Every Sunday, I get to stand in front of people and tell a story.
Some are long, some are short. Some are funny; some can make the eyes a bit misty. A few are good enough for folks to remember.
Most are single-serving, like the tiny coffee creamers found at a continental breakfast. I forget right many of them, but there are a few that stick with me. Like the one about a kid giving me the last dollar he had.
I was still a youth pastor then. A position that offered part-time pay but came with full-time financial stress.
This story starts not on a Sunday morning, not on a Wednesday night after Bible study, but on a random afternoon with two students. These boys were connected to the church in different ways.
One came because his mother thought he needed religion. She didn’t feel the conviction to join him, but made sure two elderly saints dropped him off and picked him up when the church doors were open. A fair amount of time, he found his way there even when they were not.
The other came because he started dating a girl in the youth group. She broke up with him during a mission trip. That’s a story for another time.
While his heart mended, he kept showing up. It was awkward until it wasn’t. All guilty parties moved on to other interests and other relationships.
The boys didn’t share much in common, except for having nowhere to be. They walked the neighborhood surrounding the church, saw my SUV, and decided to pop in.
They came into my office like a tornado. Forceful. Loud. They didn’t talk as much as they shouted.
Hollering about nothing and everything, giving tiny hints to the inner workings of their home lives. It was summer, which meant there were no watchful eyes at home. They had nowhere to be.
They were hungry the way young boys are always hungry.
Around there, folks didn’t use terms like “food scarcity” or “food insecurity”—they just said, “There ain’t nothing in the fridge.” “Nothing in the pantry.”
This was the case for many of the kids I knew, so we decided to make eating together part of our time together. My wife taught the kids to make shrimp scampi. One kid showed me how to boil Bright Leaf hot dogs long enough to stain a pot red.
Aside from a few cans of soda, the snack options in the youth space that day were limited.
I want to tell you these were celery sticks and grapes, but that would be a lie. The reality was Slim Jims or other jerky tubed meat. The reality was cornmeal, water and vegetable oil, rolled into balls and coated in cheddar cheese powder.
If any of those kids ever committed a crime, their orange fingerprints would have given a forensic team plenty of evidence to secure a conviction.
“We’re starving,” they said in unison. “Can you drive us somewhere?” they asked.
The money in my pocket was supposed to go toward gas. However, a couple of items off a value meal wouldn’t hurt my tank too much.
“I’ve got cash,” the heartbreak kid said, flashing a wadded-up $20 bill. “My mom gave it to me before she left for work.”
His mom worked at a diner. On the days she didn’t work doubles, she’d bring him a styrofoam to-go tray packed with fried mozzarella sticks, French fries and a greasy cheeseburger covered in ketchup.
The money he held told me she’d picked up the evening shift.
“Sure,” I said. We piled into the SUV and listened to music most youth pastors wouldn’t play in front of their students.
We arrived at Hardee’s a few minutes later. We went inside, they placed their orders, and before I could pull out my wallet, the kid with cash bought the other a $5 big bag meal.
The money meant to feed him was stretched to feed another.
On the way back to the church, I stopped to get gas, putting one of my last $20 into the tank before payday.
The kid with cash—the heartbreak kid—ran inside to prepay the pump.
He came back out before I pulled the nozzle out.
“You got $21.34,” he said.
“But I only gave you a $20,” I said back.
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “But I went ahead and gave you what I had left over.”
I’ve been in churches for almost 15 years now, and I’ve never seen such generosity.
—
That kid is now an adult.
He surprised me not long ago on a Sunday morning. He and a friend showed up to visit me in my new surroundings. And as usual, he was starving.
So after the service, I went out to eat with the boy I knew and the man he’d become.
When the fish tacos were decimated and the sandwiches devoured, he asked for the check. He insisted he pay for everyone’s lunch.
Some things never change.
Money still doesn’t seem to have much of a hold on him. Some would say he was raised right. I think it’s just who he is.
And just like that, he’s given me another story to share.
I hope he’ll give me another soon.
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Justin Cox received his theological education from Campbell University, Wake Forest University School of Divinity, and McAfee School of Theology where he earned his Doctor of Ministry. He is an ordained minister holding standing in the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship and American Baptist Churches USA. When not spending time with his spouse and daughters, he can be found writing and baking late into the night. His thoughts and reflections are his own.