Thanks for the Hands That Made It Happen

On an overcast morning at a sweet corner restaurant, I look down at my plate. 

There are three slabs of toast and a small dish of honey. 

Saying thanks for the meal is nothing new. For ages, faiths and families, gatherings of friends and the quiet soul eating alone have been saying a few grateful words before putting daily bread to lips.

Recently, I've been thanking the hands who got this food to my table. The hands that watered the wheat and jarred the honey. The hands that drove the delivery trucks, signed the invoices, wired the electricity so there could be light in this corner restaurant. 

It is nothing short of astounding how many hands did so many things to get a few pieces of toast to my table. 

I'll probably never see most of these hands. And if I do, I will never know what they've done to make my meal. 

But if I give thanks for them, I feel more connected to them. Their life has touched mine. Their work has nourished me. We aren't entirely strangers in this world of ours; we're part of a larger whole. 

At the restaurant, I look at the plate and silently say:

Thank you for the hands that made this bread and this honey happen. Wherever those hands are in the world, may they know they are appreciated. 

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BelongingCaitie Whelan