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I found myself standing in front of the open pantry late one night, looking for something to eat even though I was not actually hungry.
I had already checked the refrigerator.
Then the freezer.
Then the pantry again, as though something new might have appeared during the thirty seconds I had been gone.
It had been a long week. I was tired, behind on things, and carrying that restless feeling that comes when your body wants to stop but your mind is still holding a staff meeting.
There were messages I had not answered. Things around the house I had meant to take care of. Work I could have done better. Decisions I was still putting off.
I did not need food.
I needed the day to stop pressing against me.
I wanted something sweet or salty enough to interrupt the noise in my head. Something easy. Something that would make me feel better without asking me to explain why I felt bad in the first place.
I think most of us have our own version of standing in front of the pantry.
Maybe it is picking up the phone for no real reason and realizing twenty minutes later that we are still scrolling.
Maybe it is adding something to an online shopping cart because imagining a package arriving feels better than sitting with whatever is bothering us.
Maybe it is working later than we need to because crossing one more thing off the list gives us a brief sense of control.
Maybe it is researching a problem so thoroughly that we start believing the next article, video, or opinion will finally make us feel safe.
The thing we reach for is not always bad.
Food is not bad. Work is not bad. Planning is not bad. Watching something funny after a hard day is not bad.
But sometimes we ask these things to do a job they cannot do.
We ask them to quiet fears they cannot reach.
We ask them to tell us we are okay.
We ask them to give us peace.
That is why one line from Isaiah caught me this week:
“Why spend your money for what is not bread, your wages for what fails to satisfy?”
I do not hear that as God scolding us for enjoying ordinary things.
I hear it more like someone gently asking, “Is this actually helping?”
Is the scrolling helping?
Is the overthinking helping?
Is pushing myself harder making me feel more secure, or just more tired?
Is this thing feeding me, or is it only keeping me occupied long enough to avoid noticing how empty I feel?
Those are uncomfortable questions because I usually know the answer.
What makes it worse is that I can bring the same exhausted mindset into my relationship with God.
I start treating prayer like one more thing I should be doing better.
I tell myself I will sit down and pray once I finish the urgent work.
I will spend time with God after I get the house under control.
I will read Scripture once my mind is quieter.
I will be more present when I am less distracted, less anxious, and less tired.
The result is that I keep postponing God until I become a version of myself who does not currently exist.
Somewhere along the way, I start believing that I need to arrive with something impressive.
A calm mind.
A grateful heart.
Strong faith.
A decent attention span.
At the very least, a prayer that makes it through an entire minute without wandering into tomorrow’s schedule.
But this Sunday’s readings do not seem to be about people arriving with plenty.
They are about hunger.
They are about need.
They are about people who cannot provide everything for themselves.
In Isaiah, God invites the thirsty to come and drink. He invites people who have no money to come and eat.
That part matters.
He does not tell them to come back when they can afford it.
He does not ask them to prove how badly they need it.
He does not make them explain how they ended up hungry.
He simply tells them to come.
Then, in Matthew’s Gospel, there is a crowd of thousands in a deserted place. It is getting late. People are hungry, and the disciples are looking at a situation that is obviously bigger than what they can handle.
Their suggestion is understandable.
Send everyone away.
Let them go find food somewhere else.
It is practical. It is responsible. It probably feels like the only realistic option.
But Jesus says, “There is no need for them to go away.”
I kept returning to that sentence.
There is no need for them to go away.
Because going away is often exactly what I do when I feel overwhelmed.
I move away from stillness.
I move away from honesty.
I move away from God and toward anything that gives me the feeling that I am taking action.
I plan harder.
I distract myself.
I try to fix my mood.
I tell myself I will return to prayer later, after I have dealt with whatever seems more urgent.
I send myself away to find relief somewhere else.
But Jesus does not send the hungry crowd away.
He tells the disciples to feed them.
The disciples look at what they have and say, essentially, “This cannot possibly be enough.”
Five loaves.
Two fish.
That is all.
I imagine there was some embarrassment in admitting it. There was a huge need in front of them, and their contribution looked almost ridiculous by comparison.
I know that feeling.
It is the feeling of looking at the day ahead and realizing I do not have the energy for it.
It is trying to pray when my mind is already running in six directions.
It is wanting to be patient with someone when my patience has been worn down to the last thread.
It is looking at my responsibilities, my worries, and the people who may be counting on me and thinking, “What I have is not enough.”
Sometimes that is the most honest prayer I can offer.
I do not have enough energy.
I do not have enough focus.
I do not know what the right decision is.
I do not feel especially holy or peaceful today.
I have five loaves, two fish, and several unfinished tasks glaring at me from across the room.
The good news in the Gospel is that Jesus does not ask the disciples to create more before they come to Him.
He asks them to bring what they have.
That is different.
He does not shame them for the smallness of it.
He does not tell them they should have planned better.
He takes what they place in His hands.
He blesses it.
He breaks it.
