on daily provision

How easy is it for us to get used to the radical ways that God takes care of us?

Imagine the Israelites, in the middle of the desert. No food, the possibility that an army is, somehow, going to come rushing out of the sea. No map but a cloud, no light at night but a pillar of fire. And then, one morning, in the middle of deep uncertainty, waking up to the ground covered in manna, actual bread from heaven covering the ground like dew. The bread is snatched up, inhaled, delicious and soft. And like the mercy of God new every morning, so is the manna–daily provision as they wake, with a double portion before the Sabbath. 
But then, as we humans tend to do, they begin to worry. What was one day a miracle becomes an anxious storm of lies the next. What if the manna stops? And so they snatch it up in armfuls and hoard the goodness of God. I imagine the manna inside their pillows, under their sleeping mats, inside the pockets of their bags, as if they know its stolen treasure they have to hide away and protect at all costs, so much so that they lay their heads on it to sleep. 
And the next day, the manna is spoiled. A rotten stench wakes them, wafting up from their pillows. Maggots squirm all over everything. Everything they've hoarded is wasted, useless. 
It is easy for me to judge these ancient humans. I think to myself, God literally just gave you bread from heaven to eat. There's been water coming out of rocks and an entire sea that split open. What more do you need to see to know that God is trustworthy? 
But then, of course, I realize my place in the story, and that I, too, have maggots crawling over rotten bread under my pillow. 
What is rotting in your life? What needs to die to give birth to life? How long do you believe in God's provision before you need another gift? How easy is it for us to get used to the radical ways that God takes care of us? There have been so many times God has showed up in unexpected ways, and yet, again and again, I am afraid to only keep what I need, swayed by the lies that whisper what if-what if-what if. 
What do we desire for our lives that we are afraid will not be fully realized? What parts and pieces and daily conveniences do we hide beneath our beds and in our cars and in the pockets of our jeans that are rotting from misuse or a lack of use all together? What would it look like to dump out our pockets and come again to God, empty-handed, trusting that as manna came down once before, manna will come down again? That in seasons of drought and sometimes forced rest, there will be a double portion? Why is it so scary for us to release the semblance of control and allow the God that loves us to hold us close? 
In Deuteronomy, Moses is talking to the Israelites, speaking truth to their fear. May his words be something to cling to when we are afraid of opening our hands, of releasing the manna we use to fill the empty spaces of our heart. 
Moses says, 
"...in the wilderness, there you saw how the Lord your God carried you, as a father carries his child, all the way you went until you reached this place.”
We are taken care of, again and again. 
Amen. May it be so.