"I once spoke at a large retreat for those in ministry. In my talk I told of a night in my deepest grief when I sat at my kitchen table and imagined myself having a cup of tea with God. Months later, a minister who had attended that conference now was attending a seminar in Boston, where I was living at the time, and he called to invite me to dinner. The conversation in the restaurant was lively, but as we prepared to leave, his face suddenly became the face of a small boy. With great courage he asked whether we could stop at my apartment and 'have tea with God.'
"I searched his eyes. Ordinarily it would be unthinkable to take such a risk with a virtual stranger. But I could find no trace of danger in his countenance. On the contrary, he seemed quite vulnerable.
"Trusting an instinct I did not fully understand, I drove with this man in silence back to my apartment. He sat at the table while I boiled water. I slowly prepared the tea, using the teapot and the same two cups I had once used 'with God.' I was leaving the next morning for a ten-day trip, so I had nothing else on hand to offer him.
"We sipped the tea without speaking. I don't remember the silence as being awkward. We were just still. In my mind I was thinking. I knew this wouldn't work. You can't force something meaningful to happen. Nevertheless, a penetrating sadness was beginning to grip me. I kept glancing at his face. I had no idea, really, who he was or what pain he lived with. I just felt that something deep within him longed to touch something true. And whatever he sought had obviously eluded him. I sat there praying for him to one day find what he was looking for.
"Then without thinking, in a daze, I dimly remembered that I had bought a loaf of bread that day, and it was in my briefcase. The purchase had made no sense at all, even at the time. I lived alone and I was leaving for ten days. No one buys a loaf of homemade bread on the eve of a trip. Nevertheless, I remembered that the bread was there, and without giving it much thought, I went to the kitchen, took it from my briefcase and cut a large slice. Still without words, I put the bread in front of the minister. Cookies or a slice of pie would have been more appropriate, I knew that. But the bread was all I had.
"He looked at the plate for several moments, then took the bread and broke it into two pieces, handing half to me. I put it to my mouth not thinking anything. It was just a slice of bread. But the minute that bread touched both of our lips, he sobbed out loud. Tears filled the minister's eyes. We were both hit hard by a force that was palpable. We never finished the tea or the bread. When he composed himself, he moved toward the door and I drove him back to his hotel in silence. I couldn't have spoken if I'd needed to.
"God may have responded to my prayer that night, but I doubt it. I don't think that's what God responds to. I think God responded to the love in the prayer. I think God responded because both hearts were open.
"Everything, really, is miracle. Verona, on starlit nights. A simple box of note cards and an ordinary candle. A pot of tea. A slice of bread. If only we could always see the real wonder of things.”
