looking through me

Tag: self-perception

daily bread

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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carpool lane debris

The seconds and minutes pass by at such a speed I miss most of them. A few noteworthy ones jump out, but most are behind me before I knew they were before me.

That’s life.

This morning an accident occurred miles ahead of me. I sat in one of the thousands of cars stuck in its wake. And as I inched along a stretch of freeway in single-digit miles per hour, I noticed the things I race by every other day.

Along the center median I saw a man’s dress shirt: white with blue stripes. How did a dress shirt come to rest on the freeway? Did it fly out a window? Or did paramedics cut it off someone at the scene of an accident?

For several miles I inventoried all the debris along the center divider. There must have been a story behind each blown out tire tread, hubcap and car bumper; but those were far less intriguing than the lid to the 52-quart Igloo cooler, the pillow or the shovel handle and thirty feet later the shovel blade . . . for a snow shovel. The six-foot metal pipe and the splintered two by fours seemed less out of place than the orange hard hat that was missing a quarter of its left side. And the foam insert for a microphone case and the cargo shorts—doesn’t someone need those?

As I noticed each item left behind—whether intentionally or accidentally—I wondered what I leave in my aftermath.

What stories are attached to the moments trailing behind me, the ones I rush past without a second thought day after day after day?

Sometimes I need an event out of my control to slow me down and give me space to notice the narrative I’m writing with my life.


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