I skipped breakfast. Again. Rushing out of the house with my cup of coffee in hand. I live across the street from my job, which is good, but it can also be bad. On this day, I had snoozed until 10:45, work starting at 11:00.
I left myself just enough time to roll out of my bed, brush my teeth, put on a hat and some clothes, and make myself a cup of coffee. The day was not atypical in any way. Recently I had been waging war against my alarm clock, snoozing, ignoring, and even throwing it across the room from time to time.
I got into my car and drove to work, the drive taking approximately forty-five seconds. Seconds that I did not intend to waste. I pressed Spotify on my cars blue tooth screen and selected a song, Oceans by Hillsong United. The song was seven minutes long but I enjoyed the first three quarters of a minute.
My car pulled to a stop and I grabbed my coffee mug and stumbled half asleep into the Spot, the restaurant where I work. There I was greeted warmly by my fellow coworkers. One of the best parts of my job is that we all love each other, from the cooks all the way up to the owners. There is a lot of love in our tiny restaurant.
I work the counter position, answering the phone, taking to-go orders, making drinks for the servers and bagging up deliveries. The job is just stress free enough that I could handle it. Sometimes I think it’s the only job I can do, or maybe that I want to do.
The day got started like any other, answering phones, faking smiles, just doing the best I can to service the customer, even if I didn’t feel like it. But today, my stomach was growling. Fortunately, I worked in a restaurant. However, there were rules, although they were loosely enforced. We got one meal per shift, but eating had to be done before or after your shift. And there was no eating to be done in the kitchen.
Like I said, it was loosely enforced. People ate in the kitchen, and on most days even if the boss was present and saw it, he wouldn’t say anything. I wanted to ask the cooks if they would make me some French fries, but I hated breaking the rules, it always made me feel guilty inside. And my boss was around. Better not risk it, I thought.
The thought of french fries left my mind as I went about my duties for the day, stocking my station and checking which lemonades we had this morning. Then, not even three minutes later, one of the cooks, Fito, came carrying a majestic plate filled with none other than french fries. How did he know?
“Hey Miguel.” He said, looking directly at me. “Para ti.”
Meaning, for you.
I was stunned and a little perplexed. I had not voiced aloud my desire for fries, not to anyone. And Fito never just made me fries without me asking. There was no logical explanation for him making me these fries.
I was amazed. Sometimes it’s the little things that make you wonder. Thank you, God, I thought. In that moment, I felt so loved and appreciated. I delightfully rejoiced over my fries. I shared them with my friends, my coworkers, telling them the story of how I had not asked for them. At least not aloud.
“They are my Jesus fries.” I said.
Michael Christopher Migioia is writer and follower of Jesus Christ. He desires to do the best to share the love of God with others through thoughts, words, stories, and actions. He has an online journal at www.epiphanyartistry.com and is open to collaboration with other artists. If you enjoyed this short nonfiction piece please share it with others. Thank you!