Two Loaves and the Devil at Kwik Trip

This morning before church, I stopped at Kwik Trip for a bottle of Smart Water. Nothing unusual. Just a small ritual to clear my mind. As I walked in, I observed a couple moving through the store. The woman led with purpose, scanning the aisles, while the man followed quietly behind. I heard her ask, "Do you want one or two loaves of bread?"

He didn’t respond right away. He seemed distant, perhaps lost in thought or simply unengaged. She repeated the question, her voice patient but practiced. I moved on to grab my water and head to the checkout, but the interaction stuck with me.

Back in my car, I noticed the same couple leaving the store. Coincidentally, they were parked right next to me. She got in the driver’s seat. He carried the bag. Inside it were two loaves of bread.

I rolled down my window.

"So, you went with two loaves," I said lightly.

The man glanced at me, caught off guard. "What?"

"Your wife asked you in the store if you wanted one or two loaves. Looks like you went with two."

There was a pause. Then a smile. She laughed. They drove off.

It was a passing moment, but something about it stayed with me. Not because of the bread, but because of what I witnessed. A familiar rhythm. A couple moving in sync, yet somehow detached. A quiet decision made through repetition, not conversation.

In that moment, I was simply an observer. An unexpected presence who held up a mirror, even just for a second.

Later, in church, the pastor spoke about the night before Jesus' death. The breaking of bread. The cup. Communion. Each of us took the wafer and the juice, reenacting a sacred tradition of presence and sacrifice.

Bread again.

But this time, it was holy.

Two loaves at Kwik Trip. One loaf broken in an upper room.

Both moments carried weight. Both required awareness. Both offered a chance to engage or tune out.

The pastor also said, "The Devil is always looking for his opportunity."

That line stayed with me. Because the way the church often frames the Devil—as some external tempter, prowling like a lion—feels too simplistic to me. It makes the Devil an outsider. A separate being who invades our lives and takes the blame for our struggles.

But I see the Devil differently.

To me, the Devil is the shadow. The unseen. The avoided. Not some figure in red, but the parts of ourselves we don't want to face. Our anger. Our shame. Our fatigue. Our fear. The Devil is not always the destroyer. Sometimes, he is the awakener.

Maybe when I rolled down my window in that Kwik Trip parking lot, I became that figure. Not to tempt or torment. But to interrupt. To call attention. To say, "Are you awake in this moment? Are you present?"

Maybe that’s what the Devil really does—asks hard questions. Reflects what we’d rather not see. Not to harm us, but to invite us back into awareness.

And maybe we’ve spent too long blaming the Devil for things that are simply parts of ourselves still waiting to be understood.

Two loaves. A subtle exchange. A mirror held gently.

And me, somewhere between the aisles and the altar, watching it all unfold.

Not every sermon is preached from a pulpit. Some are whispered in parking lots, folded into laughter, or baked into two ordinary loaves of bread.