Thanks for the Bread

Dear friend,

I’m writing to say thanks. I wish I could thank you personally, but I don’t know where you are. I wish I could call you, but I don’t know your name. If I knew your appearance, I’d look for you, but your face is fuzzy in my memory. But I’ll never forget what you did.

There you were, leaning against your pickup in the West Texas oil field. An engineer of some sort. A supervisor on the job. Your khakis and clean shirt set you apart from us roustabouts. In the oil field pecking order, we were at the bottom. You were the boss. We were the workers. You read the blueprints. We dug the ditches. You inspected the pipe. We laid it. You ate with the bosses in the shed. We ate with each other in the shade. Except that day. I remember wondering why you did it.

We weren’t much to look at. What wasn’t sweaty was oily. Faces burnt from the sun; skin black from the grease. Didn’t bother me, though. I was there only for the summer. A high-school boy earning good money laying pipe. For me, it was a summer job. For the others, it was a way of life. Most were illegal immigrants from Mexico. Others were drifters, bouncing across the prairie as rootless as tumbleweeds. We weren’t much to listen to, either. Our language was sandpaper coarse. After lunch, we’d light the cigarettes and begin the jokes. Someone always had a deck of cards with lacy-clad girls on the back. For thirty minutes in the heat of the day, the oil patch became Las Vegas—replete with foul language, dirty stories, blackjack, and barstools that doubled as lunch pails.

Out of your comfort zone

In the middle of such a game, you approached us. I thought you had a job for us that couldn’t wait another few minutes. Like the others, I groaned when I saw you coming. You were nervous. You shifted your weight from one leg to the other as you began to speak.
“Uh, fellows,” you started.
We turned and looked up at you.
“I, uh, I just wanted, uh, to invite … ”
You were way out of your comfort zone. I had no idea what you might be about to say, but I knew that it had nothing to do with work.
“I just wanted to tell you that, uh, our church is having a service tonight and, uh … ”
“What?” I couldn’t believe it. “He’s talking church? Out here? With us?”
“I wanted to invite any of you to come along.”
Silence. Screaming silence. The same silence you’d hear if a nun asked a madam if she could use the brothel for a mass. The same silence you’d hear if an IRS representative invited the Mafia to a seminar on tax integrity. Several guys stared at the dirt. A few shot glances at the others. Snickers rose just inches from the surface.

“Well, that’s it. Uh, if any of you want to go … uh, let me know.” After you turned and left, we turned  and laughed. We called you “reverend,” “preacher,” and “the pope.” We poked fun at each other, daring one another to go. You became the butt of the day’s jokes. I’m sure you knew that. I’m sure you went back to your truck knowing the only good you’d done was to make a good fool out of yourself. If that’s what you thought, then you were wrong. That’s the reason for this letter.

I thought of you this week. I thought of you when I read about someone else who took a risk at lunch. I thought of you when I read the story of the little boy who gave his lunch to Jesus. His lunch wasn’t much. In fact, it wasn’t anything compared to what was needed for more than five thousand people. He probably wrestled with the silliness of it all. What was one lunch for so many? He probably asked himself if it was even worth the effort. How far could one lunch go? I think that’s why he didn’t give the lunch to the crowd. Instead he gave it to Jesus. Something told him that if he would plant the seed, God would grant the crop.

So he did. He summoned his courage, got up off the grass, and walked into the circle of grownups. He was as out of place in that cluster as you were in ours. He must have been nervous. No one likes to appear silly. Someone probably snickered at him, too.
If they didn’t snicker, they shook their heads. “The little fellow doesn’t know any better.” If they didn’t shake their heads, they rolled their eyes. Here we have a hunger crisis, and this little boy thinks that a sack lunch will solve it.” But it wasn’t the men’s heads or eyes that the boy saw; he saw only Jesus.

You must have seen Jesus, too, when you made your decision. Most people would have considered us to be unlikely deacon material. Most would have saved their seeds for softer soil. And they’d have been almost right. But Jesus said to give … so you gave.
As I think about it, you and the little boy have a lot in common:

• You both used your lunch to help others.
• You both chose faith over logic.
• You both brought a smile to your Father’s face.

There’s one difference, though. The boy got to see what Jesus did with his gift, and you didn’t. That’s why I’m writing. I want you to know that at least one of the seeds fell into a fertile crevice.

Did he have the courage?

Some five years later, a college sophomore was struggling with a decision. He had drifted from the faith given to him by his parents. He wanted to come back. He wanted to come home. But the price was high. His friends might laugh. His habits would have to change. His reputation would have to be overcome. Could he do it? Did he have the courage?

That’s when I thought of you. As I sat in my dorm room late one night, looking for the guts to do what I knew was right, I thought of you. I thought of how your love for God had been greater than your love for your reputation. I thought of how your obedience had been greater than your common sense. I remembered how you had cared more about making disciples than about making a good first impression. And when I thought of you, your memory became my motivation.

So I came home.

I’ve told your story dozens of times to thousands of people. Each time the reaction is the same: The audience becomes a sea of smiles, and heads bob in understanding. Some smile because they think of the “clean-shirted engineers” in their lives. They remember the neighbor who brought the cake, the aunt who wrote the letter, the teacher who
listened …

Others smile because they have done what you did. And they, too, wonder if their “lunchtime loyalty” was worth the effort. You wondered that. What you did that day wasn’t much. And I’m sure you walked away that day thinking that your efforts had been wasted. They weren’t. So I’m writing to say thanks. Thanks for the example. Thanks for the courage.
Thanks for giving your lunch to God. He did something with it; it became the Bread of Life for me.
Gratefully,
Max

P.S. If by some remarkable coincidence you read this and remember that day, please give me a call. I owe you lunch.  

From “In the eye of the storm” World Publishing © 1991 Max Lucado. Used with permission