The Kitchen That Fed a Neighborhood

In 2019, Maria Gonzalez started a small food pantry out of her garage in East San Antonio. She hauled donated cans in her minivan, sorted them on folding tables, and handed bags to neighbors who lined up on Saturday mornings. Within a year, she was exhausted. The need was enormous, and she was one woman with a bad back and a Dodge Caravan.

Then David Park showed up. David was a retired logistics manager from H-E-B grocery. He didn't have Maria's warmth with people — he was quiet, awkward at small talk — but he could organize a warehouse in his sleep. Within weeks, he had streamlined donations, built relationships with three local grocery chains, and tripled their output.

Some volunteers started saying they were "Maria's people." Others called themselves "David's team." The divide grew until Maria shut it down at a Monday meeting. "Nobody comes here for me or David," she said. "They come because they're hungry. And neither of us grew a single tomato in those bags."

She was right. Maria planted the vision. David watered it with structure. But the food came from sources neither of them controlled — from the generosity of strangers, from harvests they never touched.

Paul told the Corinthians the same truth. The one who plants and the one who waters are nothing compared to the God who gives the growth. Every church needs its Marias and its Davids. But the moment we turn servants into celebrities, we have traded the fruit for the farmer's autograph.