The morning had soured faster than expired milk. Summer heat hung heavy. Kids woke early and cranky. Work loomed long and deadlines late. Everywhere looked undone: grimy floors, laundry heaps, cluttered counters — and an empty fridge. Everyone was hungry.

To make everything worse, I’d made the mistake of starting the day by picking up my phone and scrolling through the news. Now I was convinced we were collectively heading to hell in a handbasket (again), and what could I do to help, in my tiny corner of the world?

Against a chorus of whines and protests, I pushed the back door open into sweltering humidity, stubbornly determined to gather blackberries for breakfast before storm clouds on the horizon cracked open. More than anything, I needed two whole minutes to myself.

Swatting away mosquitoes and black flies, I dug into the brambles. Thorny branches scraped my legs and tugged on my sleeves, but I didn’t care. Turned out there were more ripe berries than I realized—and many more to find when I crouched down and turned over leaves to discover juicy clusters of the shining dark beauties.

I’d planned to pick alone, but soon I was joined by two little boys in muddy boots who wanted to help. Our bowls filled as fast as our bellies, and our fingers stained purple. When the sun beat down, we turned a corner to find shade. When we thought everything had been picked clean, we pushed aside another leaf to find more.

Soon the kids were laughing. Slowly my mood began to rise like the sun. Somehow when we walked back inside, the day didn’t seem as daunting. Suddenly the metaphor became as clear as shining dew on the morning leaves:

Stepping outside and searching for what we wanted, we found exactly what we needed.

For weeks, I savored the memory of that sour morning turned sweet. How often do I forget that what I need is closer than I realize? My prayer life had shriveled dry after a long season of drought. But one morning of manna was enough to remind me that it makes a difference whether I walk into the world expecting abundance or scarcity.

It reminds me of a story I’d stuck back in the past, pressed between the pages of my childhood picture Bible — the story of God feeding the Israelites in the desert. This tale becomes magical or mythical if we don’t remember it is teaching us something theological: God provides. Not always in the ways we want or even expect, but in abundance we often overlook.

“The Israelites did as they were told; some gathered much, some little. And when they measured it by the omer, the one who gathered much did not have too much, and the one who gathered little did not have too little. Everyone had gathered just as much as they needed.”
Exodus 16:17-18 NIV

Food called manna lying on the ground, free for the taking? Enough each morning, spoiling if it’s hoarded? Nourishment for forty years, full bellies for the whole sojourn in the wilderness? It’s a wild story to trust, let alone believe, within the challenges and contours of our own lives. But that’s exactly what God asks us to do.

Years ago, one of my professors talked about “functional atheism”: the irony that we profess belief in God, but then operate in our daily lives as if it’s up to us to get everything done. How quickly such attitudes (and anxieties) creep into our thinking. How often I pivot from prayer time to personal worries, trying to get everything done on my own time and terms, forgetting the sacred words of surrender I prayed only moments before.

Over the years, I have dug deep into trying to trust the manna. When I force my own will or whims, everything spoils. When I run headlong into my own desires, I suffer — and so does everyone around me.

But when I trust that God will show up, surprising things happen. Time or space or energy arrives for the work that needs to be done. Inspiration sparks at the right moment. Or an opportunity knocks on a long-closed door. I learn how to tune my ear to listen for the Spirit’s movement instead of marinating in the worries of my own heart.

I still have to remind myself of this every day: there will be enough. We often have to shift our vision of what enough means. But manna always arrives, fresh every morning, just for today.

If you need manna for a troubled relationship, a new stage of life, or a season of uncertainty, remember that manna is made for the wilderness. Not forever, but enough to meet our needs, generous enough for generations. Enough is not everything, but it suffices and sustains. Enough peace, enough grace, enough hope can get us over the next mountain and into the closest clearing to catch our breath.

It’s easier said than done — to trust in God for yourself and for others, to trust in God at work and at rest. But sometimes a simple encounter — even five minutes in the abundance of God’s creation out your back door — can be enough.

It’s never up to us in the end. Thank God for that.

For more of Laura’s writing, read her essays on finding God in daily life at The Holy Labor or follow her reflections on surviving cancer at The Compassion Brigade.

 

Listen to Laura’s devotion here or wherever you stream podcasts.

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