A Word About Dinner Buckets

 

My dad was a carpenter, by trade. He was proud of his union, I think proud of his blue-collar work ethic, and certainly proud of his family. My mom worked outside our home, but you might say she worked inside our home, too. She kept things humming, whether it was keep the house straight, or keeping the laundry washed, or making sure mealtimes were prepared. One of the meals she managed well was lunchtime for my dad, the carpenter. He took his lunch every day in what he called his dinner bucket, and my mom made that lunch every day.

 

Usually, his dinner bucket had a small thermos with coffee (and a little cream), a sandwich of some kind, perhaps some chips, a pickle or two, and a small packaged Twinkie or cupcake for dessert. I remember grapes, or sometimes a banana or an apple in that dinner bucket, too. My dad had carefully hand-lettered his name on the outside of his dinner bucket, so when he got to his job site, he’d know his dinner bucket from the others. I have a very fond and clear picture in my mind of that dinner bucket. And one of my favorite parts of that memory was a ritual, you might say. It was a ritual my brother Dan and I observed many, many times.

 

You see, my dad didn’t always eat all of the lunch my mom had prepared for him. Sometimes, he brought one of the Twinkies home, or half of his sandwich would be left in that dinner bucket. Pickles he hadn’t eaten, or an apple would still be in his dinner bucket when he came home. He’d walk in the front door, place his dinner bucket on the counter in the kitchen, and walk into the other room. My brother Dan and I, peeking around the corner, would make a mad dash to grab that dinner bucket, open it up to see if there was anything left in there that we could fight over. I don’t remember ever having a better morsel of food than half of a bologna sandwich I found in the bottom of that old dinner bucket.

 

There were days in my growing up years, when Dan and I would push and shove to get to my dad’s dinner bucket only to discover that there weren’t any grapes left over. No Twinkie my dad hadn’t eaten. Just a wrapper. The dinner bucket that had so much promise …was often empty as a tomb. There was nothing left over.

 

Once, the Lord Jesus fed five-thousand people with five loaves of bread and two fish. Another time, he fed four-thousand with seven loaves of bread and a handful of fish. That’s amazing, in and of itself. But wait … there was always something left in those dinner buckets. Not only did he never run out of food, after everyone had eaten all they wanted, there was always more left in the baskets.

 

One of the great things about God is that he never tires of anything. God never gets tired of watching us approach him with great excitement and expectation. He loves it when we can hardly wait to see what he’s doing. His storehouse of provision is never empty. It seems that The Carpenter from Nazareth has written his name on the doorposts of our lives. And he delights in showering us with blessings, and the lasting fruit of righteousness and peace. No need to push and shove to get there first.

 

Psalm 68:19 says, “Blessed be the Lord, who daily loads us with benefits.” God’s dinner bucket always has plenty left over.