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 shall be given unto you; good measure, pressed down, and shaken together,
and running over, shall men give into your bosom. For with the same measure that ye mete withal it shall be measured to you again.” 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.
Happened to me one night too…a bag of (just add water) pancake mix, butter and Aunt Jemima’s syrup…for a family who eats 100% organic and 100% from scratch! 🙂 We made memories!
You just made me chuckle, Jessica! What a great memory–lots of love and lots of laughter :).
I couldn’t read this fast enough! I needed to see what our great God was going to do. I loved this story, especially the fact that it was all true. Praise God for His constant watch care over us. To God be the glory great things He hath done and WILL CONTINUE to do in us and through us, all because of His wonderful grace. It’s ALL grace! Nicely done, my dear.
Thank you, Carol! Especially for the reminder that God will continue to do great things in us and through us as we listen to His voice.
I didn’t know your Grandma Porter was part of the hobo feeders! What a great heritage of stretching food. Bill and I have our own Canada story of a Saturday supper that got stretched into soup to feed 20 when two largish families from out of town surprised us. Making food be elastic seems to stretch our hearts as well, doesn’t it?
You said it so well, Marcia, stretching food stretches our hearts! Wish I’d thought of that 😉
Brought tears to my eyes! God is SO good ~ we are SO undeserving!
YES–He is So good!
Blessed so that we can be a blessing! I remember, in college, Pastor Homan saying to us students “The one thing better than receiving an answer to prayer is being an answer to someone’s prayer.”
-Wording may not be exact but that’s the idea.
Excellent story & so well written. God bless and stay healthy!
Yes, he did say that often and he was also often an answer to other’s prayers. Thank you for being a blessing here! Praying for good health for you and your family also, and thankful that we can trust our heavenly Father.
I remember going to the public school and feeling proud that my Dad had a good job when asked by our teacher to write a story about our Dad in 2nd grade. But the real feelings, the hurt feelings, were buried. It was at lunch, when on many Fridays, before payday, when the peanut butter was gone for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, or eggs for egg salad, that made the fear to eat in front of my classmates, alarmingly, emotional. God, however, had given a woman the creativity to be a wonderful mom, my Mom, who grew up with an alcoholic father, 5 brothers, to help Gramma feed during the depression in Plainview, MN. So when I would open my brown paper bag and find an apple with my butter and sugar sandwich, I ate the sandwich trying to hide it’s contents from my friends view. It wasn’t we couldn’t afford better, at least, that’s what my “mind” understood, because my Dad had a good job, but the pain my heart felt as I ate that sandwich was we were “poor”. It was my Dad, who was taking from his family so he could save up and buy that property on the lake, build that beautiful cottage, take flying lessons, and have 2 airplanes. My Dad fell prey to this lifestyle that all his co-workers at Ford Styling was in. They all had toys and houses to talk about at the water cooler. He wanted to talk that way, too. Dad had 7 kids, though. So the influence at work took shape. Obviously, my Dad’s decision hurt his children. So when we grew up not loving him as we should, he couldn’t undetstand, “why”. He thought he had done a good job. He’d given his family, he thought, what was important… nice things. But because he had failed to supply basic needs we needed, the “big things” to his kids were fun and great, but finally the hurt surfaced as we grew older. But I have had alot of time to realize, that God makes no mistakes with the person He allowed to be my Father, whose mistakes as a dad, my Dad, affected me greatly. I had to come to the place that “in evetything give thanks” because God’s will is always perfect. He allowed all things of imperfect people. So when my husband and I fell on hard times of no work, I too did not respond correctly. I have had to be reminded by the Lord, rebuked by the Lord, that he allows this so we can grow…mature..because we need this, NOW. I know I didn’t like it. But, I do know when my kids were in need of clothes or things, and people gave to us, or we visited “Sallys” we nick named for the town Salvation Army, my past of having “need” aa a child reminded me to be thankful. So glad my heavenly Father did just that. Thank you, Melissa, for sharing such a personal story about yourself. It helps us all to know that we are not alone in some of our trials, very similar, we are allowed to face as a woman. Love you.
God has done such a work of grace in both of our hearts, Pam. Thank you for sharing your testimony – I know it will touch the hearts of others, as it has already touched mine.
Two words…Jehovah Jireh!
Amen! Couldn’t have said it better myself.
Thank you for sharing your heart. We have special “seen by God” stories in our memorials of His faithfulness as well. Your writing is beautiful❤️
Great is His faithfulness is only a song until you experience it, right? Thank you for your encouragement, Holly.
Have thoroughly enjoyed your blog! The learned lessons from our lives shared from our heart in truth resonate with others to comfort, inspire, teach and give insight! I am glad you continue to stretch yourself in this way. May God bless you through the memories and others through its retelling! ❤️
Thank you, Gail. I just want Him to use my story, however He desires!
Hi melissa
This is truly an amazing and encouraging post. Can I have your permission to translate this into Chinese so more people can be blessed during this time of need? I will be sure to cite you as the original author.
Dear Lei, My heart would be so very blessed if this were to bless others, especially in China where they have been so badly hit with this terrible virus. You absolutely have my permission to translate this post. My prayers come with it, my friend.