One summer when I was in college, I traveled home to Portland from Florida by Greyhound bus.  I had some money in my pocket for emergencies.


Somewhere in New Mexico I woke to a breakfast stop.  In the food line I purchased some chocolate milk, my usual food for the trip. When the line had slowly passed through, with most folks ordering a more substantial meal, the cook came to the table where I sat. 


“Could I fix you some breakfast?” Feeling unworthy because of the money I had, I said no.


He persisted. “I watch for people who come through the line who look like they could use some food.  It’s my way of helping.”


I said yes, and he brought me the most wonderful plate of pancakes, eggs and bacon.  I hadn’t finished when the bus fired up. I looked around for the cook. He was busy again at the counter.


I returned to the bus and my slumber, only just aware that I had experienced God’s love via pancakes.