I was the baker’s son back in Egypt—though baking was done in secret, hidden from the overseers. My father used to knead dough while whispering prayers between his teeth. The memory of warm bread stayed with me even as we rushed out of Egypt into the wilderness with nothing but unleavened cakes packed in haste.
It was in our second month in the desert that I began to feel it—hunger not just in my belly, but deep in my spirit. I had dreamed freedom tasted sweeter than this. The heat, the dust, the sameness of the days—each morning greeted me with new doubts. I was not proud to be one of those who murmured. We remembered Egypt as if it had truly been easier: pots of meat, bread in abundance. We forgot the whips and chains.
I heard people around me grumbling, and I joined in. “Why did Moses bring us here to starve beneath the sun?” I cried out with the others. I didn’t doubt God had rescued us—I had seen the sea split with my own eyes. But rescue was one thing. Sustaining us? That was another.
Then it came—the word from Moses. “Tomorrow, you will see the bread from heaven,” he said. I laughed out loud. Bread from heaven? What kind of miracle was that?
That morning, it was my sister who woke me.
“Come look!” she whispered, shaking my arm.
We stepped outside our tent while the rest of the camp was still quiet. All around us, the ground glittered as if a layer of frost had fallen onto the sand, though the sun had not yet risen high. I crouched and scooped up the tiny white flakes. They melted on my fingers, soft and sweet.
“Moses said to gather only what you need,” my father reminded us. “One portion for each person. No more.”
We did as told—though I’ll confess, I hid a little extra in a pouch. But the next day, it stank with worms, just like Moses warned. I felt ashamed. I didn’t trust that more would come.
Yet it did.
Every morning except Shabbat—the seventh day—it fell. Two portions on the sixth day were always still fresh the next. And I noticed something I hadn’t before: there was enough. No matter how many we were, no one was too hungry. No one had too much.
That was the day my faith changed. It wasn’t loud like Mount Sinai, or dramatic like the sea splitting. It was this quiet moment when I stopped worrying about the next day and started trusting God to provide. Just as He fed my body, He was feeding my heart.
I still make bread, even in this wilderness. But now, I whisper different prayers: not for survival, but for gratitude. Because with every bite of manna, I remember—I am not alone. God walks with us, day by day, slow step by slow step, giving us exactly what we need.
I was the baker’s son back in Egypt—though baking was done in secret, hidden from the overseers. My father used to knead dough while whispering prayers between his teeth. The memory of warm bread stayed with me even as we rushed out of Egypt into the wilderness with nothing but unleavened cakes packed in haste.
It was in our second month in the desert that I began to feel it—hunger not just in my belly, but deep in my spirit. I had dreamed freedom tasted sweeter than this. The heat, the dust, the sameness of the days—each morning greeted me with new doubts. I was not proud to be one of those who murmured. We remembered Egypt as if it had truly been easier: pots of meat, bread in abundance. We forgot the whips and chains.
I heard people around me grumbling, and I joined in. “Why did Moses bring us here to starve beneath the sun?” I cried out with the others. I didn’t doubt God had rescued us—I had seen the sea split with my own eyes. But rescue was one thing. Sustaining us? That was another.
Then it came—the word from Moses. “Tomorrow, you will see the bread from heaven,” he said. I laughed out loud. Bread from heaven? What kind of miracle was that?
That morning, it was my sister who woke me.
“Come look!” she whispered, shaking my arm.
We stepped outside our tent while the rest of the camp was still quiet. All around us, the ground glittered as if a layer of frost had fallen onto the sand, though the sun had not yet risen high. I crouched and scooped up the tiny white flakes. They melted on my fingers, soft and sweet.
“Moses said to gather only what you need,” my father reminded us. “One portion for each person. No more.”
We did as told—though I’ll confess, I hid a little extra in a pouch. But the next day, it stank with worms, just like Moses warned. I felt ashamed. I didn’t trust that more would come.
Yet it did.
Every morning except Shabbat—the seventh day—it fell. Two portions on the sixth day were always still fresh the next. And I noticed something I hadn’t before: there was enough. No matter how many we were, no one was too hungry. No one had too much.
That was the day my faith changed. It wasn’t loud like Mount Sinai, or dramatic like the sea splitting. It was this quiet moment when I stopped worrying about the next day and started trusting God to provide. Just as He fed my body, He was feeding my heart.
I still make bread, even in this wilderness. But now, I whisper different prayers: not for survival, but for gratitude. Because with every bite of manna, I remember—I am not alone. God walks with us, day by day, slow step by slow step, giving us exactly what we need.
