loaves and fish

“I’m bringing you food,” my friend says, “on Monday or Tuesday. I’ll bring it frozen, so you can use it whenever you need it.” She waves her hand dismissively, like it’s nothing, but to me, it’s so much. It’s the sudden reminder that I’m not alone, and it’s instant inspiration to love others better.

I can so easily feel alone, even though I know it for a lie, even though I live a grace-full life, with abundant friendship as a solid reminder of the truth. It’s easy, when so much need stands against my so little, but then God shows up again in the love of a friend, providing a meal and multiplying the gift.

We know this about food, that somehow our gifts of sustenance and taste and warmth build us together. So we carry casseroles to the celebrating and the suffering; we organize MealTrains. So my sister-friends leave goodies on my front porch, tucked in my mailbox; they pass just-because in paper bags, carefully handing the truth right back to me. So God picked a simple meal to explain how much we need Him, to show how much He wants us. He picked a banquet to describe our living hope. We all feel hungry, regardless of our circumstances. Every feast points to a holy one; every table remembers God’s table; all provision is His provision.

“I am the bread,” Christ said, promising that when we consume Him, our souls will be full.

My friend knows about the week ahead of me, how over-packed my mothering will be; she knows how far I’ve traveled and all the big, anticipated things jammed into the corners of my luggage. She knows I’m trying to slide by, that I feel keenly aware of my inadequacy, even while I feel at peace. So she doesn’t ask what I need or if she should but just says she will, and this too serves as a reminder: Jesus said not to worry, that it doesn’t come down to how well I can articulate my needs or how many words I use, because God already knows what I need before I ask.

I love the question, “What can I do to help,” for its heartfelt desire to be of use, and as much as I’ve received that question, I’ve asked it of friends in need, genuinely wanting to tell them that even if I don’t know what to do, I certainly want to help. Sometimes instead, I’ve said something like, “Let me know how I can help,” which feels a little less immediate but comes from the same authentic place. Up close, I haven’t realized how that let me know makes homework for the person I want to help; I haven’t thought about how that phrase communicates my want to without really committing me to action.

Wanting to serve another person isn’t the same as actually putting a towel around my waist, and in truth, I can be a bit like Philip in John 6, when Christ asked him how to feed that crowd of people. In one moment, I acknowledge both the need in front of me and my lack of resources to meet it, though typically I keep that last bit private. I wonder what might have happened that day if, in response to Christ’s question, Philip had turned to the crowd and shouted, waving his hands, “How can I help? Just let me know what I can do.” I imagine Philip slowly moving away from the crowd, while trying to hide his withdrawal. He wanted to dismiss the need because he knew he couldn’t meet it. It’s clear that Jesus wasn’t only teaching the disciples how to respond to real needs with concern, but that in testing them with, “Where shall we buy bread to feed these people,” Jesus wanted his disciples to acknowledge the impossibility of the situation before them so that they could understand and lean into the power and possibility of God. Jesus wanted us to see what happens when we offer the little we have to God in service to others, when we trust Him to use our limited resources well.

So, maybe in my hands right now I have an hour of time or a dog-eared book that encouraged me or a meal for the freezer. The imperative of John 6 is, just hand it to Jesus, and the promise of the feeding of the five thousand is that whatever we offer will be enough because of Him. I can give even without knowing how my particular service could possibly help.

When I’m in need, the answer to that question, “What can I do,” has always felt like a project I don’t have enough time or energy to complete. The only answer seems to be, “I don’t know.” I don’t know what you can do, because aren’t you the only one who knows about your loaves and fish?

My friend brings lasagna on a Tuesday, already frozen, and stacked on top, two cartons of ice cream, because she knows ice cream is Adam’s favorite dessert. She made some Italian bread, and she touches the foil wrapped package lightly with her fingers. “It’s not my best,” she cautions me, and I smile, already feeling full, already giving thanks.

“It’s wonderful,” I tell her, because God has already made it so.