A volunteer called out, "Let's make it happen," and an unusual assembly line jumped into action in a small ranch house in Clayton, Missouri.

Two people opened cans and refilled large aluminum trays of food laid out on the dining room table. A handful of others stationed themselves around the table and scooped rice, beans, chicken and lettuce into restaurant-grade paper bowls. In a narrow hallway, two women spooned salsa into plastic containers. The taco salad meals migrated to boxes in the living room, where helpers added water bottles, desserts and disposable cutlery.

Each box was adorned with a handmade "Welcome to St. Louis" drawing before being taped up and sorted by delivery location. Later, a few volunteers drove to three local hotels where evacuees from Afghanistan are residing while they wait for housing.

Riz Khan, 55, and his wife, Farah Alam, 50, organize and oversee this operation out of their home. They are part of a local grassroots effort to show the people resettling in St. Louis that they are wanted and welcome -- a goal shared by groups like Welcome Neighbor STL and House of Goods.

Khan and Alam started this specific project in partnership with the International Institute of St. Louis a month ago. But the couple's desire to help their local community started much earlier, in 2013, when they launched a nonprofit for kids in need called the Little Angels Foundation.

Their mission to redirect excess food to those who need it took off during the pandemic. In the spring of 2020, they began cooking dozens of meals and distributing them to the homeless.

"All my free time was spent packing food into bags," Alam laughed.

The effort eventually attracted corporate sponsors like Starbucks and Panera. People are drawn to the cause, and to Khan's relentlessly upbeat energy.

"Our vision was to bring people together -- Muslims, Christians, Jews, Hindus, Sikhs," Khan said. That's what makes their weekend meal assembly line unique: It's a mix of people from various backgrounds and all walks of life, ranging in age from the couple's 13-year-old daughter to retired business leaders.

When I went to observe their work, my husband and daughter came along and were drawn into the effort. Our kids decided they wanted to go back on the weekends to continue to pitch in. The desire to be a part of something, to feel like we are doing good for others, transcends age, ethnicity and religion.

People like Khan and Alam have created an opportunity for others to give -- in whatever capacity they can.

Khan immigrated to St. Louis from India in 2005, when his wife was accepted into Washington University's MBA program. He worked in marketing and she works in corporate finance. He suffered a major heart attack in his early 40s and lost his job 2 1/2 years ago. But these setbacks allowed him to find his true mission: providing direct assistance to those in need.

He documents and coordinates their efforts on LinkedIn, Facebook, WhatsApp and NextDoor. Strangers will drop off welcome signs made by their children at their doorstep. All the cooking is done by volunteers, and all supplies are donated.

The Afghans staying temporarily in the hotels rely on grocery store gift cards to buy food, and use kitchenettes to prepare their own meals. (The International Institute, which has helped resettle around 500 Afghans over the past year, has given out $80,000 in donated gift cards.) Khan is always part of the meal delivery team, which drops off between 100 to 150 meals at a time. The Afghan families insist that he stay for a cup of tea in the hotel lobby.

One man told him that he had a construction business in Afghanistan, but fled with nothing. Khan is reaching out to his professional contacts to help find job opportunities.

His nonprofit's work is about more than just handing out hot, home-cooked meals. After nearly two years of isolation, people are hungry for connection.

That's what he aims to deliver.

For the better part of two years, I gave up a sanctuary when I needed it the most. I practice yoga in a small studio inside a sprawling suburban gym. When the pandemic hit in early 2020, I put my membership on hold.

It seemed like a sensible decision, given the infectious disease ravaging the country. Instead of posing in a downward-facing dog, I walked my dog through miles of parks. After I got vaccinated last February, I ventured back into the studio. I had missed it. The gym required advance reservations, social distancing and masking during the classes.

It was inconvenient, but a worthy trade-off for trying to end the pandemic, especially since I had seen firsthand the impact of getting a bad case of COVID. By May, the CDC said vaccinated folks didn't need to wear masks anymore, and I was part of the crowd who ditched them in a hurry. The gym, which is in a politically conservative part of the metro area, had also dropped its protocols.

Then the delta variant hit. By the end of July, the CDC reversed itself and said even vaccinated people should start masking in areas with high rates of transmission. I don't think many people went back to masking in the gym. But I was busy at work and teaching a writing class; I didn't have time to make it there, anyway.

The new year would be a good time to get back in shape and shed some pandemic pounds, I thought. But by January, the highly contagious omicron variant was in town. Even though my risk as a healthy, triple-vaxxed person in my 40s was very low, I put the mask back on. I wanted to avoid even a mild case -- and more importantly, I didn't want to unintentionally spread the virus to someone who might be at greater risk.

But I noticed a strange phenomenon at the gym: No one was masking anymore, despite the local surge in cases and hospitalizations and a county-wide mask mandate. It was a weird feeling to be the only person wearing a mask. It reminded me of a conversation I'd had with a young niece who attends a large public high school in Texas. They dropped the mask mandate long before her age group could get vaccinated. During the delta surge, I'd urged her to keep her mask on.

