The Sacrament of the Forgotten Snack

It was a Tuesday. The sun was up, the dog was barking at a squirrel that had personally insulted him, and one of my kids looked at me with those wide, betrayed eyes that only a child whose parent forgot the class snack can produce.

“Daddy,” she said, very calmly, “you said you would bring goldfish.”

I had not, in fact, brought goldfish.

I had not bought goldfish because we just learned from the dentist it is literally the worst for children’s teeth.

I had, in fact, completely removed goldfish from my mind until that very moment.

Now, for those of you who are currently nodding, knowingly, into your coffee, you know the rest. You know the wild scramble. The pleading look at the pantry, where you discover one open sleeve of stale saltines and a box of fruit snacks from Halloween 2024. The mental math: how guilty would I feel if I sent her with a half eaten box of Triscuits?

Reader, I considered the Triscuits.

What stopped me was not virtue. It was that we did not, in fact, even have Triscuits.

I tell you this story for two reasons.

First, because if there is anyone reading this who has ever forgotten a class snack and then driven, at speeds that would make Volvo’s safety engineers wince, to a Publix at 7:47 a.m., I want you to know you are seen, you are loved, and your kid is going to be just fine.

Second, because somewhere in that goldfish less morning, I bumped into something that I think God has been trying to tell me for a long, long time:

I am not the savior of my children’s lives

I know. This probably comes as a shock for those who know me.

But hear me out, because I am a recovering achiever, and I bet I’m not the only one.

When my kids are happy, life is happier. When my kids are sad, I tend to wear that on my sleeve and blame myself…was I there enough…was I present. When the snack gets forgotten, the laundry doesn’t get folded, the homework folder gets left at school, the sports schedule and the church schedule and the school project all collide in a single forty five minute window, I quietly believe, deep down, that I am failing at the one job that matters.

And friends, that’s not theology. That’s anxiety wearing a Sunday suit.

The Gospels Are Full of Forgotten Snacks

Or, well, forgotten everything.

Five thousand people on a hillside, getting hungry, and the disciples come to Jesus, panicked, with the spiritual equivalent of “Dad, you said you’d bring goldfish.” (Mark 6:35–37)

And what does Jesus do?

He does not shame them. He does not say, “Well, gentlemen, this is a real failure of planning. Next time, we’ll need a better RSVP system.”

He takes what’s there. A few loaves. A couple of fish. The half eaten box of fruit snacks of first century Galilee.

And he feeds everybody.

Grace usually shows up after the goldfish are forgotten. Not before.

What I Am Slowly Learning

Here’s what I am trying to learn, slowly, and mostly the hard way:

Grace usually shows up after the goldfish are forgotten.

Not before.

Grace doesn’t reward your color coded family calendar. It doesn’t pin a gold star on your perfectly packed lunches. Grace shows up in the cracks. In the missed alarms, the lost permission slips, the blown up Tuesday morning. Grace shows up because you’re human. Not in spite of it.

That’s the scandal of the Gospel. That’s what makes it hard for high achievers to receive. We want to earn it. Even forgiveness. Even snack time.

But God doesn’t trade in earning. God trades in love.

If You’re New Here

If you’re reading this from outside the church, maybe you’ve never been, or maybe you stopped going somewhere along the way, here’s the thing I’d want you to know:

You don’t have to have it all together to be loved.

You don’t have to remember the goldfish.

You don’t have to be a “good Christian” or even know what that means.

You just have to be a person, with empty hands, willing to let yourself be fed.

That’s the whole thing. That’s the well I keep trying to come back to.

My daughter was given a granola bar by a kind classroom mother who saw the panic in my eyes when I came shuffling in late. She survived. I survived. The church survived me being late to staff meeting.

And, somewhere in the middle of that morning, I think Jesus was over in the corner, smiling, breaking little loaves and fishes and watching me learn, for the seven thousandth time, that He is the one who feeds the multitudes.

I am just a dad with empty hands.

Which, it turns out, is exactly the right thing to be.

A Simple Practice for This Week

When you fail at something today, small or large, don’t immediately try to fix it, hide it, or apologize your way out of it. Just notice it. Take a breath. And whisper, quietly: “Lord, this is what I have. Bless it anyway.”

You might be surprised what gets fed.

Citations & Further Reading

• Mark 6:30–44 (NRSV), The Feeding of the Five Thousand.

• Henri J. M. Nouwen, The Wounded Healer (Image Books, 1972, repr. 2010), on ministry from a place of need rather than strength.

• Apophthegmata Patrum (Sayings of the Desert Fathers), trans. Benedicta Ward (Cistercian Publications, 1975), esp. Abba Moses: “Go and sit in your cell, and your cell will teach you everything.”

• Brennan Manning, The Ragamuffin Gospel (Multnomah, 1990), on grace for the unfit and unfinished.