The Children of Israel wandered. I can relate to feeling unclear about the road ahead. But truthfully, my meanderings have never lasted as long as the thousands of families whose homes were no more than a tent held up with wooden stakes. They had no way to store food, so each meal had to appear like magic. Which they did. 

The minister this week invited children to come forward and gather up manna. That is the name given to the wafers that floated down from heaven, the ones that fed a nation for forty years. The kids were eager to pick up cereal and plunk it into cups. Grown ups had to lean way down to reach, but the toddlers were already near the ground. Everyone had the same size cup, which was not large enough to hoard for tomorrow, yet not as small as those sample cups at the ice cream store, whose purpose is to convince you to buy two scoops.  

After the families came back to their seats, the minister continued to talk. One little girl fancied having more, and kept trotting back to restock. Everyone enjoyed watching her, she who was oblivious to the crowd as she busied herself with collecting. Since I too, spent forty years putting breakfast on the table, I am both charmed and perplexed by the story. It was handy not to have to shop, or put away leftovers, or even decide what to serve. But the vulnerability of it may have worn on mothers whose children woke up hungry every windswept day. Would it really arrive again tomorrow? As someone who carries my own doubts, I get it. 

At some point one of the small girls started to complain and her father took her out. This too, was part of the plot, since the kids of Israel had their own misgivings about life in the desert. I can hardly blame them. 

When I ponder my own capacity for trust, I count myself lucky. Knowing this story by heart sustains me. Plus I love that the home that awaited them at the end of their pilgrimage was a land of milk and honey. Two scoops.