We lined up to say ‘Thank You’: A bittersweet goodbye to 350 AmeriCorps volunteers

VICKSBURG, Miss. by: Shelley Hall Tingle (VDN) — Yesterday, I stood in a parking lot outside a church, my soul full from a Holy Week luncheon, when my phone rang.

Chris Rials’ voice cracked with heartbreak:

“They fired them. All of them. All 350 of them.”

“Who?” I asked, stunned.

“Our AmeriCorps workers.”

There was silence. Then I began to cry with her.

These young people had fought fires in the blistering heat of Montana. They had waded through hurricane debris to help neighbors find footing again. They had cleaned, cleared, fed, rebuilt, and restored—doing the jobs that have to get done when the world breaks apart.

Many were counting down the days to AmeriCorps graduation, dreaming of the Presidential medals they’d earned. Some had spots waiting for them in fast-track hiring programs at DHS and other federal agencies—golden tickets to continue serving our country. And then, with the cold click of a Zoom call, their futures vanished. Within 24 hours, they were back in Vicksburg—not for celebration, but to be outprocessed and sent home.

What do you do with grief like that?

If you’re from Vicksburg, Mississippi—you feed them.

Chris had a vision, and like all good missions, it came with a big ask:

“We need to feed 350 people tomorrow.”

I repeated it back to her, like a prayer. “Got it. Let’s do this.”

By the grace of God and the grit of this small city, within hours, people showed up. Donations were made. Volunteers raised their hands. A small army mobilized—not to fight a fire this time, but to fan the flame of hope.

When I walked into the kitchen [yesterday] afternoon, the scent of Tommy’s BBQ wrapped around me like a warm hug. I dropped off pans of mac and cheese and was greeted by my buddy Marisa, running logistics like she was born for it.

In that kitchen, I saw everyone. Everyone from Tommy’s. Everyone from The Tomato Place. Alderman T.J. Mayfield pulling pork like a pitmaster. Willis Thompson slicing brownies so thick and gooey they could bring peace to a troubled heart. Orlon Smith carrying trays like a seasoned pro. Lori Fagan and Donna Gray prepping drinks, David Day moving food like a general about to move troops.

This was not just a meal. It was ministry.

Fostoria brought granola bars, fruit, and snacks to stuff into brown bags for the long ride home. Hinds’ culinary team, led by William Furlong, served up mashed potatoes that could make you believe in miracles. Crawford Street laid out enough chicken spaghetti to feed the next county.

I watched Donna Williams, Robert Crear, and Justin Hamilton arranging pans like they were laying bricks in a foundation. Because that’s what it was—building dignity in real time.

At 5 p.m., we lined the walkway. We clapped, we cheered, we cried. One by one, AmeriCorps members walked into the mess hall, heads high, eyes red.

“Thank you for your service,” said Chris Porter.

“You matter,” Bess Averett replied.

“God bless you,” Mama yelled out.

There was no bitterness in their faces—only the deep, aching eyes of people who had given everything they had and were still standing.

My mother came, as she always does, to love beside me. She moved from table to table, asking each volunteer where they were from, what they had done, and how they found their way to AmeriCorps. She told them the truth: they were not waste, not fraud, not abuse. They were exactly what this country needs more of.

And as I watched her hug each one, I knew I’d remember this forever—not because of the tears or the tragedy, but because of the triumph. The humanity. The togetherness.

I sat at every table. I listened. And their stories made me feel angry and proud and hopeful all at once. Some had missed their high school graduations during COVID. And now, their AmeriCorps finish line had been erased too. But still, they laughed. They swapped memories. They promised to find one another again, somewhere down the road.

The sun slipped away and we adults moved outside with our plates and sweet tea, telling stories under Mississippi stars. There is nothing more Southern than that.

I don’t know how history will remember this moment. Maybe it won’t even make the news cycle. But I know this:

Vicksburg will remember.

We will remember that when 350 young Americans were told to pack up and go home, this town stood up and said: not without a meal, not without a thank you, not without a blessing.

In this moment of national forgetfulness, we remembered them.

We lined up, we fed them, we blessed them.

And I believe our ancestors smiled down from heaven and said,

“That’s what it means to be Christian.”

Let’s carry their stories with us. Let’s not forget.

Because in the end, it’s not about medals or mandates.

It’s about people.

And 350 of them just reminded us what greatness really looks like.

All photos courtesy of Shelley Hall Tingle.