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Dear God: I get you’re testing my faith. You want me to be more trusting and less controlling. I need to let go.
But I have, already. I’ve filled my “Baby Moses” basket and released it from the reeds, allowing the vessel to float downstream where you are waiting to lift it out and care for it. But now when I open I my eyes and lift my head from prayer, I find my small basket of worries is caught in the weeds. Winds—gales lately—blow against my bushel of problems, pushing it back up stream and back towards me.
My dad is gone from my world. This morning I looked into my basket and saw him, his face reflecting in my pool of tears. God, how I miss him, especially now when I need his wisdom and encouraging words. He’d know what to do. He always knew. I miss hearing his voice.
I see our financial needs and desires weighing down my basket. Too many of them and too little income. How are we—I, to deal with those? “Pray for daily bread,” you say. Well, I’ve prayed but words won’t feed us and can’t be saved for the future. It takes more than ancient promises to fill the pantry and save for others, doesn’t it?
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