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.