When You're Buying The Bread Alone

or: the One who can feed the multitudes

I can feel his desperation as he surveys the crowd before him. The air is heavy with it. It's midday, and the nearest store is miles away. The hopelessness sinks in deep as he looks down at his hands, seeing how little he has to offer. His voice is thin, cracking at every word, "How far will it go among so many?" He stands there. Completely broken. Completely overwhelmed. I know it because I, too, have stood there.

The crowd is dauntingly large and the afternoon sun scorches everything it lands on. The crowd is murmuring, growing restless from the exhaustion and the heat. Feet scuffle and the unrest grows as the young ones cry out and the whispers mound. They hear his voice amidst the low rumble of the crowd.  "Where will we buy the bread?" At a loss for words, the air grows silent. They look on, dumbfounded. How can it be the One who knows all and holds all is asking the question? He had all the answers until now.

Moments pass. His question hangs there, suspended in mid-air. Even if bread could be found, and enough bread at that, how could they even buy it all? "Eight months wages would not buy enough for each one to have a bite!" The direness of the situation is not lost on any one of them. There is no denying it: they are desperate. The need here is greater than any person could fill. He steps forward, outstretched hands trembling. But he gives all he has-- 5 loaves, 2 fish. And his mustard-sized seed of hope.

"How far will it go among so many???"

The question haunts me, eating me away piece by piece. I know Andrew's doubt. I can taste the despair on the back of my tongue and feel it in my very bones. In a country where the need is so great, I look at what my outstretched hands have to offer. And I want to run, abandoning hope with every step.. because how can one girl living in the small town of Limbe help the multitudes? Really? The realization is backbreaking, the sense of defeat leaving me a crumpled mess on the floor. There is so much need just within these four walls, much less the roads you walk outside of here. Anything you may do literally makes you feel as though you are emptying the ocean with an eyedropper. It's never enough.

There is one who reaffirms my every doubt, and thrives on my feelings of inadequacy and regret. He tells me over and over again what logically cannot be accomplished. He makes certain I know that what I have to offer is not as good as the next guy's, so why even bother? He reaffirms my greatest fear, saying it's all been in vain- all the spelling words and the afternoons spent doing sensory play and stopping by the nursing home; the life I left in Chicago. Paralyzed by the overwhelming situation, I fall prey to his lies more times than I'd care to admit.

Yet still, there is One who speaks, and at His voice all falls silent. It's in the silence that I remember, and only there can I hear Him, "I never asked you to buy the bread alone, love." 

Oh, how quick I am to forget. 

What I have given can never reach to the ends of the crowd; it will hardly make it past the first small handful of people. But that's when I remember: I didn't give it to the crowd. I gave it to the One who turns water into wine and fills the nets with fish until they overflow and feeds the multitudes on 5 loaves and 2 fish. With eyes fixed not on the crowd, but on my sweet, ever-loving Jesus, I've entrusted to Him all that I have to offer. And only He is the one who can make it enough.

Throughout my life, I have been blessed with the opportunity to watch Him feed the multitudes again and again. And the past few months have been no exception. I have watched the ones around me take all that they have and all that they are, and offer it to the One who provides, the One whose steadfast faithfulness remains true from generation to generation. Their trust and humility and servant-hearted attitudes are nothing less than humbling and inspiring to stand in the midst of, stirring those who witness it to a deeper level of child-like faith. 

I don't know where you're finding yourself today. Maybe you've walked faithfully for years, with your eyes gazed solely on the One who can do infinitely more than we ever dare dream of. Or perhaps.. maybe just perhaps, I'm not standing alone here tonight, surveying the multitudes and the bread loaves in my hands? There's a lot I don't know, but this I'm certain of: I've spent too much time paralyzed by the crowds. I know not what the future holds, but I know Who I want to spend it gazing at.

"How far can it go among so many?" It falls on my ears again, the very same question. Only this time, the voice is strong, bold, full of expectant hope. Because this time, his eyes are not on the crowd. This time, he gazes right into the eyes of the One who can. And he knows he stands on holy ground.

Because He Says So
 otherwise entitled: Anna stayed awake too late

The night has been long and for all of their efforts, they have nothing to show. The docks are beginning to fill with life once again as the pale gray sky turns shades of pink and orange. There's this slapping of the tide and the rustling of the nets as they are dragged ashore and washed clean. A steady, slow rhythm of cawing birds and life arising from the dead of the night beats in the air. The people murmur as His footsteps come to pass, the air filling with a sense of awe and curiosity. The whole countryside has heard of him, of his teachings and his stories and his healings. They whisper amongst themselves, "It is he." The word spreads like wildfire. "It is this Jesus."  

