Editor’s Note: My friend Melissa Baker wrote this recently and it deeply encouraged me. In a world full of coronavirus and stress, I appreciate her personal story and its lesson. If she wrote it for no other reason, my heart was sure touched by it. You will be encouraged as well as you read it.
I don’t remember the exact moment he told me, but I do remember being surprised. Things were very lean, and when I say lean, I mean, I actually remember sitting down one day in our third-floor apartment and crying because I was hungry, and, if I ate the food we had, there would not be enough left for supper.
Being hungry wasn’t generally a big deal to me. I tended to work right through meals and not eat until I was famished, or someone forced me to sit down and eat. Nor was missing one meal going to lead to my demise. But to be hungry and not have enough food available, well, that was new. The feeling of uncertainty was harder to bear than the hunger.
It was 1981, and we were working in a fledgling church plant. I recall reading an article in the Toronto Star, giving the current poverty level that year. We were under it. As was the senior pastor and his family. We served and starved (so to speak) together, wholly committed to the cause of Christ.
But commitment didn’t pay bills, and the budgeted twenty dollars a week didn’t buy many groceries—not even back then.
You know, the devil can slip in when your stomach growls.
So, when my young husband told me that he had invited Ron and Diane over for supper the next night, I was not happy. It was Friday and we were not prepared to have company. I expressed my concern to my husband—clearly—in no uncertain terms.
He responded that “Ron and Diane will be happy with anything” and left me to make do. After all, I always did.
He was right, with seven children at home and a tight budget, Ron and Diane would not come in with high expectations. It was also true that if we went to their home, they would give us their last box of Kraft dinner.
But I didn’t want to make do.
First off, I wanted to put out a meal that I wasn’t embarrassed to serve. What I had—literally—was one pound of hamburger, one can of tomato paste, spaghetti noodles, and some spices.
Which, though not much, did make the choice of what to serve easier.
Then, there was the fact that, if I served them the food I had, there would be none left for us. I didn’t want to be selfish, but couldn’t we have waited to have company when we actually had enough food to share?
Saturday morning dawned, and I set about getting ready. Placing the spaghetti noodles on the counter, I browned the meat then added the tomato paste, water and spices to simmer. I turned to straighten our little apartment, but it wasn’t fun. It was draining. I paused, as annoyance, self-pity, and conviction swirled inside.
There was no joy in this giving; but, then again, I wasn’t giving with joy.
I come from a family of women who do not just make do; they make do with joy.
Rebecca Street, Glenwood, Illinois, 1930s. The Great Depression hits rich and poor alike with a fury. Like millions of other Americans, Grandma Porter works hard to feed her family. It takes pinching pennies, raising chickens, growing a garden, taking on extra work, and a great deal of sacrifice, but they eat.
And they share.
A sharp whistle precedes the deep rumble of the train barreling down the tracks not quite two blocks behind the house. Hard-working, destitute, desperate men have taken to “riding the rails” from town to town looking for work. Hungry men who occasionally knock on my grandma’s back porch door hoping for anything to get them through the next couple of days. From her own scant supply, she makes a meal. It’s not elaborate, but it is warm and served in a way that gives dignity to the recipient.
Unbeknownst to my Grandma, the house has been “marked” as a place where a man down on his luck can find kindness.
McGregor Avenue, Ypsilanti, Michigan, the 1960s. Once again, strangers sit at our kitchen table, ravenously devouring the food my mother puts before them. Two young men of Native-American descent, their long jet-black hair glistening, lean forward eager while my dad talks to them about Jesus.
“Hitchhikers,” one of my brothers offers quietly. I am not surprised. It is my parent’s way. My father brings people home, my mother feeds them.
And God always supplies.
“But this I say, He which sows sparingly will also reap sparingly, and he who sows bountifully will also reap bountifully. So let each one give as he purposes in his heart, not grudgingly or of necessity; for God loves a cheerful giver. 2 Corinthians 9:6-7 NKJV
Adelaide Avenue East, Oshawa, Ontario, 1981. It wasn’t that Ron and Diane were hobos or homeless. They were our friends, they had been good to us, and I wanted to serve them more than spaghetti and water. “And you are,” a quiet voice whispered, “you are also serving them pride and fear.”
So, God and I had a little talk. With repentance, I determined to serve every last bit of that spaghetti with a smile; I would not worry over the quality or quantity of my meal or what we would eat the next day.
The afternoon sped by. I finished tidying and set the table as nicely as I could, fed my baby girl, and settled her down for a nap.
Then, a knock sounded. Sprinting to keep it from waking the baby, I peered through the peephole, recognized my pastor’s wife, Daphne, and opened the door.
She stood with a smile and a very-large, very-stuffed, brown paper bag in her arms. “I was cleaning out our freezer and wondered if you could use some frozen vegetables and fruit?”
I remember being stunned.
Daphne didn’t have to give. She truly needed that food for her own family. Still, she got in her car and used precious gas and valuable time to share what little they had with us.
That night I served green beans with our spaghetti and frozen strawberries for dessert. And I felt
rich—
and blessed—
and seen by God.
Yes, I come from a long line of givers. I also come from a long line of receivers.
It’s so easy, when times are hard, to hunker down and turn inward to our own needs. But there is this—
“Give, and it will be given to you: good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over will be put into your bosom.
For with the same measure that you use, it will be measured back to you.” Luke 6:38
And, yes, sometimes we have husbands who invite people over when we have nothing and viruses that cause us to fear. But, in the end—
We don’t just choose what we are going to give, we choose how we are going to give it.
About the Author:
Melissa is a follower of Jesus Christ, a widow, mom, and grandmother. She loves Jesus Christ and the church. As a ladies’ speaker, experienced biblical counselor, and former pastor’s wife, she blesses people with her blog melissadawnbaker.com. Her blog serves as an encouragement for believers to keep their eyes on the Lord, that is, to be faithful because we know He is faithful, plus provides counseling resources.
Melissa’s original post first appeared on her blog here.
Image Credit melissadawnbaker.com
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