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HUNGRY
Hungry. For bread. Perched here I turn my head this way and that, all I see is what I do not have, but they do. These feathered few are hoarding what I believe is owed to me. Where’s my portion? Looking down, all around for seeds and crumbs. Satisfying myself on bits and working endlessly in the blaze of the sun, full but not satisfied. Sweat on my brow and the stomach growl testify I still need what I cannot buy. You fly near, whisper in my ear, “Why do you say you have nothing to eat? Must you have a sign for Me to earn your attention again?” I’m pining for what the flock holds fast, when He takes all-I-have and makes baskets full. Manna falling down, all over the ground.
Mark 8:16-21; Psalm 78; Psalm 37