Dinner for the hobo

My parents were married as the great depression began. However, there was no depression in their partnerships. Dad farmed 60 acres and milked a dozen cows and sold the cream to the local creamery. Most of the milk went to the hogs, which became bacon and pork chops. We had all we needed and more. Dad laughed when I, at the age of about 6, asked him if we were rich. We were, but not financially. In my memory they had three interests: church, grange and pinochle. I’m wrong on that. There was more. Those things were only a cover for their real richness, relationships. They were friends with everyone in their church, people in a dozen granges and their pinochle parners. Between them they had seven brothers and sisters and all their kids. Hardly a week passed by but what we got together for dinner or fishing or working together. Our house was a log cabin Dad built with help from his brother. It was only a short distance from the railroad track between Twin Falls and Kimberly, Idaho. Freight trains passed by frequently, usually with hobos as passengers. They were not tramps, but men looking for work wherever theycould find it. Many would knock on the back door looking for something to eat. Most offered to work, but Mom always had food at no cost, not just a snack, but a dinner. She did the same for relatives and friends who happened to drop by for a visit. It was her life. Mom and dad had relationships– real, deep and meaningful. God wants the same with us. We are the hobos. Our physical needs may be few, but our spiritual needs are many. Jesus said He was the bread of life. His dinner is always ready, just like Mom’s was. When the hobos plodded through the garden to our house, they found what they were looking for. The same is true of God. Seek and you will find, He said.


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