A few weeks ago, I wrote about Elim and the palm trees. It’s such a quick, one-sentence blip that you might not even notice it if you don’t know to look for it.
By the following sentence, the Israelites are exiting Elim and thrust back into the wilderness. It was their second month since leaving Egypt, so you can imagine they carried so much unaccounted-for baggage and trauma in their tired bones.
As they enter into the wilderness of Sin, they grumble, worrying they will starve out in this Great Unknown. At least, back in Egypt, they had meat pots and bread to the full.
It’s there, in their grumbling, that God meets them and assures them that he will rain bread down from heaven. Heaven-bread, I call it. It would later be called “manna” by the House of Israel.
If you are unfamiliar with the manna, it was a mixture of coriander seed and white, and it tasted like wafers dipped in honey. It would appear on the ground every morning like winter frost. The people would gather it each morning, and it was always the right amount– not too much, not too little, not more than they could eat.
“Morning by morning, they gathered it, each as much as he could eat, but when the sun grew hot, it melted.” Exodus 16:21
The story of the manna dropping daily from heaven has always been one of my favorites. I love the correlation between just enough to be sustained and the leftover baskets of bread we see later through the miracles of Jesus.
It’s proof to me that our seasons can swing wildly.
One moment, we’re standing in abundance. The more-than-enough. The mountaintop.
In another swoop, we’re swinging low. We’re bending to the ground to gather the manna. Just enough. Never more than the portion for that day.
As I’ve grown a little older, I’m beginning to call them “manna seasons.” Seasons of just enough. Seasons of one day at a time. Seasons where you want the full ladder but you’re only getting the next rung.
Can I be honest about these manna seasons?
I’d much prefer to skip these seasons altogether. I don’t like the stretching and required trust that comes with them. If I’m driving down the spiritual highway and I see an exit on my right for a manna season, I’m doing everything I can to stay on the road. Because dependence in an “I need you in every moment” kind of way feels painful and hard.
In a devotional where you’re in a breezy season, dependence sounds quaint. It’s a nice idea. But being thrust into it? No, thank you. Can I please have whatever else is on the menu?
I think God is a man with a robust, perfectly-timed sense of humor. Months ago, when the idea of “manna seasons” came to me while driving, I quickly voice-memoed it into my notes section. I remember thinking, “This is meant for someone. Thankfully, not me.”
A few weeks ago, I stumbled upon that note I’d written, and I was surprised by how quickly the surroundings of my season had shifted. I was standing in the midst of the manna season. Manna seasons can appear as unexpectedly as the manna itself.
One moment, you’re cruising. Next, your blinker is on, and you’re taking the exit you didn’t want to see coming up on the map.
So maybe that’s you:
You’re in a manna season.
A season of portions instead of leftovers.
It is a season of going morning by morning, scouring the ground for flakes of grace, mercy, and strength.
Day by day. Appointment by appointment. Call by call. Where life feels like a waiting room, with everyone’s name being called back but yours.
I’ll give you the only mantra that has semi-grounded me in my manna seasons:
Stay in today.
I know your mind wants to wander, to tread even deeper into this present wilderness, but there is power in standing still, in holding tight. There’s a reason why standing still when you lose your way in the woods is a top tip for wilderness survival. Moving in panic, confusion, and fear will only push you further into the unknown.
Standing still gives you a moment to pause. To breathe. To look around and flag anything familiar. To tell yourself the truth, “You’re safe. Seen. Sustained.”
Panicking, worrying, and spiraling won’t change what’s here–what’s already taking shape and what’s being revealed right on time.
Whether it’s learning daily patience with a toddler.
Waiting for the next step for the future.
The energy to do what’s right in front of you.
Peace for the night ahead.
You will have what you need. Not too much. Not too little. Just enough.
Of course, we want clear plans, but some days, we only get the portions. The little bit of strength. Resilience. Courage. Peace.
Portion by portion, we make our way through.
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