… in a hot-cross bun
It was Good Friday, and I was working in a very poor country. I really did not know where my next meal was coming from but I had bought six hot-cross buns (on the black market) to eat after the afternoon service. When I had locked up the church and put the kettle on, there was a ring on the doorbell and an Indian lady was asking if I had any food for her family.
They had walked several hours through the jungle to get to the service and now had to walk several hours to get back. ‘How many are you? I asked. ‘Six’, she said. I suppressed the thought of lying to her, muttered ‘Thank you very much, God!’ under my breath, and gave her the six hot-cross buns. She was absolutely delighted. I sat down with my cup of tea, pondering life. Then there was another ring on the doorbell. This time I was glad that I had nothing to give (except tea); but on the doorstep was a man with a packet of six hot-cross buns. He said, ‘I thought you might like these, Father’.