When grace shows up in green beans instead of pulpits
People say things like
“a cup of coffee can save a life.”And I used to think —
Sure, that sounds poetic. But real life doesn’t work like that.
Then one day, I showed up to help pack Thanksgiving boxes.
I didn’t go for church.
I didn’t go for Jesus.
I didn’t even go because I thought I’d enjoy it.
I went because I know how to serve.
Because someone invited me.
And because I figured it couldn’t hurt to help for a few hours.
I was 26.
Worn out. Disconnected.
Carrying weight and reeling from experiences no one knew anything about.
And somewhere between the shelf-stable mashed potatoes and the green beans,
I met something I couldn’t name at the time.
I call it grace now.
Not the kind that shouts your name from a mountaintop.
The kind that just… includes you without asking for credentials.
No altar call.
No miracle moment.
Just a quiet shift that changed everything.
It didn’t make my life easier.
It didn’t make my faith cleaner.
But it cracked something open —
and I’ve never packed or unpacked another box the same way again.
The strange thing is — the sacred and the brutal share space.
While I was taping up boxes, someone else was losing the last safe place they had.
While I washed my face before bed, someone’s home was being raided.
These things exist at the same time.
And I don’t always know what to do with that.
But maybe the answer isn’t guilt.
Maybe it’s awareness.
A posture of presence. A commitment to stay awake.
The strange grace of it is —
I’ve lived on both sides of the moment.
I’ve been in the brutal before —
the person praying for breath while someone else sipped their coffee in peace.
I’ve been the one falling apart while the world kept scrolling.
And this time…
grace came for me.
And maybe that’s just how it works.
The sacred and the brutal exist at the same time —
Every day, everywhere.
This moment was my sacred.
My green bean moment.
And it didn’t cancel the pain.
It didn’t fix the past.
But it reminded me I wasn’t lost in it anymore.
And maybe the only faithful thing we can do is notice —
and make room for grace to reach the next person, too.
And to let the weight of it shape how we show up.
So when I do sip coffee —
I remember the hands that don’t have any to hold.
And when I do have a moment of ease —
I let it remind me to create ease for someone else.
Because grace didn’t meet me in a pulpit.
It met me in a can of green beans.
It didn’t fix me.
It didn’t convert me.
But it changed my trajectory —
by giving me space to show up before I had any idea what I believed.
And here’s the wild, holy truth:
We all have a green bean moment, if we’re paying attention.
A point of contact.
A crack in the noise.
Sometimes you recognize it in real time.
Sometimes it takes years to name.
And sometimes — without even knowing it — you are that moment for someone else.
You might never hear about it.
You might never feel like it mattered.
But someone out there remembers the way you didn’t flinch when they showed up messy.
Someone remembers the ride you gave, the extra sandwich you packed, the text you sent at the right time.
You might’ve forgotten it already.
But they haven’t.
And here’s the part I rarely say out loud:
That moment with the green beans — it didn’t change everything overnight.
It changed one habit.
That habit led to a new rhythm.
That rhythm opened a conversation.
That conversation led to people.
And those people introduced me to new language, new spaces, new ways of showing up.
It wasn’t linear.
It wasn’t easy.
Joy didn’t erase the ache.
Growth didn’t stop the breaking.
Hurt still happens.
Broken hearts still happen.
And that — that messy, jagged, sacred middle —
is the audaciousness of grace.
Not that it fixes everything.
But that it stays.
That it moves — however slowly — with you.
And honestly? I still can’t give it an adequate explanation.
I just know it was real.
So keep showing up.
Keep building the box.
Keep passing the coffee.
Because grace moves in quiet, shelf-stable ways.
And it’s enough.
