Day 216

Isaiah 21–22 | Matthew 26:1–25

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I didn’t want to write today.

Not because I didn’t have something to say—but because I didn’t want to feel what I’d have to feel to say it.

It’s been a hard weekend.

Friday marked the end of a 13-year chapter.

Yesterday—Saturday—I applied for unemployment for the first time in my life.

And here’s what the state of California said I’m worth:

$11.25 an hour.

Not even minimum wage.

It’s hard to type that without choking on the pride it confronts.

Because I know I’m capable. Experienced. Strategic.

And yet here I am—doing math in my head and wondering how that number is supposed to cover groceries, insurance, and mortgage payments. Sure, we have savings to cover us for a while, but the thoughts still spiral.

When the Sermon Hits Too Close

Then came Sunday.

I dragged myself to church. Still heavy. Still spinning. Still quietly sulking and ticked off at the world around me as if it’s the world’s fault. And as usual I took it out on Talacey and Sophia and Jason. (Talacey signed up for ‘better or worse’ but poor J didn’t, so I’m not sure why he sticks around. Come to think of it, I’m not sure why Talacey does either.)

Our pastor and my friend, Andrei, has been preaching through the Lord’s Prayer, line by line.

And this morning, of all mornings, he landed here:

“Give us this day our daily bread.”

He talked about how rich we are in this country—cars, houses, vacations.

And all I could think about was the shift my family is about to undergo.

The belt-tightening. The halted plans. The humbling.

But then he said something I can’t let go:

God gave Israel just enough manna for each day.

Anything extra rotted.

Because while He was feeding them, He was forming them.

Training them to trust.

And I realized…

That’s what this is.

This isn’t just financial hardship.

This is trust school.

The God Who Appoints Every Day

This line from Isaiah hit differently today:

“The Lord God of hosts has a day…” (Isaiah 22:5)

Not just any day.

A day He appoints.

The fall of cities. The weeping of nations. The humbling of the proud.

It’s all part of His larger design.

And somehow—mysteriously, mercifully—that includes me.

My last Friday.

My unemployment filing.

This very Sunday sermon.

Only a sovereign God could orchestrate that kind of precision in a sermon written for a whole church but pointed directly at me.

Only a gracious One would do it for my heart.

Is It I, Lord?

In Matthew 26, Jesus announces that one of His disciples will betray Him.

And instead of accusing each other, they ask a haunting question:

“Is it I, Lord?”

That question has lingered with me all day.

Because I’m guilty of that inner betrayal.

Not of walking away from Christ—but of quietly resenting His timeline.

Of questioning whether He’ll come through.

Of clinging more tightly to a spreadsheet than to the Spirit.

“Is it I, Lord?”

Yes.

In my moments of doubt, it absolutely is.

Just Today’s Bread

What I want is clarity. A salary. A new beginning.

What He gives is bread.

Just enough bread for today.

And maybe that’s the point.

If I had enough for the month, I wouldn’t lean in.

If I could store up provision, I’d hoard it.

But He wants me here.

Empty. Aware. Dependent.

And this blog post—the one I almost didn’t write—is once again the very place He meets me.

The place where sulking becomes surrender.

Where despair turns just enough toward hope.

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Lord, I don’t want just enough—I want excess. I want comfort. I want resolution. But You want trust. And today, You’ve reminded me that You are the Bread of Life. So give me the faith to receive what You’ve given. Not with bitterness. But with belief. Not with pride. But with praise. And tomorrow—when I’m desperate all over again—show up like You always do. Not with answers. But with Yourself. Amen.