Pleas for more food are ringing in Edgar's ears.

He's the director of a children's home with over fifty children, and he carries the burden of providing for each one. It is November and starting to get cold. "Should we use our remaining money for heat, blankets, or food?" he wonders.

Had Edgar picked up the phone and called our ministry, we would have brought over some food for the evening meal. But in his heart Edgar knew that neither he nor the children should grow dependent on mere humans. It wasn't pride that kept him from calling us that afternoon; rather it was a fear that the children would be tempted to put humans on the pedestal that is fit only for a King.

So Edgar prays. Then he decides to have the children join him in his prayers. That Saturday afternoon, he and the children sit down to pray for a dinner they have not yet received: "Dear Lord, we thank you for your numerous blessings on these children and for this home. We humbly ask that you would provide a meal for us tonight--"

Suddenly he is interrupted by Joel, one of the youngest boys. "Tio," says Joel slowly, "we're praying for God to bring us dinner? What kind of food does God deliver?"

Edgar, always looking for a teachable moment, wants to instill in the children that it is God who provides all blessings, so he seizes this chance. "Joel, God loves you and you are his child. He wants you to know he sees you and wants to lavish his riches on you. Let's just see what he will deliver."

They begin to pray again.

Soon Joel interrupts him again to ask, "Do you think...Will the Lord bring us...meat?"

To a little boy whose diet is mainly beans and rice, tortillas and hot dogs, meat seems like a mighty request. Edgar challenges him to ask anything in the Lord's name and expect him to respond.

So they bow their heads again, praying for dinner and meat in Jesus' name, until Joel can't stand it any longer. He asks (in the way preschoolers love to continue on with their questioning), Tio, what kind of meat does God bring?"

That same day, a man named Carlos flies into Monterrey on business at the convention center and calls us late in the afternoon. Do we remember meeting him earlier in the year in Cincinnati? Are we interested in joining him for dinner?

I remember meeting him and talking about how he occasionally travels to Monterrey, but I have lost his card.

We arrange to meet at 6:00 p.m., but he quickly calls back to ask if we can bring a pick up truck. It seems there is a lot of extra "product" he has flown in for the vendor sale, and it had been thawing all day and is no longer of use to him.

After confessing that I have forgotten his line of business, he politely answers that he represents a meat company and has flown in all kinds of meat for potential vendors at a food fair, some of the best cuts available. All his orders have been placed, and now he is just going to discard the samples, which had been thawing all day. So he wants to know, can we use a donation of high-end cuts of meat?

That evening as Todd drives home from the convention center, with the bed of his truck overflowing with some of the best meats money can buy, he calls me. "Beth, this is way more than our freezer can handle. I'm going to start dropping it off at the orphanages on the way home. Will you call and let them know I'm coming?"

Joel's home is the first one on his route.

When I call the children's home, Edgar doesn't seem surprised. He asks calmly, "Do you know what kind of food it is?"

"Some kind of meat, Edgar," I answer. "I'm not totally sure of all the details."

"Would you mind finding out what kind of meat it is and then calling us back?" he asks hesitantly.

"What do you mean, 'What kind of meat?' It's meat, Edgar. It's food. Why should it matter?" I ask.

"Well, it does matter, Beth. Would you mind calling me back when you know?"

So I dial Todd and, exasperated, ask, "What kind of meat is it? Edgar wants to know."

"Oh, Beth, you won't believe it. It's the best meat money can buy--steak and incredible cuts of beef and pork. They're going to love it."

So I call Edgar back to report.

"Praise God!" he breathes into the phone; then he asks me to hold, as he shouts out to the children that the Lord's response to their prayer is on its way over.

Those children prayed that day with the faith of a mustard seed (do you know what the faith of a four-year-old orphan looks like?), and the mountain moved.

~ Beth Guckenberger (missionary to Monterrey, Mexico along with her husband Todd), from Reckless Faith