I don’t pray for daily bread. It’s awkward asking God to provide for me when I have a well-stocked pantry, refrigerator and freezer and when I drive by more stores and restaurants than I can count, let alone eat at in a month. Why would I ask God to supply bread?
The request is about more than food—I know—but dependence of any kind is hard in a country that worships self-sufficiency.
Praying for daily bread is more confession than request. I look at my history of having more than enough every single day and somehow that translates into “but tomorrow might be different,” so I stockpile. I store up money and food and stuff. I fear what’s never been instead of trusting what’s been proven time and again.
I bear an uncomfortable resemblance to the Israelites as they wandered in the desert. Even though the manna shows up without fail each morning, I’m not convinced it will be there tomorrow. Even though I can trace the thread of God’s faithfulness back through my life, I’m not confident He will be faithful next week or next year.
I squirm in my seat and realize the arrogance of my non-prayer, the lie of independence.
Today I pray for bread: I confess my meager faith. I thank Him for His unwavering grace, and I acknowledge my need that is only able to be met by His provision.
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