Loaves and Fishes (And Lemonade)
The simple white envelope addressed to World Vision holds more than just a check for $1100. Stuffed between the crisp folds of paper lies evidence of a child’s dream. And irrefutable proof that God is ALWAYS far bigger than we imagine Him to be.
With seven days left before the school year began, I wasn’t looking for one more summer project. I simply wanted to spend time with the kids, create a few more happy family memories, and survive a week packed with first-of-the-season soccer practices, end-of-the-summer Bible studies, football meetings, birthday parties, and meet-your-teacher days at three different schools. I wanted to end well, but I also wanted to still be standing at the end! If I’d known that watching a four-minute video on You-Tube was going to challenge my tidy-end-to-summer plan, I’d never have pushed play.
But I did. (Thank God). Eyes glued to the screen, Hannah and I watched heart-wrenching images of African women and children who looked like the clanking synthetic skeleton that had once hung in my eighth grade science classroom. We saw images of a land raped of life, pictures of vultures surrounding children not yet dead, waiting for the inevitable. I glanced at my seven-year-old as portraits of desperation beyond my imagination danced across the computer screen–Children too weak to move. Mothers huddled over their babies like wild animals protecting their young. Hallow eyes pleading for help.
The pictures blurred with my tears. My stomach lurched.
I turned my eyes, unable to watch the suffering and focused instead on the seven-year-old curled up silently beside me. Tears streamed down her cheeks as her wide blue eyes bore into the screen and she allowed the truth to break her heart.
The pictures halted. The music stopped. Her weeping was the only sound in the room.
“Mommy, what are we going to do?”
Silence. A woman of words, I had none. I wanted to reverse time and keep on pretending I didn’t know.
Louder, “Mommy what are we going to do?” She grabbed my elbow and shook it as if I were asleep.
Weakly, I replied. “We’ll pray.”
“I KNOW, but I want to DO something,” my tender one demanded.
“Honey, what could we do?”
“I don’t know,” she murmured, deep in thought. “We’ve got to do something.”
I left her to her musings. Switched the laundry, peeled potatoes, prepared a hot dish for our evening potluck. Prayed. Tried to get the images out of my mind. Thanked the Lord for placing me in the heart of green cornfields rather than the horn of Africa.
Then she skipped into the room. Eyes hopeful and voice expectant, she said, “Remember how all summer I’ve been wanting to have a lemonade stand?”
“Ye-es…”
“Well, that’s what I’m going to do for Africa. Have a lemonade stand and send those kids the money.”
“But honey, we won’t get any customers out here in the country. We only have eight neighbors who drive up our street each day.” Why is my gut reaction always “no”?
“Couldn’t we do it somewhere else?” she pleaded.
I glance at the scribbles on the calendar. “Honey, there’s just so much going on in the next few days…. We only have one week left of summer….”
She turns away, discouraged. I feel defeated. I offer a simple idea: “Why don’t we dump out our God Jar and see how much money we’ve got? We can send that over to Africa.”
“I wanted to DO something, Mom. Something BIGGER.”
We go to a potluck at church. Hannah eyes the spread of sandwiches and salads, desserts and side-dishes. She grabs her gut as if she’s been shot.
“What’s wrong, honey?” I ask as I hurry to her side and grab the paper plate out of trembling hands.
“I just can’t look at all that food without thinking about those kids in Africa who don’t have any.”
I utter some ridiculous words about how she shouldn’t starve herself just because others are hungry, and I pull my pale-faced daughter through the line, piling her favorite foods on her plate. She picks at the bounty. The Spirit picks at my heart. And my selfishness. And my doubt.
“Okay,” I concede as I tuck my compassionate one into bed that night. “We can have a lemonade stand. I’ll call our friend Allie and see if we can use her yard in town…”
Hannah smiles and whispers, “Mom, if Jesus can use one little boy’s lunch to feed 5,000 people on a mountain top, then He can certainly use one little girl’s lemonade stand to feed 5,0000 people in the Horn of Africa.”
I kiss my daughter’s head and wish I had her heart.
And he said: “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. (Matthew 18:30)
And he said: “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. (Matthew 18:30)
We devise a plan. We call it Lemonade for Life. A friend suggests that we include baked goods. My stomach flops as I recite a litany of the busy week ahead. “I don’t have time to bake things,” I tell my friend. “I’m not sure I even have time to serve lemonade.”
