My first hotel gig in Savannah? It was chaos. I was the rooftop bar chef, which meant I was already running non-stop, but I was also the pinch hitter for the head chef down in the main restaurant whenever we were testing a new dish or needed finesse on the plate. So yeah, I moved fast. Real fast.

I didn’t have time for chit-chat. Definitely not time for small talk with guests. I wasn’t rude, I was just busy. Constantly sprinting between floors like a culinary EMT.

So picture this: I’m dead sprint to the rooftop kitchen to put out a fire. And with the cook I had up there at the time, it very well could’ve been a literal fire.

Mid-sprint, I get stopped. An elderly man, kind face, soft voice, wants help bringing some bags to his room. Now, my brain is screaming: “Sir, I’m holding the kitchen together with duct tape and prayer right now!” But my mouth says, “Sure thing, I’ve got you.” So I help him out and keep it moving.

Next day. Same sprint. Same man, but now with a woman. This time? She’s thirsty. Real thirsty. There’s a water cooler right in front of them, but they want colder water from the back. And again, I pause, go grab it, and keep moving.

Now, fast forward a day or two. The whole hotel is in panic mode. We’ve got this VIP dinner party rolling in. These folks only let our head chef cook for them, because of the care and hospitality she always showed. The only problem? She’d called out sick. My food & beverage director was sweating bullets.

I tell him, “I’ll make sure the rooftop is covered and see if they’ll let me cook for them. I’m the closest thing to her in this kitchen.”

When the guests arrive, they’re disappointed. Big time. Talking about heading to their backup restaurant down the road. These were big spenders. Loyal, generous. They took care of us… very well, so everyone’s freaking out.

I clean up, throw on a fresh apron, and walk out to their table. And who do I see?

The old man and the woman I’d helped.

Turns out, they were the VIPs. The same couple I paused for twice when I had a million things on fire, some literally.

They look at me, smile, and say, “Oh yeah he will be just fine” like they knew I had taken the time when I didn’t have it. “We know you’ll take care of us.”

I cooked the meal. We hit it off. Not only did they stay for dinner, but they canceled all their other reservations around town. Ate every meal with us the rest of their stay. The hotel was thrilled. And me? Well, the couple gave me a 200.00-dollar bottle of scotch as a thank you and let’s just say after that, no one at the Hotel saw me as just a backup anymore.

They elevated me, because I had shown hospitality when it was inconvenient.

Now let’s dive into 1 Samuel 30

He’s not on a rooftop, but he might as well be. He’s been dancing between caves and kings, battles and betrayals. He’s been rejected by Saul, chased through the wilderness, living off scraps and favors. He’s been leading men who only follow him because they’ve got nothing else left. And after being turned away by the Philistine lords, humiliated and cast aside, he returns to Ziklag, his last refuge, his resting place, only to find it burned to the ground.

Smoke.

Ash.

Gone.

No wives. No children. No livestock. No security. Just blackened earth and open wounds.

It says David and his men wept until they had no more strength to weep. Have you ever been there? Weeping until you physically can’t anymore? When your tear ducts dry up, but the pain doesn’t stop? That’s where David is. And then it gets worse.

Because the very men who bled beside him? They turn. They start whispering about stoning him.

And it would have made sense. Blame the leader. Burn the scapegoat. Break what little is left.

But here’s the pivot point. The line that changes everything:

“But David strengthened himself in the Lord his God.” (1 Samuel 30:6)

Not in his strategy.

Not in his resume.

Not in the loyalty of his men.

Not in the ashes.

He strengthened himself in the Lord.

Then he inquires of God, and God answers clearly: “Pursue. You shall surely overtake them and shall surely rescue.”

So David sets out. He pursues.

But here’s where most of us miss it.

On the way, 200 of his men drop. They’re too exhausted to continue. They don’t have the strength. And David? He could have left them in shame. He could have said, “You weak cowards. If you can’t fight, you can’t feast.” But he doesn’t. He lets them rest.

Then, while chasing the enemy, they meet an Egyptian slave left to die in the field. The man has no water, no food, no value to the enemy. Just another nameless casualty.

And David stops….. than feeds and tends to him.

Read that again.

In the middle of his own trauma, while his world is still smoldering, David stops to care for someone else. While he’s chasing down the enemy that burned his home to the ground, he offers bread and kindness to a total stranger.

And wouldn’t you know it?

That Egyptian? He was the servant to the Amalekites, leads them straight to them . Straight to the camp. Straight to the ones who took everything.

The breakthrough came because David chose true hospitality despite having every reason not to .

And when they arrive, David doesn’t only fight, he wipes the floor with them. He wins. And he recovers every single thing. Nothing is missing. Not a child. Not a sheep. Not a shred of what was stolen. And more than that, he walks away with the enemy’s treasure as well.

We are so busy sprinting. Running from one program to the next. From church event to outreach campaign to small group planning meetings. We’re setting up chairs, printing bulletins, adjusting lights and microphones and social media schedules. We are moving so fast, trying to keep the fire from spreading, that we’ve stopped noticing the burned ones lying in the ditch.

We have built Ziklag. Our safe place. Our controlled environment. And we’ve gotten real good at thinking we are protecting it.

Until it burns.

Until something hits that we didn’t plan for. The divorce. The scandal. The betrayal. The affair. The loss. The diagnosis. The collapse.

And suddenly all our programmatic hospitality means nothing. Because it wasn’t real hospitality in the first place.

It was the kind that smiles from across the room, but doesn’t stop for the Egyptian in the field.

It was the kind that claps during worship, but grumbles about feeding the ones who didn’t “serve enough” to deserve a blessing.

It was the kind that posts Bible verses, but walks past the person bleeding on the Jericho road.

We’ve become professionals at walking around the ditch.

We don’t have time to stop. We have church to run.

But here’s what David shows us:

You don’t get to recovery unless you learn to be kind while you’re still bleeding.

That’s the real test. Can you see the broken while you’re still broken? Can you feed someone else when your own cupboards feel empty? Can you bless the exhausted when you still have miles to go?

Because the miracle is hidden in the hospitality of mercy.

The Egyptian knew the way.

The ditch was the doorway.

If David had been too focused on his own fire, he would have missed the key to his victory. He would have missed the moment. He would have died chasing ghosts.

And so will we.

Here’s where this cuts deep, Church.

We say we want revival. We say we want restoration. But we’re too busy to slow down and see the people God put in our path.

We pray for God to give us the city, but we’re stepping over the ones He already gave us.

We want Him to fill our buildings, but we don’t want Him to fill our spare bedroom.

We want God to show up in power, but we don’t want to show up in patience.

And maybe that’s why our cities still look like Ziklag. Because we haven’t learned how to pursue with mercy. We haven’t learned how to strengthen ourselves in the Lord instead of in our success metrics.

But if we do.

If we pause.

If we feed the tired.

If we share the spoils.

If we serve from the ashes.

We will recover it all.

Not just the people.

Not just the churches.

Not just the finances.

We will recover our hearts.

Because revival doesn’t come through strategy. It comes through surrender.

And what was burned down? God will build back.

Better. Stronger. Whole.

Because nothing is wasted in the hands of the King.

So to the tired leader, the overlooked chef, the pastor running between services with no breath left, the believer wondering if anyone sees your quiet offering: Keep going. Feed the stranger. Lift the weary. Strengthen yourself in the Lord. And pursue.

Because you will recover all.

Stay Salty