Every day I offer up my writing, imagining the five loaves and two fish.
Far too often I’m breaking up the bread before I lay it in the basket. And all I’m left with is a bunch of crumbs. I’m meting it out — this bit will go here, this bit I can blog. Too soon I’m editing, trying to make my little lunch look like the other mass feeding or some other meal that it’s not.
I break up that first piece of bread, then the second. By the time I get to the third it’s starting to look more like bird feed than lunch for even one person, let alone a crowd. So I roll it all up, crumbs mingled with bread and pieces of dismembered fish, put it back in my bag, embarrassed at the very idea. What was I thinking?
Maybe I just need to lay it all down, whole and intact. Take it all out, open the wrapping, and put it in Jesus’ hands. Maybe I need to leave the blessing and the breaking to him.
Maybe I don’t need to worry that it was intended only for me, that I wasn’t thinking of company when I made it, that the flavor or type isn’t to anyone else’s taste. Maybe I need to stop picking out the olives or peeling off the strips of onion.
This is the bread and fish I have, brought from home. It wasn’t catered. It’s not gourmet. But maybe right now, in this place, I happen to be the only one with something to give, even if it’s only my lunch. Even if it wasn’t prepared for company, only for me.
I can look at my five imperfect rolls and two small fish, and not bother to mention it today. I can tap a few people on the shoulder and quietly share it with them — one, or two, max.
Or I can, by faith, lay it all in the basket and not think about the crowd.