There’s a guy standing on the corner holding a crudely made cardboard sign directing people to the joint near the bus stop that serves $2 burgers.“Help us teach people to work for food … Eat at our Job Training Cafe,” the sign reads.Welcome to the Front Porch Cafe, in one of the poorest neighborhoods in Akron. And while it might seem unnerving for middle-class folks driving shiny SUVs to frequent a cafe that’s just a hop and a skip from the Summit County Jail, it’s right where it’s supposed to be. It’s a place where the poor and those with money to pay for things like electric bills and vacations to Disney World meet — all in the name of God and good eats.The cafe, housed in the same building as South Street Ministries, opened in late May. The building on Grant Street is a community gathering place that’s an alternative to the streets and bars. The four employees and two volunteers who work for tips are former prostitutes, drug addicts and people without criminal records who have suffered because of the crime in their neighborhood.Fourteen years ago, Pastor Duane Crabbs, a former Akron firefighter-paramedic, and his wife, Lisa, moved their family into the area to live with the people to whom they hoped to minister.“What happened as we got here … we began to see that there is a system of relief where the poor are rewarded for their deficiencies,” said Duane Crabbs. “Unfortunately … government and church programs help so much that the poor don’t come to the table looking to make exchange. They come to the table oftentimes presenting their deficiency.“In every relationship where I’ve met someone’s material need on the basis of our first encounter, I never developed a meaningful relationship with them. I became kind of a human ATM machine. It was very personally frustrating to me to see that people have talent but it is neither financially valued or recognized.”The notion of this enterprise is for the poor to take responsibility in helping the cafe become a success.“This is more than money to me. Yes, it helps me pay my bills, be self-sufficient and raise my daughter, but it’s the riches of my spirit that makes me want to be here,” explained server manager Jennifer Stuntz, who once walked the streets. “It’s the riches of my spirit that this cafe succeed.”Colorful charactersOutside, Freddy Jones fires up the grill, cooking everything from hot dogs to pancakes. His dad owned a slew of restaurants, so he knows how to make a mean burger and other eats.Jones is a colorful chap. While some are trying to tame him, Freddy, who has never been in jail, oozes with mischief.“This isn’t hell’s kitchen, but it’s not paradise for me, either. I would love to have a kitchen,” he said, flipping a burger. “I asked God what he wanted me to do with my friggin’ life — and here I am. I guess I’m the ogre of the Patio Grill.”Upstairs in the brick building are 10 potential office spaces. Currently, one is occupied by a man who builds guitars. The goal for the cafe is to be financially successful, or at the very least break even. And that means making the place desirable for all to come.“We don’t want to say, come to the Front Porch Cafe just because it’s a nice thing to do,” Crabbs said. “We really want people to come in because we have a good meal here and they like the atmosphere.”The current employees are the initial team. The idea is that they’ll train those who come next.“The people we are working with need to learn how to show up for work each day and stay all day,” said Charly Murphy, a consultant who helps nonprofits start businesses to accomplish their missions. “They move along step by step until it’s time for them to make a resume. This is employability training.”Lesson in dignityThe cardboard sign, an advertisement encouraging people to visit the cafe, was Murphy’s brainchild.“I tried to get people [who work or volunteer at the cafe] to hold up the sign, but they refused. So I went out there myself,” said project manager Eric Harmon. “I grew up middle class … and didn’t have a lot of experience feeling like a nonperson. I went out there and held the sign. And let me tell you, it blew my mind.”He thought people who read the sign would realize that he wasn’t panhandling, but that didn’t happen.“They made no eye contact or blocked my view of them,” he said, shaking his head. “I even had one guy clip the car next to him because he didn’t want to be next to me. If he would just have read the sign, it would have been no big deal, but he didn’t.”Stunned by his experience, Harmon is now challenging others to give up to an hour of their time to experience what it’s like to be stripped of their dignity.First stopEvery day, Crabbs said, some 30 people are released from the nearby Summit County Jail. And what they do in the first 24 hours can determine the direction their lives will take.“We want them to come by here to use the phone or get a cup of coffee and not go to a bar. Here they will see people like themselves. People who will welcome them,” Crabbs said. “If they see Jennifer and remember her off the streets or see Freddy cooking outside and he swears at them as they walk by, they may feel they are among those who understand. The average church place doesn’t have a cook that will swear at you. South Street does.”“But we are working on that,” Harmon added, laughing.What is this place? It’s a church on Sundays, a cafe during the day and everything in between.“It’s a place where black and white and rich and poor come together,” Harmon said. “It’s one of those places that is intentionally hard to define. We’ve got something here for everybody — whether you are out of work, looking for employees, hungry, want to learn how to cook or listen to music.”Sitting nearby, Murphy shook his head in agreement. “It’s where people can literally work for food. A middle-class guy can decide to give a person with a cardboard sign five bucks and not know what happens to that money — or they can come in here and for the same five dollars they can get a meal and help someone change their life.”Kim Hone-McMahan can be reached at 330-996-3742 or kmcmahan@thebeaconjournal.com.