I went to Trader Joe’s on Friday. The fully stocked shelves of peanut butter pretzels, everything bagel dip, and cookie butter, along with the friendly guys in hula shirts made me think for a moment that we aren’t in the middle of a global crisis. It was the highlight of my week.

We’ve been carefully quarantined for almost a month now. All of our groceries until this point had been delivered and disinfected at the door. But a dwindling pantry and several incomplete online orders set me on edge, and I just had to get out.

I donned latex gloves at the door, carefully wiped down the handle of my grocery cart, and hustled in, like a shopper on “Supermarket Sweep.” I bought an extra of everything. I needed one cart and not one, but two baskets to contain the groceries I wanted to buy. (Why not just grab another cart? Surely a little basket would do — until it wouldn’t.)

In the end, I filled two carts with groceries and needed “carry out” service, where they ring the bell and a non-judgmental employee walks up to escort you and your loot to the trunk.

Shuffling my feet, I assured him, “This isn’t all for me, you know. I bought some stuff for my sister and my aunt.” I didn’t want him to think I was one of those crazy people, stockpiling toilet paper.

[Peel off gloves, open the car door, pump hand sanitizer, start the car, and exhale.]

I like the comfort of knowing that I can feed my family, at least for one more day. Three times a day, I lay out food on the table as proof that we will make it through this.

This virus has exposed my fragility. I don’t have weak lungs or a compromised immune system, but I still feel fragile. The illusion of self-sufficiency I once lived with has dissipated, almost overnight. No longer can I hop in my car for a quick run to Target or invite friends over for a meal. I can’t pawn my kids off on anyone else and go out for a romantic evening with my husband.

The coronavirus has pressed me to realize that the life I once enjoyed was only possible because of a carefully arranged network of people and processes that were keeping me afloat. Our nanny afforded me the gift of work. Moments spent away from my husband and children, whether at Starbucks, out with friends, or at the office, filled my cup and gave me enough space to think I’m really a patient and loving person. And unrestricted trips to the grocery store at will made me feel secure.

Now I don’t have reserves. There is no margin. The network has crumbled, and I’m left to realize how dependent, how needy I really am.

Every Sunday, I get to lead the congregation in the Lord’s Prayer. Together, we say, “Give us this day our daily bread…” That line is a reference to the wandering wilderness season of Israel, the years spent between slavery in Egypt and the Promised Land. Stripped of their comfort and any sense of security, God’s people grumble:

“Would that we had died by the hand of the Lord in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the meat pots and ate bread to the full, for you have brought us out into this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger.” (Ex. 16:3 ESV)

The Lord hears and helps.

I have heard the grumbling of the Israelites. Tell them, “At twilight you will eat meat, and in the morning, you will be filled with bread. Then you will know that I am the Lord your God.”

In the evening, quail came up and covered the camp, and in the morning, dew lay around the camp. And when the dew had gone up, there was on the face of the wilderness a fine, flake-like thing, fine as frost on the ground…

“Gather of it, each one of you, as much as he can eat. You shall each take an omer, according to the number of the persons that each of you has in his tent…Let no one leave any of it over till the morning.”

But they did not listen to Moses. Some left part of it till the morning, and it bred worms and stank. And Moses was angry with them. Morning by morning they gathered it as much as he could eat; but when the sun grew hot it melted.” (Ex. 16:12-21 ESV)

I’m with the Israelites here. When food seems scarce, my instinct says, “Stockpile.” So why is God shorting them on groceries?

For Israel, the wilderness was about transformation. God was undoing the habits formed by slavery in Egypt and wooing his children into a relationship, so he could set them safely free in the Promised Land.

Israel’s mistake in stockpiling is mine as well: We believe it is the food we need, when really, it’s the giver of the food who fills us.

God provides daily bread to keep his children close.

This season marked by COVID-19 feels wilderness-y to me. I’ve left the land I knew, a place marked by enough of everything, even if there were some things I need to leave behind. But I’m not out in the clear. I’m right in the middle, in the place of uncertainty.

I don’t know how long we will be asked to shelter in place. I don’t know what this means for my husband’s commission-based work. I don’t know what this means for our preschool deposit this fall, or the economy long-term, or the health of the people I love.

But when I stop and ask for daily bread, what I’m asking is for the Lord to give me enough today. Enough patience. Enough hope. Enough tenderness. Enough money. Enough trust. Just enough for today.

Most days I don’t ask for daily bread. I ask for enough to make it two more weeks. I’ll take what I can get from God and be on my way – until I need something and have to return again.

Do you remember what happened when Israel tried to take more manna than they could eat in a day? It “bred worms and stank.” I wonder if that’s what happens inside of me, the longer I go without connecting with God. I’m not fresh anymore. I lose patience. I lose hope. I lose tenderness.

When Jesus teaches us to pray, “Give us this day our daily bread,” he’s inviting us to come to the Father daily. To stay close. To remember it’s not the bread we need – it’s not two weeks of groceries or whatever it is you’ve defined as “enough.”

What we really need is the giver of the bread. It’s him.