And somehow, what was clearly not enough becomes enough to feed everyone there.
I do not think this means that every problem disappears if I say the right prayer.
It does not mean I can ignore responsibilities, avoid hard decisions, or assume everything will work out exactly the way I want.
It means I do not have to carry everything alone before I am allowed to come close to God.
I can come while I am still tired.
I can come while the problem is still unresolved.
I can come while my faith feels small.
I can come without pretending that I have more to offer than I really do.
That may be what empty hands are for.
Empty hands are not impressive.
They cannot point to everything they have accomplished.
They cannot pretend to be in control.
But they can receive.
Psalm 145 says that God opens His hand and satisfies the desire of every living thing.
I usually focus on what is missing from my own hands.
What I have not finished.
What I cannot afford.
What I do not know.
What I am afraid I will not be able to handle.
The Psalm gently moves my attention away from my hands and toward God’s.
His hand is open.
He is not standing at a distance, waiting for me to pull myself together.
He is not irritated that I am tired again.
He is not disappointed that I am still struggling with something I thought I would have outgrown by now.
He is near.
The Psalm says the Lord is near to all who call upon Him.
Not only to the people who call upon Him beautifully.
Not only to people who have a peaceful morning routine, a clean kitchen, and a perfectly organized prayer journal.
To all who call upon Him.
Sometimes calling upon Him may sound less like a formal prayer and more like:
“Lord, I am overwhelmed.”
“I do not know how to do this.”
“I am angry.”
“I am scared.”
“I need help.”
“I do not have much to give You today.”
Saint Paul’s words in Romans make this even more personal.
He asks whether anguish, distress, hardship, or danger can separate us from the love of Christ.
His answer is no.
Nothing can separate us from the love of God.
I have read those words many times, but I often live as though there are exceptions.
Maybe God loves me, but I have not prayed enough lately.
Maybe God is near, but I have been too distracted to notice Him.
Maybe I have let my anxiety take over again.
Maybe I have wasted too much time.
Maybe I should have handled this week better.
Maybe I need to improve before I can come back.
But Paul does not leave room for those little private exceptions.
Neither the present nor the future can separate us from God’s love.
That means this present moment cannot separate me from Him.
Not the difficult email.
Not the financial worry.
Not the tension in my chest.
Not the task I keep avoiding.
Not the fact that I am standing in front of the pantry at midnight hoping crackers will solve an existential problem.
God is here too.
I do not have to escape the moment to find Him.
I do not need to wait for a better setting.
I do not need candles, silence, or a suddenly improved personality.
I can notice Him in the middle of the life I actually have.
This week, I want to practice something very simple.
Before reaching for my phone in the morning, I am going to sit for a few seconds with my hands open in my lap.
Nothing dramatic.
No long list of intentions.
No pressure to feel anything.
Just open hands.
Then I am going to tell God the truth about what I have.
“Lord, I am tired.”
“Lord, I am worried about this.”
“Lord, I do not feel ready for today.”
“Lord, this is what I have. Please help me use it well.”
I may also need to repeat that prayer later, especially when I feel the urge to run toward something that promises quick relief.
Before opening another app.
Before eating something I do not really want.
Before turning one unanswered message into a prediction that my entire future is collapsing.
Before trying to work my way out of being human.
I can stop and ask:
“What am I actually hungry for right now?”
Maybe I need rest.
Maybe I need to admit I am lonely.
Maybe I need to ask someone for help.
Maybe I need to step outside.
Maybe I need to let one task remain unfinished.
Maybe I simply need to remember that I am loved before I solve anything.
Jesus did not ask the crowd to stop being hungry.
He did not tell the disciples to pretend five loaves were a banquet.
He met them inside the reality of what they lacked.
That is the part I find comforting.
God is not waiting for the polished version of me.
He is not waiting at the end of my completed to-do list.
He is not hiding until I achieve the right spiritual mood.
He is here, in the kitchen light, in the tired morning, in the middle of the workday, and in the few seconds between feeling overwhelmed and reaching for another distraction.
So today, I am trying not to arrive before God with a speech.
I am trying to arrive with the truth.
I am tired.
I am hungry for peace.
I keep reaching for things that cannot quite satisfy me.
I do not have as much patience, energy, or certainty as I wish I had.
This is what I have.
These are my five loaves.
These are my two fish.
These are my empty hands.
And for now, I am going to trust that they are enough to place in His.
A simple prayer:
Jesus,
You already know what I am carrying today.
You know the things I am trying to fix, the things I am avoiding, and the ways I look for comfort when I feel overwhelmed.
I do not have a perfect prayer to offer You.
I only have what is honestly here.
My tiredness.
My worries.
My unfinished work.
My small amount of faith.
Please take what I have.
Help me stop running toward things that cannot give me peace.
Remind me that I do not need to earn Your attention or clean myself up before coming close.
When I feel as though I do not have enough, help me place what I have in Your hands.
Stay with me in the ordinary parts of this day.
Amen.
