Lord, can't I just have everything I want? Some days, it feels like you leave me hanging in need. There's so much to pay for, worry about, satisfy--I need more. More of everything to help my heart and my eyelids rest a little more easily at night.
You say you'll meet all my needs, but what about my need to relax and feel like the world won't crumble around me if I look away for two seconds? Isn't that need just as real as my need for water and food? For what good are physical provisions if my mind is too preoccupied with when you'll provide next?
And then, I remember. Manna. When you carried your people out of their known world and into the unknown wilderness, you didn't leave them hanging for what they needed. There was never the promise ofmore, just enough. You showed up every day and every night for them with just enough. You didn't let them keep any extra for a "rainy day." You knew there wouldn't be any "rainy days," so you shriveled up their stockpiles, for what was the point of them? They weren't going to need them.
And is that what you mean when you shrink us down to our barest bones of provisions? Maybe it's your way of saying, You don't need this. I've got you covered.
Even though you gave them what they needed every day, oh, how they complained that it wasn't tasty enough! Give us something different, God! Your provisions are boring me!
Oh, God, is that what I'm saying to you when I want more? I don't mean it in that way. It's just that sometimes, I find it scary to trust you.
Why does it feel that way? It shouldn't. I think of David and the stones you provided in the brook to take down Goliath--he took five, but he only needed one. You provided a loss of appetite for the lion when Daniel spent the night in his den. You provided a cone of protection around Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the furnace. You provided a lamb on Mount Moriah to take Isaac's place. You provided wood for Noah's ark, grain for Ruth and Naomi, loaves and fish for a multitude. You provided a baby in a manger, a calming of the storm, a sacrifice for our every sin.
You look after the needs of the sparrow and the blooming of the flowers. You're watching me, too, and keeping tabs on what my mind and body need most to keep going in this season of wandering and waiting.
The Israelites didn't spend the rest of their lives in the manna state. At last, after a long period of waiting, you did give them more. You gave them a Promised Land, bounteous and plentiful, with the manna stopping only once their feet had crossed over the threshold.
Oh, Lord. Your provisions--why should I complain about the lifelines you give while I await the day that my worries and cares will be but a memory? How could I be sick of your gifts? The proof that you see me and hear me?
Maybe it's my own fault that I find it hard to rest and relax. And maybe you'll keep shrinking my stockpiles until I finally learn the concept that I'm in your hand, and you're not going to let me drop.
Lord, I'm waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting for the day when you'll decide to give more.
But in the meantime--your manna? It's enough.
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