Author:  Vivian Cumins

It was nothing more than a simple loaf of bread, but its message was powerful to each of us. For the downtrodden, homeless man, it symbolized hope and life. For me, it represented humility and submission. Worlds apart, he and I, yet as we sat on a cold bench, we became one. The only difference between us was the gift we would receive.

Gift exchange was a fun tradition in our neighborhood. Days before Christmas, our front porch became a breeding ground for homemade treats, tins of cookies, chocolates, and bags of caramel popcorn. One afternoon, I came home to a beautifully wrapped loaf of orange marmalade bread. Something told me to take the bread to work the following day.

My office was inside the Federal Building downtown of our small city. Parking was located across the street; not a big deal, it was a short walk in the spring and summer, but in the fall and winter, when daylight hours were few, the walk seemed longer. I dreaded it.

The city lampposts were intended to shed light on the darkened parking lot, however, their illumination produced a shadowy-infused ambiance. This created opportunity for ill-intended street occupants to engage in inappropriate behavior. As I walked to and from my car in the early morning and evening hours, I was accosted by men who emerged from the shadows. Some wanted money, others wanted sex. Refusal of either resulted in verbal attacks of profanity. It was an ongoing ritual; one that hadn’t broken any laws. I learned to simply ignore it, which is why I crossed the street without so much as a glance at the downtrodden man on the bench.

Clutching my purse and the loaf of orange marmalade bread, I hurried passed him in fear and entered the safe confines of the Federal Building. My stomach churned. By the time I made it to my office, I was sweating profusely. As I took off my coat and mittens, I stared at the loaf of bread I placed on my desk. My heart pounded wildly as these words entered my conscious: “Give him the bread.”

“No,” I said aloud.

“Give him the bread.”

The prompting became stronger the longer I resisted. I could not concentrate. I could not get my heartrate down, nor could I stop sweating. After 10 minutes, I reluctantly submitted. I put on my coat and mittens, grabbed the loaf of bread, and headed outside.

His head was tilted down, but he wasn’t asleep. I hadn’t noticed before, but he was an older man. His long gray hair was curly and stuck out from underneath a red crochet hat. He had on a waist-length black coat and brown boots. Looking at this man, my heartrate settled down. My stomach stopped churning. My fear subsided.

“Hi,” I said. “My name is Vivian. Would you like some orange marmalade bread?”

Instead of looking up and accepting my gift, he shook his head ‘no’ and continued to stare at the ground.

“Do you not like orange marmalade?” I asked, sitting down beside him. Again, he shook his head, still refusing to look at me. “Me neither,” I confessed.

He had nothing to say to me and I didn’t know what else to say to him. I was confused at the prompting. Why go through all of this just for him to refuse my gift? We sat in silence for a few minutes before I stood up to leave.

“Well, I better get inside so I won’t get into trouble,” I said. He still would not look at me.

“I hope you have a blessed day. Merry Christmas.” As I turned to walk away, the man yelled at me. “Hey, get back here!”

From the tone of his voice, I expected confrontation. I cautiously turned around and for the first time, I saw his face. Tears were rolling down his rosy cheeks into his untrimmed beard. His expression softened. “Thank you,” he said. “Merry Christmas to you too.”

I nodded and smiled. Now I understood.

It was just a loaf of bread, pure and simple, and though neither he nor I consumed any of it that cold December morning, it nourished and filled our bodies. It was never my gift to give to a homeless man. Rather, it was a special gift intended for both he and I. It was never about the bread.

Give us today our daily bread…
Matthew 6:11