An Omer of Manna

“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. … It was like coriander seed, white, and the taste of it was like wafers made with honey.”

When she got out the Bible for lesson time, E turned randomly to Exodus 16 and said, “tell me this story!” and it reminded me how much I like that chapter. It’s like reading a fantasy novel, where things seem pretty ordinary until you stumble upon the part with the magical stuff on the ground. I love the tone of curious wonder. I love the sense of the mist lifting, the nothingness of hot, dry plains transformed into something wondrous. The imagery of pure white blanketing a Wilderness of Sin. I like how God made it a bit sweet, and very fine. How it was malleable, boilable and bakeable. How it was the perfect buffet: those who gathered much had none left, and those who gathered little had no lack.

And it happened every day, I told her, every day for forty years. For longer than I’ve been alive, they ate the same thing. Every night, they had nothing left. Every morning, they had to trust that the same, inexplicable miracle would happen again. Only on the night before the Sabbath did they have enough for one more day, so that once a week they rested. Can you imagine living on faith that long, for something as basic as food?

There was one exception: the omer that was stored for the generations, so they could see, feel, smell, taste the evidence of God’s daily faithfulness for those forty years, of his people’s dependence on him alone for their sustenance. So their children would know, would remember this song in the night, this daily bread.

It makes me think: where is my omer of manna? How much of my life is lived in daily faith and dependence? Am I spiritually consistent? Am I intentional about displaying evidence of faith for my children? Am I wandering where God wants me to be? Am I noticing what he provides before me?

The people tested every instruction. If I keep a little extra, will it really get infested with maggots? If I go out on the seventh day, will there really be nothing to gather? Each directive had to be repeated twice. But I test things all the time too: do I really need to be fed by God every day? Can’t I hoard spiritual capital? Get lazy about spending time with God without consequence? Get along pretty well on my own? Do I really need to suffer in the wilderness? Can’t I just seek a comfortable life?

The things that are outside of natural order and self-will are hard to remember, hard to be consistent about. I guess we all need our omer of manna. To remember.