He gives me this day my daily bread, but I am still hungry. My soul stomach churns knots of worry about tomorrow. The sun sets and I look back to its rising to see how well He fed me throughout the day. Yes, I had enough bread for today, enough strength and weakness, enough pain and joy, but I am not content for long before tomorrow’s hunger pangs rise. The day’s bread sits heavy in my gut, but my soul stomach aches, famished from lack of faith.
I work hard from sunrise to sunset, striving to prepare loaves of protection and provision for the ones I love the most. These loaves are stored up in plans and precautions, each fermented with the yeast of my own timing and kneaded by the gripping knuckles of my own hands. I spoon flour of anxiety and mix water of fear, and before long I am bending and folding the dough of control, confident that with my own two hands I might bake enough bread to fill us for tomorrow and beyond. But these loaves of mine don’t rise, and they rarely turn out quite like I expect. Even when they do, my bread never satisfies me the way that I hope.
My hands are sore from so much kneading. He soothes the white right out of my knuckles as He whispers, “These hands are not made for kneading, but for taking and eating. This bread I give to you may not always satisfy, but it will always sustain.” The taking and eating is the bending and folding that forms loaves of trust, that rise with the yeast of faith to bring forth bread that will never stale. It is fresh every sunrise. “Give me this day my daily bread,” I plea to Him as He washes the flour off of my face with grace’s cool water. The sun sets again while the slow filling of tiny grains of faith quiets the pangs in my soul stomach, for finally I am full.