So much of the world subsists on a particular starch—like rice or pasta or potatoes—as a basis of its food intake, and the same food is prepared and eaten in the same way day after day. But in our land of incredible bounty, we insist on variety.

We were taking the sites of midtown Manhattan, chomping on hot pretzels, when a haggard, down-on-her luck woman walked up to my sister and cried, “Help me, please. I’m hungry.” Without hesitation, my sister handed the woman her pretzel.

I’m sure I was being overdramatic. I was a teenager, after all, and the ups and downs of a teenager’s life feel very dramatic, indeed. I had been volunteering my summer to work at a camp for orphans. It was more demanding than I expected.

The orderly grid of streets in Chicago did not prepare me for the chaotic streets and signage that I encountered in a trip to Italy with my brothers. In the van I was designated the interpreter of road signs as we sought to find our way to the beautiful medieval city of Sienna.

Each of us who is not independently wealthy wakes up and, in one way or another, tries to do exactly what Jesus tells us not to do: work for food that perishes. Not that Jesus has anything against earning a living and feeding ourselves and our families.

Mark Twain wrote, “I have known many troubles in my life, most of which never happened.” I know about such troubles, too. These are the troubles looming just out in the future that occupy my mind in unguarded moments throughout the day or especially as I try to drift off to sleep.

We walked into the large tent that was set up for us, visiting Jordan from North America. It seemed as if the entire congregation were there, dressed in their best outfits. All of them sat formally in their seats in a big circle around the perimeter of the tent. There were a lot of nods and smiles.

Today’s gospel is so incredibly countercultural that it’s hard not to write it off as a supernatural event that doesn’t relate to real life.

When Jesus saw the hungry crowds who had followed him in search of healing, he found a way to feed them immediately. Not everyone in today’s world is so fortunate.

We spent last weekend with my niece, her husband, and their 1-year-old son. The little boy is going through a stage where his parents are his primary source of comfort and joy. I observed his grandmother holding him, loving, and talking to him as she gently rocked him. But within a few minutes, the little one heard his mother’s voice in the next room.