Last week, God bought my lunch.
Well, technically, a man in a red shirt did. But I’m giving God the credit.
It had already been one of those days when I had several things going at once. I’d spent part of the morning working on my manuscript, or at least trying to, while Annie Grace, my miniature schnauzer, entertained herself with ice cubes.
There’s a story there, but we’ll save that one for another day.
I had errands to run, and a friend had gathered hoodies, quilts, blankets, and other things for me to pick up for the homeless. I planned to do some street ministry later, but first I was meeting my twin sister for lunch.
We chose one of our favorite places. A lot of people go there for the barbecue. We go for the baked potatoes. Don’t judge us. We know what we like.
We were standing at the register, ready to pay, when a man wearing a red shirt suddenly stepped between my sister’s right shoulder and my left. Before my sister could tap her debit card on the machine, he reached over and paid for both of our lunches.
I looked at him, sursomewhere. prised.
He said, “All I’m gonna say is, you fed me when I was hungry.”
For a second, I just stood there. Then I recognized him.
I had met him years ago during a difficult season in his life. I don’t remember all the circumstances surrounding those days.
I don’t even know for certain whether he was homeless at the time or caught somewhere between having enough and having nothing.
But I remember this: He was hungry.
And God let our paths cross when I could help him get something to eat and become his friend.
We crossed paths several times back then during my street ministry outings, but eventually life moved along, as it does, and I hadn’t seen him in years. Until last Wednesday, when he bought me lunch.
I already knew life had changed for him. He has his own business now, and today he was there with his crew, grabbing lunch in the middle of their workday.
And there he stood in that red shirt, holding onto a memory I hadn’t realized he still carried: “You fed me when I was hungry.”
I hugged him, tears filling my eyes from the kindness he offered.
Later, my sister told me that practically everyone behind the counter had been watching. Several employees were preparing food and filling orders, and apparently they all noticed this man suddenly step between two women at the cash register.
Then I turned around and hugged him. My sister said you could almost feel the collective sigh of relief.
That makes me laugh.
But it also means they heard him.
And maybe they needed to hear it. Maybe I did, too.
Because kindness isn’t about keeping score; we don’t feed someone so they’ll remember us years later. We don’t give because we expect something returned. We simply try to notice the person God puts in front of us and do what we can with what we have.
Sometimes that means a meal. Sometimes it’s a blanket, a hoodie, a prayer, a verse, or a few minutes spent listening to someone who desperately needs to be heard.
Most of the time, we never know what happens afterward. But every once in a while, God lets a story circle back around.
And there I was, getting ready to head out for street ministry, when an old friend walked into a restaurant and reminded me why we keep showing up for people.
Years ago, he was hungry, and God let me buy the meal. That day, God let him buy mine.
And somewhere between two baked potatoes, a red shirt, and a hug at the cash register, I think God hugged me, too, along with a host of others watching and listening to a simple phrase: “You fed me when I was hungry.”