She said she wore it the first day back to school, but quickly realized she was the only one among hundreds of students.

So awkward, especially for a young teen. She retired her mask immediately.

Even as an adult, I could relate from just the few days I went to the gym masked. In my case, it's no big deal to table my resolution for a bit. The surge should peak in a few weeks. I can subscribe to online classes for now and rejoin in person soon enough.

It's a different risk calculus for those who are required to show up for work or school and who are more vulnerable to serious illness. Each of us is facing personal decisions about responsible pandemic behavior. Our sense of responsibility has to be able to adjust to different circumstances.

At my gym, I'm guessing a new category of anti-maskers has emerged. These are people who believe in science, who are vaccinated and are at low risk for serious illness. All the data show the ones most at risk are the unvaccinated. Some in the vaxxed group feel the unvaxxed have made their choices by this point. They no longer feel a moral obligation to make additional sacrifices for those unwilling to protect themselves.

It's an understandable feeling. But there are some holes in the logic.

Not everyone who is vulnerable to serious illness is willfully unvaxxed. The immunosuppressed among us did not choose their ailments, for example, and age is a risk factor none of us can change. The elderly can be vulnerable, even if fully vaccinated, and at the other end of the spectrum are the nation's infants, toddlers and preschoolers: No children under 5 are even eligible for the vaccine yet.

And from a logistical standpoint, it's in everyone's best interest to lessen the chances of yet another variant emerging. Shrugging at the rampant spread of illness is not fair to healthcare workers -- who are burned out, overwhelmed and sick in large numbers -- who must deal with the fallout. When too many people get sick at the same time, any system will struggle to operate.

I'm still willing to gather in places where I know everyone is vaccinated or wearing masks. And I'm looking forward to getting back to yoga.

But I'll wait until it offers more peace of mind.

I was browsing the magazine stand at an airport shop during a recent flight delay.

A headline on Prevention caught my eye: "Find Your Calm," it said, in big, bold turquoise letters. The cover displayed a single green leaf resting on a tiny ripple of water.

Once upon a time, I was lured by the seductive likes of Glamour or Elle. Now it's Prevention, with its demographic of middle-aged women trying to prevent any number of the inevitabilities of aging: wrinkles, stress, weight gain.

Maybe I was taken by the teasers along the bottom of the cover: "Live Mindfully -- ease pain and anxiety; Retrain your Brain -- stop stress before it starts; Be Kind to Yourself -- quiet your inner critic." For the vast majority of women, especially working mothers, the past two years have been a pressure cooker of stress and anxiety. These promises sounded so alluring.

The messaging caught me in a vulnerable moment.

I was flying to see my daughter for a quick visit at her college. I'd been worried about how she was adjusting to her first semester away, which had also been a surprisingly hard transition for me. But I was stranded on a layover due to weather, unsure when I might eventually arrive. I was vaccinated and wearing a mask, but couldn't be sure if those would protect me from the newest contagious variants of COVID.

I don't drink alcohol, but needed a little something to ease my heightened nerves. Maybe a glossy listicle would do the trick.

I decided to take the magazine bait.

Then I saw the price -- $13.99. Talk about sticker shock. There's no way I could bring myself to pay that much for a flimsy magazine. I've bought hardcover books on sale for less.

I stood there stunned. The secrets of finding my calm were out of my budget. Of course, this made me feel like I needed them more than ever. I debated internally, justifying the splurge by vowing to avoid buying snacks regardless of how long the delay might be. I would fuel myself with words. The purchase indecision ratcheted up my stress.

I was playing right into the hands of the marketing geniuses at Prevention.

Maybe I'll just keep standing here browsing the pages, I thought. The sales clerk graciously ignored me. I probably knew all the tips already; I've read countless articles, frantically trying to "find my calm" for years. Indeed, several stories contained familiar content about the benefits of meditation, gratitude and clearing mental clutter.

Maybe my teenage children would benefit from reading this, I thought. Their eyes glaze over whenever I talk about mental health or self-improvement. Perhaps they just need a different delivery vehicle. Then again, I don't think I've ever seen them with an actual paper magazine in their hands. They would probably judge me for contributing to environmental destruction if I gave them one.

Maybe I'll just take a few photos of the particularly useful paragraphs and send them as texts, I thought. Like a Gen X version of screenshots. I tried to surreptitiously take photos of lists of ways to meditate. But as a writer myself, this felt uncomfortably close to theft.

I started to sweat taking illicit photos of the pages of Prevention, and nearly dropped my phone trying to balance my oversized tote and the open magazine. Some of the photos I took were horizontal, others were vertical and a few were blurry. I started to doubt that my children would even read these texts.

My anxiety was through the roof. After standing there for a solid 15 minutes, I cracked.

Prevention had broken me down. I carried the magazine to the checkout counter.

The clerk smiled at me. The total was nearly $16.

I felt much calmer walking to my gate.