When All You Have Are Leftovers: A Love Letter from God

 

I'll be honest — I've never really been a big fan of leftovers. Most of the time, once I've eaten a meal, I'm good. Done. Ready to move on.

But then… There was my mom's sancocho.

You know how some dishes just hit different the next day? That sancocho was one of them. The flavors would deepen overnight — the yucca and ñame soaking up all that rich, savory broth, the chicken so tender it falls off the bone, the culantro and corn creating layers of flavor that just get better with time. The otoe adds this creamy, earthy richness that makes every spoonful so hearty and full-bodied that I could eat it for days. (And I did. LOL.) Day two was somehow better than day one. Day three? Even more comforting.

It's funny how that works. Sometimes time doesn't ruin a thing — it enhances it. It transforms what was already good into something richer, something that satisfies you down to your soul.

And lately, God has been speaking to me through that simple idea. Because here's what I'm learning:

God never treats us like leftovers. But sometimes we do.

You know the feeling, right? We give our best at work, pour everything into showing up for everyone else, and by the time we get home... we're running on fumes. We give our families whatever energy we have "left." We offer our spouse the last scraps of our patience. We try to pray and end up literally falling asleep mid-sentence.

And then we beat ourselves up about it.

The mom is scrolling her phone because she's too exhausted to engage one more time, then lying awake, drowning in guilt. The person who snaps at their kids after a brutal day and wonders if they're messing them up forever. The one who can't even finish a prayer without dozing off and wakes up feeling like a spiritual failure.

I've been there. More times than I want to admit.

We look at what we have to offer and think: This isn't enough. I'm not enough.

But here's what's been wrecking me lately:

Even when we hand over what feels like leftovers… God still sees the best pieces.

"The LORD does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart." (1 Samuel 16:7)

He sees the intention behind the offering. He sees the heart behind the exhaustion. He sees the love inside the little we think isn't good enough.

And here's what's beautiful: When we can't offer Him perfection, we can offer Him honesty. When we can't provide Him strength, we can offer Him vulnerability.

That's not settling. That's not second best. I think that's actually what He's been asking for all along.

God doesn't want our polished Instagram version. He wants our real. Our raw. Our "I don't have it all figured out, and honestly, I'm barely holding it together."

"The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." (Psalm 34:18)

I think about that story in Mark 12 — the widow who gave two small coins while everyone else was throwing in their big offerings. Jesus could have said, "Well, that's nice but not really helpful." Instead, He stopped everything to point her out. He said she gave more than anyone because she gave everything she had.

She didn't pretend to have more. She didn't wait until she could give something impressive. She just brought her honest reality — "this is all I have" — and that's what moved Jesus.

That little boy with his lunch? Five loaves and two fish in front of five thousand hungry people? Even the disciples were like, "What's the point? This is ridiculous." But the boy didn't hide it in embarrassment. He offered it anyway.

And Jesus? He took that vulnerable, honest offering and did something no one saw coming.

That's what God does with our "not enough."

Where we see scraps, He sees sincerity. Where we feel like we failed, He sees faith still trying. Where we think we're offering leftovers, He sees a heart that's still showing up.

And you know what? Just like that sancocho that somehow gets richer after sitting overnight — all those flavors marrying together, deepening into something more satisfying — God takes our tired pieces and transforms them into something beautiful.

"And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." (Romans 8:28)

When we bring Him our honesty — "God, I'm so tired" — He doesn't lecture us about doing better. He invites us to rest.

When we bring our vulnerability to Him — "God, I have no idea what I'm doing" — He doesn't shame us. He becomes our strength.

"He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak." (Isaiah 40:29)

But here's where this gets really personal for me, and maybe for you too:

What about when it's deeper than just being tired?

What about when you feel like you're not just offering leftovers from your day, but that you ARE the leftover? Like you're what's left of a life that didn't turn out the way it was supposed to?

When the mistakes have piled up. When relationships are shattered. When the choices you made left you feeling like damaged goods. When you look at yourself and think: How could I be redeemed? How could I be restored? I'm too far gone.

Sweet friend, can I tell you something that's been completely undoing me?

If God can use dust to create His favorite masterpiece — humankind — imagine what the Creator of all can do with your leftovers.

"Then the LORD God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being." (Genesis 2:7)

Dust. The most scattered, most basic, most "this is nothing" material you can think of. And God chose it to create us. To create humanity. His beloved.

Dust doesn't mean it's over. It often means something new is about to begin.

I love this about God — He doesn't need pristine materials. He doesn't require that we come to Him already put together, already whole. Some of His most significant work actually starts with what looks completely broken down.

"I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh." (Ezekiel 36:26)

Think about Peter — the guy who swore he'd never deny Jesus, then did it three times in one night. He didn't just offer Jesus his leftovers; he completely fell apart. And Jesus? He didn't write him off. He restored him and built His church on him.

Or Paul — literally hunting down Christians to imprison them. His past should have disqualified him from everything. But God met him in his brokenness and turned him into the greatest missionary the world has ever known.

Your past doesn't disqualify you. Your brokenness doesn't disgust Him. Your mistakes don't make you unredeemable.

"Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!" (2 Corinthians 5:17)

God has this pattern: He takes what looks finished and makes it new. He takes ashes and creates beauty. He takes dust and breathes life into it.

What looks like the end to us is often just the beginning to Him.

"The Spirit of the Sovereign LORD is on me, because the LORD has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners... to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair." (Isaiah 61:1-3)

Beauty from ashes. Joy from mourning. Praise from despair.

Dust transformed into destiny.

He doesn't see you on your worst day and think, "Well, this is all I have to work with." He sees you — tired, stretched thin, honest about your struggle, scattered like dust — and He says, "Yes. This is exactly what I can work with. Watch what I'm about to do."

"The LORD your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves. He will take great delight in you; in his love he will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing." (Zephaniah 3:17)

Listen to me: You are never the scraps. Never give a second thought. Never the leftover.

You're the whole dish — intentionally made, full of depth, complete in purpose. You're the sancocho that gets better with time, richer with every season.

You're the dust He chose to form into a masterpiece.

"For we are God's handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do." (Ephesians 2:10)

Even when all you can offer is the tired, stretched-thin, broken, honest, vulnerable, dust-scattered, "I really hope this is enough" version of yourself…

God takes it. He blesses it. He multiplies it. He redeems it. He restores it. He breathes life into it.

And He calls it good.

"My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." (2 Corinthians 12:9)

So what does this mean for us today? For you, right now, reading this?

It may mean we stop apologizing for being human. Maybe we offer what we have — not the performance version, not the "got it all together" image — but the honest truth. The five exhausted minutes. The half-formed prayer. The tears we've been holding back. The broken pieces we're scared to bring.

The vulnerability that says, "God, this is me. This is all I have right now. I feel like dust."

And maybe that honesty is precisely what He's been waiting for. Because he specializes in dust. Always has.

Maybe it means believing that redemption isn't just possible — it's promised. That's what looks like an ending is actually a beginning. That your dust-scattered life is being transformed into something more beautiful than you can see right now.

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." (Matthew 11:28)

"Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland." (Isaiah 43:18-19)

You're not too much. You're not too little. You're not too late. You're not too broken. You're not too scattered.

You're right on time, and you're exactly enough.

So bring Him your honesty. Bring Him your vulnerability. Bring Him your dust.

Because the God who formed humanity from the ground, who multiplied loaves and fish, who turns ashes into beauty — that same God is holding you right now.

And he's not finished with you yet.

That's not leftovers. That's the raw material for His next masterpiece.

That's you.