There is a mason jar sitting on top of a journal in my entry way. It is a visual that I have been keeping this summer as I have been reading through the Book of Exodus for 40 days. The jar has 10 pinto beans in it (Ten, because an omerful of manna was a tenth of an ephah of flour, and this is how much the Lord told the nation of Israel to take each day). Each of these beans is meant to represent 10 things I am asking the Lord to provide in that day that I simply cannot live without (just as He promised to provide for His people as they escaped the slavery of Egypt). My list includes things like: clean water, a Bible in my heart-language (when so many around the world don't even have one translation of what we have several of), strong lungs to hold the breath God gives me today, clothes and shoes, and a safe place to dwell.
The manna was meant to sustain Israel in a place where staples like water and food could not be found. It was the bread that the Lord rained down from heaven, and it was only to be gathered in a day's time; any more than this would breed worms and grow foul.
This morning, as the manna jar sits before me and my journal is open and ready for my hand to pen the day's list, I suddenly notice just how small those beans are sitting in that jar.
Will 10 things really be enough for the day?
And then, I wonder about all the empty space around those beans; space that looks just that--empty. Even though nothing physical will occupy that space today, or any day, unless I put more beans in it, the next question that enters my mind is, "Is that space really empty?" I mean, doesn't something always come in to the empty? When you belong to the presence of God, is there ever a space that is unoccupied? If, as the Scripture says, He hems me in behind and before, and His hand rests upon me, and His cloud moves to block the fear that marches behind me, and the Holy can be seen in the furnace of my trials,…will the space around me ever be empty? If all the fullness of God lives within me, isn't it possible that my small frame will not be able to contain the fullness of its Creator, and therefore, there is no empty around me…ever?
Is my focus always going to be on the 10 beans--beans that seem to be the not-enough--or will it look instead toward the possibilities that occupy the space that I cannot see within it? Will my focus be on the manna given, or on the manna Giver?
What if I reached for the unknown in that space? What if, like the bungee jumper, the sky diver, the rock climber, I reached instead for the space of possibilities? What if I leapt towards the thrill that occupies what my eyes cannot see, but what my soul longs to experience?
If our feet always stay on the known, will we ever push ourselves toward the unknown; towards the thrill of faith?
The manna is the daily provision; the necessary. But the empty space around it holds the presence of the Giver, and shouldn't my choice be on Presence known? Hasn't my manna Giver always given?
It's funny. It's just a jar holding 10 small beans, if I only look at what my eyes can physically see. But today, my heart is choosing to focus on the space around the day's provisions, and see all that is hope.
And isn't hope so much bigger than a bean?