My friend is quiet. “I’d be glad to bake something. I’m sure others would, too…” She looks me in the eye. “Why don’t you ask for help?”
I consider my friend’s advice as I scrub dirty dishes later that night. I scrape a glob of burnt cheese off of a glass pan and think about mothers in Africa who would be grateful for a dirty lasagna pan. I swallow my pride and admit that I can’t do everything on my own. I ask my niece to donate her Friday afternoon to monitor the stand while I take care of the calendar commitments. She willingly agrees and brainstorms marketing strategies. Her enthusiasm buoys Hannah’s zeal.
I send out a few emails inviting friends to stop by the stand and I briefly mention that we would be glad to add sweet treats to our cups of lemonade if anyone would like to donate some. Emails flood my inbox. Children I barely know want to help Hannah. Families volunteer to make, package, and drop off baked goods to a designated spot in our church on Friday morning. I am humbled by the enthusiastic response.
Hannah skips around the house with joyful anticipation. I make a poster. She tells anyone who will listen about the children starving in Africa. I beg the Lord to show up- more out of a deep desire to protect my daughter’s childlike faith than from an earnest heart seeking a loaves and fishes miracle.
Friday arrives hot and sunny; a day sure to spawn thirst. Hannah wakes with a smile, her excitement noisy and palpable. I head to church to pick up the donated baked goods. The counter is covered with treats, all labeled with three simple words: “Lemonade for Life.” Humbled, I thank God for the body of Christ The framework for Hannah’s dream has been laid. Now it’s up to God.
Hannah, her cousin, her sister, and a collection of friends set up the stand in our dear friend’s front yard and plant themselves beneath a cheery beach umbrella. They set out a glass pitcher for freewill donations and offer passers-by cold drinks and sweet treats. Crowds fill the sidewalk. Cars slow down to read their sign. Drivers lean out of opened car windows and wave green bills. “I don’t need anything, but I’d love to give!” My daughter smiles and serves. Smiles and serves. Tells of suffering children. Speaks of help and hope. And all the while an Invisible Hand breaks her dream into 5,000 loaves and fishes of hope.
We pack up when the clock reads five. Fold up the tables. Empty the pitchers. Return the rainbow umbrella to its home. And Lizzy begins to count the money. She tells us the total. We insist that she count again. Surely, she counted some bills twice. She agrees that the numbers are outrageous and admits that she’s tired. Her best friend counts the bills. My eldest girl tallies the coins. The numbers are the same.
Hannah whoops. I cry. Heaven cheers.
When Jesus arrived, he saw this huge crowd. At the sight of them, his heart broke—like sheep with no shepherd they were. He went right to work teaching them.
When his disciples thought this had gone on long enough—it was now quite late in the day—they interrupted: “We are a long way out in the country, and it’s very late. Pronounce a benediction and send these folks off so they can get some supper.”
Jesus said, “You do it. Fix supper for them.”
They replied, “Are you serious? You want us to go spend a fortune on food for their supper?”
But he was quite serious. “How many loaves of bread do you have? Take an inventory.”
That didn’t take long. “Five,” they said, “plus two fish.”
Jesus got them all to sit down in groups of fifty or a hundred—they looked like a patchwork quilt of wildflowers spread out on the green grass! He took the five loaves and two fish, lifted his face to heaven in prayer, blessed, broke, and gave the bread to the disciples, and the disciples in turn gave it to the people. He did the same with the fish. They all ate their fill. The disciples gathered twelve baskets of leftovers. More than five thousand were at the supper.
I’m ready to walk to the mailbox when Hannah spies the envelope. “Is this my lemonade money?” she asks.
I nod.
“All of it?”
“Every penny,” I assure her.
My compassionate one sighs as she fingers the envelope. “Do you think this will feed 5,000 children?”
In eyes-open prayer, I offer the $1100 dollars to the Lord.
“I think there will be baskets left over,” I say with a smile. I’ve already reached in and been fed by the overflow.
The Overflow: The Lord protects those of childlike faith; I was facing death, and he saved me. –Psalm 116:6
