There were meals that reached “star status” when our kids were young—recipes that hit the spot time and again. And truthfully, those same dishes still top our family’s list of favorites.
Fast forward to Monday night. Mary, who volunteers on the “meal team” at Colorado Community Church, had a family to deliver dinner to.
There were plenty of options—quick and easy choices, adequate but unremarkable ideas.
But that’s not what Mary chose. She went with one of those tried-and-true favorites cherished by our children and now our grandchildren:
Chicken enchiladas, Spanish rice, and locally sourced tortilla chips.
(Just typing that makes me hungry!)
A 5 p.m. delivery meant I could provide transportation. So we packed up the meal, braved the terrible traffic and intermittent rain, and arrived at an apartment complex on the north side of Denver.
Mary slipped her volunteer name tag over her head, and together we walked through the rain to the door.
It took a while for Erica to answer, but when she did, she invited us inside. Behind her stood a teenage daughter holding tightly to the collar of a very large white dog. As we stepped into the small kitchen, the reality of the living conditions hit us like a wave—walls gouged and marred, dirt swept into a pile but still lingering, trash on the counters, dishes in the sink.
A small patch of counter space provided just enough room for the dinner Mary had made—our family favorite.
Mary gave a few simple instructions, and we were back out the door.
I confess—I was disoriented.
What we witnessed was both sobering and heartbreaking. It still is.
I find comfort in order, control, and stability. I carry a set of ready-made answers to life’s complex problems—answers that help me keep my distance from discomfort. But on Monday night, our meal delivery collided with my clichés.
As I continue to process and pray through what I saw, I’m struck by the lesson Mary quietly taught me. The message was sitting right there on the counter. Next to our freshly made meal was an empty Lean Cuisine box—a product of Nestlé, the global giant. In stark contrast sat Mary’s hand-crafted meal, prepared on our stove and in our oven. A family favorite, offered to a total stranger.
Jesus put it this way: “I was hungry, and you gave me food.”
That’s what Christ asks of us. We weren’t solving global hunger—we were simply widening the circle of our family table to include someone in need. That’s what Mary invited me into.
The call of Jesus is disorienting. Uncomfortable. Sobering. And into that uneasy space, He invites us to bring our best—our family favorites—for Him to use in showing His tender love and compassion.
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