Where Nourishment Lives

Grass bends under slow, patient mouths.

Cows move without urgency.

The pasture keeps doing what it has always done.

Growing food.

Holding life.

Right beside a building where people gather for dinner. (not pictured)

A place locals know.

Return to.

Celebrate birthdays in.

Tell stories over plates that come out hot.

This is what nourishment looks like when it becomes part of a landscape.

Not dramatic.

Not hidden.

Just steady.

Many of us learned to live as though needing care was a flaw.

As though hunger were inconvenient.

As though rest and pleasure required apology.

Shrinking teaches people to survive on crumbs.

To downplay appetite.

To call deprivation holy.

But Christ keeps situating provision in ordinary places.

Fields next to tables.

Labor next to laughter.

Sustenance close to community.

Stopping shrinking sometimes looks like admitting you are hungry.

For food.

For rest.

For kindness.

For connection.

There are seasons when you convince yourself you should not need much.

When you tell your body and soul to make do.

When asking feels embarrassing.

Jesus does not shame hunger.

He feeds crowds.

He prepares breakfasts.

He multiplies loaves in tired hands.

If today all you can manage is to receive one good thing without deflecting it, that is faith.

If you let yourself enjoy without explaining, that is healing.

If you accept nourishment instead of minimizing your need, that is worship.

God did not create you to starve quietly.

He made you to be fed.