Thursday Th(ink)s - March 19, 2026

Thursday sits at the beginning of the end—and I feel a kinship. I’m not Tuesday anymore, and

“let’s call it a wrap” sounds increasingly reasonable. I’m tempted to look back more than ahead.

But these Thursday years can be the sweet spot—the sunset of a very full week. Feet up. Cake on the plate.

Read on…

Sometimes great theology comes with crooked bangs and purple-sparkle shoelaces.

My daughter and her family are preparing to move to a new home. Boxes, lists, mild chaos, and

perhaps some anxiety. Transition is rarely meditative. It’s all very exciting for everyone…except

perhaps the youngest member of the flock, an almost five-year-old with eyes wide enough to

hold both wonder and worry at the same time.

Her concern finally spilled over into a question, whispered to her mother:

“Mummy…will there be food there?”

Now that, my friends, is not a small question.

Because if there isn’t food, then this whole moving business collapses rather quickly. No snacks,

no sandwiches, no survival. Her future—previously anchored by blue-bag Doritos and

rice—suddenly felt uncertain.

I respect this. At five years old, she has already identified the central human concern:

Will there be enough?

Aging, I’ve discovered, is just a more sophisticated version of that same question.

We dress it up. We use bigger words. We don’t whisper it quite as sweetly. But underneath our

seasoned bravado we are still asking:

Will there be enough money?

Will there be enough health?

Enough time?

Enough strength for what’s coming next?

We move, not across town but forward into a future we cannot fully furnish.

And somewhere in the quiet, we whisper to God, “…will there be food there?”

Birthdays accentuate our anxiety.

They come with balloons and cake and the polite fiction that we are “celebrating,” when in fact

we are also measuring. Another year gone. Another year closer to…well, we all know where this

road leads.

What happens when the balloon deflates, the wrapping paper is crumpled on the floor, and the

last slice of cake has been politely claimed?

The party is over.

But am I?

Recently, I went on a long mountain hike with my Alabama son-in-law. One of those climbs

where the incline isn’t dramatic, just relentless. No sudden crisis, just a steady upward pull that

reminds you gravity is the boss.

As we neared the top, we both felt it—that invisible thumb pressing down on our chests, slowing

our steps, shortening our breath.

And then, out of nowhere, he started chanting:

“There will be cake. There will be cake. There will be cake.”

Now, let’s be clear: there was no cake.

We had not packed cake. We had not even discussed cake. There was zero chance of cake

appearing at the summit like some phantastic miracle.

But the absurdity of it cracked something open. We laughed. And somehow, laughter lightened

what muscle could not.

A light heart does more than good medicine—it makes the climb bearable.

The child asks, “Will there be food there?”

And Scripture answers, again and again:

Yes.

There will be manna.

There will be daily bread.

There will be oil that does not run dry.

There will be a table prepared, even in the presence of your enemies.

There will be enough.

"The table of plenty" by artist Navaz D Cruz

So I find myself answering both the five-year-old and the sixty-eight-year-old in me.

Will there be food?

Yes, my Darling. There will be cake!

Will I make it to the shores of the Jordan?

Yes, my Sparrow. There will be grace!

There will be food.

There will be what you need.

There will be grace for the climb, and yes…perhaps even cake for the journey.

Big Brains:

"You just keep on trying till you run out of cake." -Portal (2007)

Old Souls: "Come to the table of plenty, where God sets a table for us and joins us around it." -hymn by Dan Schutte, 1992

The Ancient of Days: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

Psalm 23:1 (ESV)

Norma Jean:
Faith is learning to trust the table will be set, 
even when you can’t see the kitchen.

Thursday Chat: We don’t outgrow the question “Will there be enough?” We just don’t. But we can learn that provision often arrives dressed as tomorrow.