighborhood. This Sunday lunch is crucial to the neighborhood, as many people who rely on government aid and community outreach programs are often out of money by month's end. Many outreach services are closed on Sundays, which can make this last weekend even more of a challenge.

In addition to the regular meal, a special children's meal program is also available that day. The informal structure offers the kids a change of scenery from the dining room, complete with chicken fingers, snacks, and videos. They can play under volunteers' supervision while their parents enjoy a slightly less chaotic meal. This is a treat for tired parents, a few hours of free baby-sitting, and a short break from the demands of their kids--a Parents' Weekend of a different kind.

What does any of this have to do with my Parents' Weekend? My mom and dad wondered the same thing as I explained my situation on the phone. The friend who offered to run the program in my place had a change of plans, leaving me with three options. I could go alone and meet up with my parents in the afternoon; I could not go at all, disappointing the kids and their parents; or I could bring my parents along. I was reluctant to ask them, because the dining area in Fells Point is a far cry from a meal at a downtown restaurant. I was afraid they wouldn't enjoy their experience and would feel out of place or put on the spot. But my parents accepted the invitation.

None of us was sure what to expect that morning. Upon arrival my parents had a brief orientation with the other volunteers. Before leaving the main dining room for the playroom, diners and servers alike stopped to share a prayer, a tradition that starts each meal there. Every day the men and women who come for a meal offer requests for loved ones, ask for divine help for strength in overcoming addiction, and very frequently, give thanks for the many blessings of life.

To a stranger, this appreciation for blessings may seem surprising, as these diners are all brought together by the need for a free meal. How, in the midst of this, can there be the joy of thanksgiving? My parents didn't even have the time to reflect on that before they hustled upstairs to prepare for the arrival of the kids. They had just a few minutes to survey the scene before they jumped right into the rush of activity. And when they did, it was as if they were there every week.

My father quickly stepped in as the voice of reason between two young boys grasping at Tonka trucks. He stood in the cramped kitchen, bouncing a baby in each arm, their dark skin and eyes a contrast to his own fair, Irish complexion.

My mom crouched at a card table and patiently colored with two sisters, their lank blond hair covering their eyes and smudged faces. She spoke in a quiet voice to the girls, regulars to the program who were slow for their age and often difficult to understand.

My mom gently prodded, "Now, let's write our names on our drawings." When met with wordless stares from the girls, she smiled uncomfortably only briefly before inviting them to watch as she printed their names in strong Crayola strokes. They looked from the paper to her face as she read each letter that she printed aloud.

She was interrupted by a cry from the older boys watching videos in the living room, "Miss Lily? Can we have some more Chex Mix?" Quickly challenging them with a request for a please, my mom deposited the refilled bowl by their cushions on the floor.

I have to admit I found the calmness in that room and the happy buzz of activity almost disturbing since just the month before I had returned with snacks to find my only volunteer shackled to the stairwell with plastic handcuffs and four kids roaring with hysteria in the hallway. My parents had achieved the unthinkable--they created order!

On any other Sunday, my parents and I might have been sitting in church together. But as we served up the chicken fingers and Kool-Aid, we broke bread together as we never had before. My parents exposed some of their hidden talents, and I had the chance to share with them the lessons I had learned.

Their experience with homeless people is limited to panhandlers asking for change on the street. Their understanding of welfare moms is colored by what they read in newspapers or watch on the evening news. They had never met children with no place to call home, children who are quite loveable. They got a small glimpse of all of that in just a few hours.

But it wasn't only my parents who learned new things that morning. As I watched them play with the kids, they had the chance to showcase their badge of parenthood as they effortlessly created order. They treated each kid as they would treat any other child--gently, but with discipline.

I had known many of these kids for years, and while I went out of my way to simplify their lives and provide them with fun, I had let them run wild. I was afraid to say no and hesitated to establish boundaries, unintentionally denying them one of the things they desired most--structure. I would never have thought to call home for advice about this because I didn't think my parents would understand. What experience did they have with poor kids?

Ironically, this is at the very heart of what all three of us learned that day--that when it comes down to it, kids are kids and people are people--and all should be treated fairly.

Sharing this experience with my parents also opened up new channels of conversation for us. As I completed my application for the Jesuit Volunteer Corps, a yearlong volunteer program that I intended to participate in after graduation, I think they had a better understanding of why I wanted to serve and whom I would help.

At Thanksgiving dinner that year, my mom was proud as she talked about my post-graduation plans and retold her version of the morning at Beans and Bread. We had a new Common ground.

A friend took a picture of us that day, my mom and dad on either side of me, all three of us wearing name tags and smiles. It sits in a frame with the other family photos in my parents' living room, a reminder of our last Parents' Weekend.

There were some changes in the children's program after that, and while I only occasionally came close to achieving the peace that my parents had, it was an improvement overall. And my mom still asks if I ever run into the little boy with crooked teeth and red hair who was the wildest of the bunch; she always laughs, remembering that he was such a handful.

By JENNIFER PLUM, a freelance writer working on a master's degree in creative nonfiction at Goucher College in Baltimore.