I’m used to churches serving people with food.
The church I grew up in held a dinner to mark every occasion. Any time anyone died, foil-wrapped casseroles and giant boxes of chicken started showing up en masse, enough to feed a family of five for weeks on end. Birth? Food. Illness? Food. Celebration? Food!
Somewhere along the way, I got used to it. The jokes about Baptists and big meals always gave me a chuckle. Serving food after a tragedy was just something Christians did. And although it’s always seemed like a nice tradition, I’ll admit that some part of me stopped viewing it as a ministry. I even wondered – somewhere around the 5,000th box of chicken – if maybe it was overkill. Because it was a typical response to tragedy in the world I lived in, I think I grew to take it for granted.
And then…
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