I imagine the ancient wilderness wanderers walking out of their tents each morning. Greeted by manna, the wife looks at the husband and asks, "Well, what do you want to do with it today? Manna Waffles? Filet of manna? Mannacoti? Ba-manna bread?" (With a nod to Keith Green.) The husband replies, "I would be perfectly happy with manna sandwiches." And that settled it. Manna sandwiches... again.
Bread of heaven. Stuff of earth.
I remember the best sandwich I have ever had. It was not because of the food itself, but the person with me.
My best friend Wade died in a plane crash almost ten years ago. Man. Ten years. Hard to believe. He is the reason I met my wife. Wade was my best man. I preached his and Amy's wedding. His first daughter was born two days after my son, and his second daughter was born two weeks after my little girl. Wade and Amy used to come to our house in West Texas to sleep for a weekend. Munday, Texas is not exactly an entertainment capital. One thing it is for sure, though, is quiet.
When Wade and Jennifer and I were in school together in Abilene, we would go back to his house in Weatherford for the weekends from time-to-time. Wade always wanted to stop at this hole-in-the-wall mom and pop place that smoked their own hams and made their own sourdough bread. Since he was driving, that's where we stopped every time we made that trip. Every. Stinking. Time. The sandwich was good, mind you. But the company was better.
I remember during our freshman year when Wade and I drove Jennifer to the airport in Dallas so that she could go to her grandfather's wedding in Colorado. The three of us crammed into his blue Chevy pickup that smelled like his chocolate labrador. Jen and I were not dating at the time, but I was madly in love with her. After we dropped her off, I told Wade that I wanted to marry Jen. He smiled. Even though he was kind of dating her at the time, he knew we were perfect for each other, and even said so.
I still remember the three of us eating those sandwiches on that trip. That was twenty years ago. They were the two best friends I have ever had. I am grateful to God every day that I still have Jen. And I cannot wait to get to heaven to see Wade again. Somewhere along a golden-paved interstate, we are going to have to find a sandwich shop.
I guess this whole Lenten fast of bread that I undertook--(Why did I pick bread?)--has me thinking about more eternal things. I take bread for granted. I have eaten it almost every day of my solid-food life. But like the wilderness wanderers and their manna, I am growing into seeing the deeper purpose of bread. It is a simple food. Filling. Some cultures survive mostly on it. Every Sunday we eat it together in the name of Jesus.
I am craving bread this morning. But as I committed to pray, I am asking God to fill that craving with the happiness that only comes through the Lord. And you know what? God is faithful.
I really miss Wade. My eyes still water when I allow myself to think about him as much as I am doing so right now. But like the bread we shared years ago when we were young and full of idealism, God takes those pockets of grief and fills them with holy peace. The bread filled us temporarily; God's peace fills us for eternity.
On the way to my office this morning I saw two different people eating cereal while they were driving. That has nothing to do with this particular reflection. I just wanted to get that out there in public. I actually laughed out loud when I saw the second lady. She was eating Cheerios and milk out of a pitcher. Two separate incidents. I thought it was kind of strange.
On second thought, perhaps there is a connection. We spend our lives eating food that only fills us for a moment. Even at Thanksgiving when we lumber away from the table and vow never to eat again. But then a few hours later, we crave that turkey sandwich. And it's good. Real good.
And that sandwich sounds good right about now. Real good.
But then I pray. I pray. And I have to take a deep breath, because I am again full for a lifetime.
