Give Us This Day

Give Us This Day

by Emily Ruth Hazel

Give us this day, however you slice it,

thick or thin—let this be enough,

at least until the sun, golden

as an egg-brushed Chinese bun, rises again.

Bring us the Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday

bread of life, the ordinary comfort

that we crave: the constancy of cooking rice,

the routine of rolling tortillas.

Give the French their measure of heaven

alongside every meal. Give Italians

their pasta, Ethiopians injera, and Jamaicans

coco bread. Give Pakistanis their chapatti

and Southerners their biscuits.

Give us couscous to satisfy

the ache in our bellies, naan

to mediate the fire in our mouths.

Sustain us one calendar square at a time,

through days that boil us down

and pound us like cassava root

until whatever stew we are in,

we are like dough in your hand,

as soft and stretchable as fufu. The days

and years we wander in the wilderness,

dependent on a promise, moving toward

what seems to be a mirage of milk and honey,

speak over us a grace that is more than words.

Let even the winter sky be generous:

let us wake to frosted flakes

on the ground outside our windows,

like the cereal you sent your children

in the desert, the answer

to their stomachs’ complaints

itself named after a question—

What is it?—Manna, silently arriving

as faithfully as morning dew, in between

dinners delivered as a hard rain of quail.

Stories tell of divine provisions appearing

in pairs: rolls and sardines, one boy’s lunch,

feeding thousands of listeners on a hillside;

ravens carrying bread and meat

to a ravenous prophet riding out the drought

in a rocky ravine; a widow’s last portion

of flour and oil lasting as long as

her mysterious houseguest stays.

Listeners, prophets, and widows, we are hungry

for surprises. Give us eyes to see potential

in the smallest offerings, the driest seasons,

the almost-empty jars. In the urban oven,

when summer’s heat hovers

and we are desperate for relief,

may we be grateful whenever we breathe in—

instead of the odor of ripening garbage—

the scent of something holy: a bakery’s aroma

reaching several city blocks.

After praying for hope we can harvest,

may we not be too preoccupied to notice,

as we pass the community garden,

the sunbursts of zucchini blossoms

and the lazy, yellow squash

lolling on the ground, primed for the picking.

May we consider the sparrows

that swoop across sidewalks,

their fearless pace unchanging

as they fly through chain link fences.

These tiny birds gather what they must

to build their nests, eat the seeds of found fruit

and disperse them, need no silos

for storing tomorrow’s concerns.

They put no stock in corporate politics,

are not consumed with working toward

the next promotion. Sparrows

have no pension plans. They simply trust

there is always a picnic ending

somewhere, a blanket of blessing

ready to be shaken out. Give us

that much faith, a thin space

we can squeeze between our fingers.

Give us, too, a taste of Wonder,

baskets of leftovers, crumbs of miracles

scattered like new constellations.

Fill our empty pita pockets.

Multiply our multigrain.

Braid our lives together

like a loaf of challah bread,

and lead us not into temptation

to rush the delicious.

Help us be present with each other

here in this day you have given us.

When we gather, let us linger;

let us learn to chew more slowly

so as not to miss the flavor

in the moments we share.

Let us do this in remembrance of you,

the carpenter boy next door

turned man of sorrows, fisher of souls—

like us, always waiting for the next bite.