Slowly the crowd grows as the people begin to follow Him to the water's edge. He climbs aboard a boat, causing Simon to look on in disbelief as this Rabbi sits and begins to teach. Simon rows away from the shore, his arms aching with the toils of the night. They are forgotten at a moments notice, with Jesus spinning stories and words and lessons. His arms wave wildly and his voice rises and falls with emotion as he speaks. Simon sits, mesmerized. With his wisdom he opens the eyes of the crowd and brings the Scripture to life before them. Who is this Jesus?

As he finishes, Jesus turns to Simon. "Put out into the deep. Let down the nets for a catch." 

The dull ache in his shoulders remind him of the night he has had. He stands, knees crackling beneath the weight of him. The boat rocks, unsteady in the water as he sighs deep, "Master, we've worked all night and haven't caught anything…" he pauses, looking to his men, the lines of fatigue etched into their faces and written across their slumped shoulders. He looks at his hands, calloused from years of net cleaning and rope pulling and working the docks. He looks heavily into the eyes of the One who has asked, finishing his sentence, "but because you say so, I will let down the nets."

Because You say so.. oh, how many times I have failed to let this be enough. 

The nets grow heavy with the bounty of fish. The men's weary grunts turn to shouts of ecstasy, the deck an array of excitement and madness. Anxiously they wave on another boat, sharing the catch. The boats fill to the brim, barely reaching the shoreline without sinking with the weight of their haul. One moment they are wearied and tired fisherman, and the next they rejoice in experiencing the catch of a lifetime. 

Among them there is one. It is Simon, who falls to his knees before the feet of Jesus. Simon, who let down his nets after a long night. Simon, who knew enough of Who Jesus was that "because You say so" was enough. Simon, who should be reveling in the best catch a fisherman not even dare to dream of. And we find him here, at the feet of Jesus. 

What a beautiful image. 

To experience the highest point in your life and to fall at the feet of Jesus. He has grasped that which is significant in the moment, that which truly matters. 

What went through his mind as he began the long row out to the deep? I often wonder. Did he think himself a fool? Did his arms buckle beneath the heavy nets cast overboard once again? I imagine the rush of emotions and questions that swept over him… the exhaustion, the curiosity, the stupidity, the fear. And part of me likes to believe there was a flicker of hope in Simon's heart that, though he try, he could not fully extinguish. 

Time in Haiti has taught me many things and led me to ask many a question late into the night. But perhaps the most pressing lately has been this whispering question deep within: where do you plant your hope? Here it is far too great a temptation to look at your surroundings, to base things off realism when you consider what can be accomplished. To do so is a dangerous infringement on your hope and your faith. Because here, the rules of logic and sense do not apply. Catch yourself quickly, or you'll find you've lost your focus entirely.

The truth of the matter is this, and only this: because He says so. For the past week there have been early mornings at the breakfast table with conversations and the clattering of plates and the steaming of coffee as the sink fills with bubbles and we live this crazy thing called life. Their voices rumble as the children shriek and their words penetrate. Over and over again I have been blessed to hear the hearts of those God has placed here. And over and over again it fills me with a sense of such joy. Their words give me much to ponder well into the evening, and their faith is one that inspires. Because they have lived in the midst of because You said so, each one in their own way with their own stories to tell. One can't help but become fascinated. 

This upcoming week we will start school, the days becoming a routine of books and papers and bathroom breaks and chalk dust. And I pray, that we'd learn more than just multiplication tables and sentence structures. Tonite a small boy sleeps soundly in a pac 'n' play. Even so my heart can't help but wonder how many more are out there? A language barrier vast and wide separates me from their world and the things i long to ask them, the stories my ears itch to hear. I know the odds and I've heard the statistics. I know realistically I am one small girl in a very large world, and these things unvoiced I'm so afraid to dream are downright foolish. But like Simon, I will choose "because You said so". And the nets may fill with fish and the nets may not. Ultimately that doesn't matter much.  What matters is this long row out to the deep, this bending of the knee and of the will. 

Stake your tent and your hope in this land, in this place of "because You say so". For surely, He does not disappoint.