When the Cheese Moves in Maplewood
When the Cheese Moves in Maplewood
Everyone in Maplewood knew that routines were sacred.
The coffee pot clicked on at 6:12 a.m. sharp. The same three women claimed the same booth at the café every Thursday. And Martha Hem always parked her car in the third spot from the bakery door because that’s where it had always been.
So when the cheese moved, no one was ready.
It wasn’t literal cheese—though Maplewood took its dairy seriously. It was the quiet closing of a familiar door. A schedule change. A season ending without asking permission.
Some folks reacted like Hem.
Martha stood in her kitchen, arms crossed, staring at the empty shelf where certainty used to live.
“This isn’t right,” she said. “It shouldn’t be this way. I did everything correctly.”
She waited. She worried. She replayed old days like reruns she hoped might come back if she watched hard enough.
Others reacted like Haw.
Eli Haw from the hardware store noticed the shelf was empty, felt the same ache, but eventually reached for his coat.
“I don’t like this either,” he admitted to himself. “But staying scared won’t feed me.”
He took a step. Then another. Slowly, awkwardly, with fear riding shotgun.
Maplewood watched both responses play out—one rooted in resistance, the other in reluctant movement.
And quietly, underneath it all, God was doing what He often does: growing something deeper.
Paul’s words came alive in small-town ways:
*“We also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been
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Still Moving, Still Hoping
In Maplewood, the old community center had a basement pantry no one thought much about—until the day the shelves were suddenly bare.
Marty Hem noticed first.
He stood staring at the empty shelf where the cheese crackers always sat, arms crossed, jaw tight. “This can’t be right,” he muttered. “They were here last week.”
Eli Haw came down the stairs behind him, paused, and felt that familiar flutter of unease. The room felt the same—same humming light, same scuffed floor—but something essential had changed.
“They must’ve moved it,” Haw said carefully.
Hem shook his head. “No. Things don’t just move. Someone messed up. Or forgot. Or didn’t think.”
Haw sat down on an overturned crate. He didn’t like the empty shelves either. But something inside him whispered that standing still wouldn’t restock them.
That night, Haw went home and opened his Bible, landing—almost accidentally—on Romans 5:3–5:
“We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope. And hope does not put us to shame…”
Haw read it twice.
He realized something gentle but firm:
This wasn’t punishment.
This wasn’t chaos.
This was formation.
Hem, meanwhile, stayed angry. He replayed how things used to be. He rehearsed how unfair it was. He waited for the cheese to come back where it belonged.
But Haw picked up his jacket.
The next morning, he walked through Maplewood—past the coffee shop, past the bakery, past places that had once fed him comfort in familiar ways. He asked questions. He listened. He felt afraid, but he walked anyway.
And eventually, he found it.
A new pantry. Smaller. Different. Stocked with what the town needed now, not what it needed before.
When Haw returned and told Hem, Hem hesitated.
“What if it moves again?” Hem asked.
Haw smiled—not because he wasn’t afraid, but because he was learning something deeper.
“Then,” he said, “I’ll know I can move too.”
Devotional Reflection
Sometimes God doesn’t remove the cheese to punish us—
He removes it to teach us endurance.
Romans reminds us that:
Pressure produces perseverance
Perseverance reshapes us
And reshaped hearts learn hope
Hope isn’t found in the shelf staying full.
Hope is found in discovering that you are not stuck.
Gentle Journaling Prompt
Where have I been standing still, waiting for things to return to how they were?
What might God be forming in me through this season of change?
If I trusted that hope is ahead—not behind—what small step could I take today?
This kind of hope doesn’t shout.
It walks.
And it keeps walking—until nourishment appears again.
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