FREDDIE FRILLARTE, the kindly, soft-spoken volunteer who runs the feeding center at the church, knows that the soup kitchen may breed dependency and mendicancy among those it seeks to help. But he has seen real changes, especially among the children, who he says are now livelier, cleaner, and more respectful. Many, he says, are off rugby, as they no longer need to sniff the glue to take their minds off hunger. They are also more energetic, no longer sleeping on the plaza all the time.

	Millions of Filipinos are going hungry, like Evelyn Tedranes and son Jonas who live on the streets of Manila.

Freddie is a retired balikbayan who lived in the U.S. for many years and a devotee of the Divine Mercy, started by Sister Faustina Kowalska, now an ordained saint, who claimed Jesus Christ appeared to her in Krakow, Poland in 1931. The spiritual director of the Divine Mercy Apostolate in the Philippines is Monsignor Josefino Ramirez, the parish priest of Quiapo, and it was his idea to set up the feeding program here, after a similarly successful program he ran when he still headed the Binondo parish.

When Freddie opened the soup kitchen at the Quiapo church on June 17 last year, the Divine Mercy Apostolate had enough money to last only three days. "We didn't know where the money for the fourth day would come from," he says. "But one of our members from Alabang pitched in. Then there were more donations. We sent solicitation letters to balikabayan from Las Vegas and they raised more than $1,000. Many come here to help. Some students from La Salle or Ateneo come and say, here's P2,000 or P3,000, I'm giving it to you instead of holding a birthday party. One Chinese guy saw the feeding and he came back with a truckload of rice. One guy comes here every week to give P100. Others give eggs or pan de sal."

Tonight, in fact, each cup of porridge will have half an egg, courtesy of an anonymous donor. At noon, there was bottled water for everyone. Freddie sees it all as a sign not just of human compassion but of God's grace.

"Usually the people who come here are victims of injustice of all kinds — those abandoned by spouses or beaten up by family members, some lost homes in a fire, others were fired from their jobs, there are beggars, those gypped by recruiters and have no money for the fare back home. Some come here and would disappear for months because they had been recruited to work in the salt farms in Bulacan, the farms in Nueva Ecija, or to clean the ships in Batangas. They accept any work. There are lots of gay men here, too. Sometimes, they're here the whole week, and then they disappear, and come back again. One bakla was here, he said his father was in the army and drove him out of the house, so he came here to eat." But Freddie admits there are snatchers and petty thieves among those who eat here, too, as well as addicts and conmen. The plaza, he says, abounds with all sorts of criminal types who take advantage of the clueless and the homeless.

It is close to twilight now, and the clients of the Divine Mercy soup kitchen are gathering at the plaza. There is Jennifer, 23, who ran away from an abusive husband in Quezon City, with her one-year-old son Joshua. Until today, she had lived in a kariton (wooden cart) near the St. Luke's Hospital, collecting and selling garbage. She doesn't know where she will go now, but at least she and her son will have something to eat in Quiapo.

Then there's Jun-Jun Alcantara, 30. He wears lipstick and it looks like his hair has been blow-dried. He left home in Quezon because his mother remarried when he was 10 and he felt unwanted. He has lived off the streets since then. He eventually found work doing manicures at a beauty parlor, but when the salon closed, he was back on the streets, giving manicures to peddlers and passersby for P20 each. One day, he fell asleep on the plaza and someone stole his manicure set, so now he collects recyclable cans and bottles instead.

Jun-Jun is a regular at the Quiapo feeding center, but he hangs out mainly at Rizal Park, where he also sleeps. Tonight, after the lugaw here, he will walk with the other gay yagit to the Sikh Temple on UN Avenue, where the priests also give free food — usually spicy beans and yellow rice. Sundays, Jun-Jun and his friends are at the Paco church, where they serve rice and "tunay na ulam" (real food). Thursdays, there are feedings at the Ho Tiek Buddhist temple in Binondo. The food there is vegetarian, but Jun-Jun goes there, too, as well as to Plaza Lawton where, on Friday nights, some charismatics serve noodle soup.

"You have to be patient, map out your own route," says Jun-Jun. "Mine is Quiapo, Binondo, Luneta, Sta. Cruz. Sometimes I buy my own food, like pinakbet (vegetable stew) or monggo (mung bean soup). I can afford a real meal only on Saturdays and Sundays. I buy adobo (pork stew) for P25 or P30. I eat just a little each time so it will last till evening."

	Those who come to Quiapo seek refuge from hunger and other woes.

There are plenty more here at the plaza, waiting to be fed. Nearly all of them carry bags that contain all they own in the world. Some ask for help or money, but all are eager to tell their story to anyone who will listen. There's Mary Ann del Rosario, 34, who works everyday from 5 a.m. to 2 p.m., calling passengers to waiting jeepneys. She makes P2 for every jeepney that's filled up. There's the talkative Mac-mac, who is only 12, but who comes to the church regularly to eat, so that his mother and three younger siblings can have more of the meager food the family can afford to buy. And then there's Reynaldo Arriola, 37, who left Isabela after a quarrel with his siblings and has been in Manila for two years, scraping a living selling cigarettes, until a thief ran away with the wooden box containing his wares and all his money.

Quiapo has always been a lost-and-found place. Not too long ago, says Freddie, a four-year old girl was abandoned at the plaza, apparently left to fend for herself with only a bag containing her clothes and toys. One of the sidewalk peddlers found her and took her in his care. Freddie himself came here in search of something he had lost, perhaps his own vision of Divine Mercy. Somewhere, among all these lost and abandoned souls, he has found, if not that, at least something bigger than himself.

It is 6:45. Darkness has set in. The hundreds of hungry have been fed, and they start walking away from the church, disappearing into the shadows with their stories and their secrets. The lugaw cart, its the pots now empty, is rolled back inside the gates. Tomorrow, another day — and another round of feeding — begins.