When the Bread Runs Out

My very first guest post, written by this handsome man:

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Recently I had an experience that has weighed heavily on my heart. As a church leader, I had the chance to work closely with a family in our ward over the span of three years. They had suffered deeply—two family deaths, ongoing hardship, and financial instability. During that time, members and leaders of our ward mourned with them, prayed with them, brought them the sacrament, paid their rent, brought food, offered blessings, cried with them, and stayed close. We did everything we could physically and spiritually do. But when the physical help ran out—when we couldn’t offer more storage space or more hours in the day—they walked away. Not just from us, but from the Church.

I wrestled with that. I prayed about it. I found myself asking, “Has the Savior ever experienced something like this?” 

Then I came across the miracle of the five loaves and two fishes—a story we’ve all heard many times. Jesus feeds thousands with just a small offering, and everyone is full. It's a moment of wonder and abundance.

But what struck me wasn’t the miracle itself. It was what happened afterward.

The very next day, many of those same people came looking for Jesus again—not to be taught, but to be fed. When they found Him, He said plainly:

“Ye seek me, not because ye saw the miracles, but because ye did eat of the loaves, and were filled” (John 6:26).

Then Jesus taught them something deeper:

“I am the bread of life: he that cometh to me shall never hunger; and he that believeth on me shall never thirst” (John 6:35).

And when He went on to say,

“Except ye eat the flesh of the Son of man, and drink his blood, ye have no life in you” (John 6:53),

many of His followers found it too hard.

John writes:

“From that time many of his disciples went back, and walked no more with him” (John 6:66).

This moment felt eerily familiar to me. The people loved the miracles. They loved the full bellies. But when the physical blessings stopped—and the spiritual invitation was all that remained—they walked away.

And suddenly, my experience with that family made more sense. They saw our pulling back as us abandoning them rather than an invitation to draw closer to the Savior and find help and healing in Him instead.

I remember teaching my children how to walk when they were babies. My wife and I didn’t catch them every time they stumbled. We couldn’t—and honestly, we shouldn’t have. The falling is essential. That’s how babies learn balance. That’s how they gain strength.

But my wife and I were never far. We were right there—just inches away. We clapped and cheered. Sometimes we would sit a few feet apart and call them toward us. They’d toddle, wobble, and sometimes fall hard. But then we’d scoop them up, hug them, and say, “Try again.” And they would. Over and over. Until one day, they didn’t fall.

That’s the environment Heavenly Father has given us. One where the fall is not failure. One where we can try again. One where we’re not trapped by our mistakes or hardships—because He provided a Savior. That’s the gift. The Savior makes it possible for us to fall and still be okay.

And as members, as parents, as friends, we sometimes want to step in and prevent every fall. We want to keep people from pain. But that’s not always what they need. Sometimes what they need is for us to stay close. To be the loving presence. To lift, to love, and to help them try again.

Sometimes the most Christlike thing we can do is not remove the struggle, but to wait on the other side with arms outstretched, cheering and ready—just like the Savior.

This is what agency looks like. This is what growth looks like. This is the plan.

There is power in letting people fall, because it’s in the falling that many finally turn to God. And when they do, it isn’t because someone stepped in and saved them—it’s because the Savior did.

Brothers and sisters, I believe in a Savior who does not give up when we fall. I believe in a Church that stands nearby—not as a rescuer in every moment, but as a companion in every season. And I believe in a God who created a plan where mistakes, trials, and tragedies aren’t the end—they’re the beginning of our journey back to Him.