Impossible

How would you like to prepare a meal for 4,000 people?

Many of us have cooked Thanksgiving or Christmas dinners with tables full of people. It’s takes planning and coordination. And it takes a bit luck to make sure everything is ready to eat at the exact same time.

But making a meal for 4,000 people? I think most of us would say one simple word: “Impossible.”

In today’s Gospel, we read how Jesus and his disciples went up to a mountain near the Sea of Galilee. The crowd that was following Him had been with Him for three days, and Jesus knew he needed to get them something to eat. But when He made the suggestion for a dinner break, the disciples responded with their own version of “impossible.”

“Where could we ever get enough bread in this deserted place to satisfy such a crowd?” 

Needless to say there were no nearby grocery stores and the ability to call for take-out wouldn’t be invented for a few thousand years.

But of course we know how this story ends. We’re all familiar with the loaves and fishes and the extra baskets of scraps.

How quick are you to say something is impossible in your life? How often do you reject an idea or a thought simply because you don’t think you’re able to follow through on it? We often find ourselves rejecting our abilities and talents, or questioning our place in the world. “I’m not good enough. I can’t do it.”

The Feeding of the 4000 is a lesson for us all. It’s a simple reminder that we can easily turn the word “Impossible” into two words: “I’m possible.”

All we need to do is repeat one simple sentence: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”-Philippians 4:13

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They Belonged

These past two weeks I’ve been touring the state, taking photos of health care centers for the elderly (what we used to call nursing homes). I was hired to capture both the exteriors and interiors for marketing purposes, and to take a few photos of the staff and residents for social media.

Last Thursday, I stopped at a center in western Wisconsin. When I entered the building, the hallways were empty. Most of the residents were in the activity room finishing up a late afternoon game of bingo. The group of 80-somethings were all munching on cookies and drinking juice when I showed up with my camera. All eyes were on me, wondering why I was there and what I was doing.

As I said hello and introduced myself, a small, frail woman came up to me and asked if I would take her picture.

“Of course,” I replied. “ I sat her at a table, and lined up my shot to capture her thin smile.

Then I heard a buzz start to travel throughout the room. While at first a bit shy, one-by-one, all of the residents at the bingo game asked if I would also take their photo. I moved from table to table, meeting the various residents, then capturing the sometime smiling and sometimes stoic faces of these proud people.

As I lined up my last photo and focused my camera, it struck me what was going on. Here was a group of people who understand who they are. They understand where they live and why they live there.

Their lives have changed. They are no longer able to move around with swiftness and ease. It’s difficult for them to see, and even more difficult for them to hear. They’re watching their bodies slowly betray them.

Yet…they still want the world to see them. They want to have their image captured and to be recognized. They want to matter. They want to belong.

“Do not cast me aside in my old age; as my strength fails, do not forsake me.” Psalm 71:9

For one simple moment, on one rainy Thursday afternoon, I had the privilege to capture the faces and the spirit of these wonderful men and women. And once again, they belonged.

 

Dan Herda is an editor of theROCK.