The first time I can remember thinking about hunger was in Sunday school in the First Methodist Church in New Kensington, Pennsylvania. I was eight or nine years old. I was asked to bring a can of food to church the next week for the orphans in the Methodist Children's Home. I remember selecting a dusty can of sauerkraut from our pantry and wrapping it in white tissue paper. I remember placing it proudly on the altar during the worship service. Over the next few years I suppose my mother told me numerous times to clean up my plate and think about the starving children in China. I am sure that I and my five sisters must have offered--in voices just low enough that our mother couldn't hear us--to send to the Chinese children whatever food had not caught our fancy. It wasn't until Christmas 1962 that I began to have any understanding of what hunger meant to real people. That December I visited Southside Settlement in Columbus, Ohio. As it turned out, I eventually worked in that social services agency for more than 10 years. But that Christmas I was just a visitor. The settlement was busy preparing Christmas baskets for poor people, and I was pressed into service. One of my jobs was to strip Christmas wrappings off several hundred cans of food and group the cans according to contents so we could pack something resembling a meal into each basket of food we would distribute. It's depressing to try to create Christmas dinner out of corn, peas, pumpkin, hominy, and six kinds of beans. I began to think in a new light about the charitable can of sauerkraut I had donated with such self-satisfaction as a child. Over the years I worked at the Settlement House, I grew to understand the shame felt by people who were forced to feed their kids with food discarded from the pantries of others. I saw the pain on the faces of the unemployed fathers standing in line three days before Christmas to sign up for charity. I began to understand why poor people themselves donated to the Christmas basket program. Sometimes, they donated cans of surplus government food gaily wrapped to disguise the contents--and their own poverty. In a season when we expect happiness and peace, I saw mothers fight over the single turkey or the few canned hams to be shared among 200 families. Gradually, Christmas charity at the settlement became a little less painful. Cans were replaced by cash. Parents could buy the ingredients of a Christmas dinner at the grocery store like anyone else. But in spite of every effort of the Settlement House to make its charity more humane, the people who needed help still saw themselves as beggars. The pain of being reduced to seeking charity to feed one's children was very real. Too often, justice was the ingredient missing from the Christmas meal. I am convinced that we can--and that we must--end hunger in the United States. This is just one piece of the puzzle, of course. The problems of Kurdish refugees in Iraq and Iran, recurring disasters in Bangladesh, and persistence of war- and drought-related food shortages in the Horn of Africa also deserve our attention. I believe we must take a global perspective. Fortunately, there are people around the globe willing and able to meet the challenge. Charity and Justice In our society, our first response to hunger tends to be to provide charity. We are a generous people who believe everybody should be able to eat. Our farms yield enormous surpluses. We share our individual cans and our agricultural bounty with those less fortunate. During the past decade, there has been an unprecedented outpouring of community-based and church- and synagogue-supported charity in towns and cities across America aimed at helping hungry children and their families. Periodically our newspapers are filled with accounts of scouts, school children, and service clubs collecting food for needy people. We might even read about a restaurant or two that open their doors on Thanksgiving Day to provide free turkey dinners to some of our hungry neighbors. …