It happened on an ordinary Tuesday.

We had just finished unloading a rare shipment of farm fresh produce. The produce choice table was exceptionally full of options and colorfully displayed. Featured were gleaming tomatoes, a stack of sweet corn, crisp bell peppers and some purple onions dusted with fresh dirt and adorned with long green stems.

You could tell the onions had just been pulled from the ground because their scent still held the sharp tang of fresh growth and their green tops had not yet wilted from time or transport. A set of onions, however aromatic, radiant and freshly harvested, do not usually stop anyone in their tracks. But that day, they did.

A woman approached our vegetable table slowly, the way someone might walk through a chapel. It seemed like she was unsure about the situation as she admired the selection of produce. She looked down at the humble box of purple onions and began to cry.

You could witness the flood of emotion rising in her chest. These were not tears of shame or grief, although I suspect those were mixed in, but were tears of joy. She displayed a reaction of full-bodied, grateful, aching joy.

“I haven’t had onions in months,” she said, wiping her cheeks. “I can’t afford them. But I’ve missed them so much.”

She reached out, cradling them like treasure. I commented, “I am so glad we could make your day.” She replied, “You have not just made my day but made my month. I have so many ways to prepare these and cannot wait to get started. They make everything taste better.”

That moment has not left me and probably never will.

There are certain phrases that echo through the soul long after a song ends, and for me, it’s these lyrics from Jason Gray: “The hurt that broke your heart And left you trembling in the dark, Feeling lost and alone, will tell you hope’s a lie, But what if every tear you cry Will seed the ground where joy will grow?”

What I saw in her eyes that morning was a tear-seeded ground. Her soul was fed not just by nourishment, but by the recognition that she mattered. She knew in that small exchange that her life, her joy, her dinner table were seen. That she was not forgotten.

As a food pantry director, I witness many forms of hunger, including physical of course, but also emotional, spiritual and existential hunger. Some people come needing a meal, and others come needing reassurance that they still belong in a world that often ignores them. They remind me that nothing, no pain, no struggle, no act of kindness is ever truly wasted.

There’s a popular saying, “Everything happens for a reason,” but I’ve never fully settled into that. Life’s losses, such as poverty, illness, betrayal or disasters, aren’t always explainable. But, I’ve come to believe something deeper. Even if we don’t know the reason, nothing is wasted in God’s hands.

That’s the heart of Jason Gray’s message. Hope isn’t the absence of suffering. Hope is the stubborn belief that somehow, in ways we may never see or understand, God is still growing something good out of the soil of our sorrow.

It’s a message that mirrors the words of the spiritual teacher Bede Griffiths: “God had brought me to my knees and made me acknowledge my own nothingness, and out of that knowledge I had been reborn. I was no longer the center of my life and therefore I could see God in everything.”

That rebirth happens again and again, in the pantry line, in the quiet moment between loading boxes, in the laugh shared over recipes and memories of better times. Every onion, every loaf of bread, every jar of peanut butter handed out is a form of grace.

I’ve learned not to underestimate the holy power of the small things.

Yes, people cry over onions. But they’re not just crying over food.

They’re crying because someone cared enough to show up, because someone used their time, their effort, their resources to say: “You matter.”

If we can offer that, if we can love others with what little we have, then we’re participating in a divine economy where nothing is wasted. In that context, even our own tears and trials become compost for someone else’s joy.

Some people think hope is big and loud. But most days, I think hope is quiet. It shows up in the form of a plastic produce bag, in a cry over something simple, in a volunteer who chooses to come back week after week. Hope grows slowly. It looks like soil, tears, a dinner made better by onions.

So, I keep going, heart full, pantry open, trusting that every small thing matters. That nothing — absolutely nothing — is wasted.

Janet Mills is the director of Cassville Pantry, located at 800 W. 10th St. in Cassville. She may be reached at cassvillepantry@ gmail.com or 417-846 7871.