This is for you.

July 16, 2025

This is for you.

by Wendi Lane

It’s such an honor to be here at the Iowa Hunger Summit, standing in front of so many people I truly admire. Last year, I sat right where you are, beaming with pride as my boss, Dr. Jim Blessman, received the Iowa Shares Award. So when I was invited to speak this year, I thought—great, I’ll talk about the work Blessman International does, feeding tens of thousands of children in South Africa. But instead, I was asked to share something else. Something personal.

As I sat down to write, I thought back to where I was just months before I was sitting there at last year’s Summit. I was standing in my neighbor’s house. Or what was left of it. A few days earlier, an EF4 tornado had devastated my hometown of Greenfield. She didn’t make it to the basement.

Instead, she huddled in her bathroom with her dog while her roof was ripped off and the walls crumbled down on her. By the grace of God, she and her dog were okay. A few days later, I stood with her in the ruins of her kitchen as she picked through her belongings.

She had created two piles—one for keepsakes, and when I asked what the other was for, she said it was donations for the people impacted by the tornado. I looked around at the tree branches on her counters, broken beams, and sunlight pouring in through what used to be her ceiling and said, “Kristy... you are one of the people impacted by the tornado.”

She shook her head and said, “There are others worse off than me who really need it.” That moment stuck with me for two reasons. First, it was so Iowa. Even in devastation, Iowans show up for each other. It’s in our DNA. Second, it reminded me of a time when I couldn’t see that I was the one who needed help.

I’ve spent years as a journalist, sharing stories of resilience and hope.

I’ve even shared how forgiving my alcoholic father transformed my entire life. But the story I was asked to share today doesn’t highlight my strength. It shows my vulnerability. And this is the first time I’m publicly sharing it—and I’m a little nervous. But I think those are exactly the reasons why I need to share it. So…here goes…

When people think of hunger, they picture someone holding a cardboard sign. Or a child in a third-world country. Someone whose struggle is visible. But hunger wears many faces. Many are hidden. Some wear press badges. Some wear scrubs, heels, or a uniform. Some sit quietly in a lunchroom, pretending they’re not hungry. I know. Because I’ve been one of them.

I grew up the daughter of a single mom who worked long shifts in a factory. My dad, a Vietnam vet, battled alcoholism. There were days when we had food. And days when we didn’t have much. Even my grandma would make us lettuce sandwiches—because that’s all she had to give.

But we made do. Because that’s what you do.

Years later, I landed my dream job in TV news. I was a reporter and anchor. On TV… Doing what I loved. But here’s what people don’t know:

Starting out in local news doesn’t pay much. I was making around $20,000 a year. And between rent, bills, and student loans, there was barely money left for gas, let alone groceries. I had nothing to buy food.

All I could afford was the cheapest coffee I could find because it was an appetite suppressant and it gave me energy to do my job, and canned pumpkin because I read that it was filling.

Then one day, I was assigned to cover a story at a food pantry just blocks from my apartment. I walked in with my camera and mic, telling the stories of others in need. I saw fresh produce. Canned goods. Loaves of bread. Things I hadn’t had in weeks. I asked the woman running it, “So this food… is for anyone?” She smiled. “Yes. Anyone.” My stomach growled so loudly it was embarrassing. But I still wouldn’t take anything.

First, because I didn’t want to take from someone who really needed it.

And secondly, I didn’t want anyone to know I was struggling. Because hunger wears many masks. And pride is often one of them.

I was a grown woman—a TV news anchor and reporter. And I couldn’t afford to feed myself. It was humiliating. I was ashamed. But as I turned to leave, that woman stopped me. She handed me two bags overflowing with groceries and said, “This is for you.”

I don’t know how she knew. She just knew. And in that moment, I dropped to my knees and cried. Not out of pity. Out of deep gratitude. She saw me. And she saved me.

That pantry didn’t just feed me that day. It got me through my first year in news. And every time I returned, I was reminded: Receiving help isn’t shameful. It’s sacred.

But society doesn’t always see it that way. There’s a stigma out there that says, “If you need help, especially with food, you must be lazy. Or broken. Or failing.” But I was working full-time,  chasing my dreams.

I was doing well. And I was struggling. And that’s okay. You can have success and still struggle. You can have faith and still doubt. You can have joy and sorrow at the same time. That’s what makes us human.

Life isn’t a steady climb. It’s a rollercoaster. And sometimes storms unexpectedly roll in. Like last year, after the tornado. My mom and I were living in a damaged home. We had No power. No water. No food.

And once again, I found myself on the receiving end of help.

Strangers showed up with meals, supplies, and support, and they said the same thing: “This is for you.”

Life is unpredictable. Sometimes we need help. And sometimes, we’re blessed enough to give it.

Today, I stand here as the Director of Development for Blessman International. We help feed tens of thousands of children in South Africa

through our partners at Meals from the Heartland and Convoy of Hope.

Earlier this year, I was at a preschool in South Africa. All the children were sitting quietly, eating. Except for one little girl, who was wandering around crying, and my heart broke for her. A staff member—juggling three babies—handed me a plate of food and pointed to her. I walked over, knelt beside her, and said: “This is for you.” She stopped crying, and she ate every bite. It was sacred. It was full circle.

So whether it’s in Iowa or across the world, hunger wears many faces.
Some are obvious and crying out.
Some are hidden.
But the answer is always the same: Love. Compassion. Dignity.

And sometimes all it takes to change a life is to simply say: “This is for you.”