I used to bake bread. It began out of idealism, mixed with naïveté, and the result was kind of dense. We ate it, but the hand ground flour was gritty, and my kneading skills were lacking. So we decided to buy our loaves. 

Ten years later, gluten became the bad guy, and sandwiches took a back seat in our diet. I still made mean banana muffins, and my waffles were pretty sweet. But there were no longer croutons on the salad. 

In church this week, we heard about bread raining from the sky. The story from Exodus was of the forty-year period when God fed the Children of Israel with manna. The minister offered bread to us as well, both gluten-free and regular. It was precious to be kneeling with my family, in this centuries old sacrament. 

When I had a passel of young children, I wished that meals could have a more lasting effect. All the effort it took to prepare lunch, and clean up after it, seemed to bleed right into supper. I fantasized about the good fortune of pythons, who only eat monthly.  

Yet it occurs to me that the frequency of nutrition is not a mistake on God's part. Love, which is as much of a comfort food as cake, is best given often. Thrice daily is not too much. 

"Give us this day our daily bread."