Thunder rolls from over the Saint Lawrence and moves toward my perch on the side porch. She plays the piano inside and I still taste coffee in my mouth. It is nearly July, but you didn't hear it from me, why would you? It's beautiful and I can't say much else about that. I spent last evening with two true blues and, as we strolled from La Casbah to Scoops Ice Cream Stand, I stated quite happily that Potsdam is my favorite place in the world. And it is. I have lived in many places, loved most of them, visited all of them on occasion and always wait for that sense that I am coming home in each one. I never get it save when I come back here.

I'm not sure if it's the same in other parts of our country, but in the summer here our church is suspiciously sparse. Vacations aplenty and people take advantage of getting out of their winter best for five months before hibernation becomes imminent again. I think that logically it would follow that, since vacationers are also in plenty around here, somehow that would make up for the lack, but no, apparently church isn't high on the list of ways to relax. This occurs to me this morning, as I stand in the front row worshiping, surrounded by my family worshiping, surrounded by four (well, who's counting) walls, surrounded by hills of green, surrounded by a county filled with locals, tourists, students, and people who don't know. People who don't know that church is the best place to be anytime. (This from someone who spends forty-three hours a week there.)

The rain has started, the dramatic blue-black clouds rushing furiously, chasing the sun back from where she came. The wind pushes the porch swing in front of me slides from side to side, taunting me with her strength. Leaves fly by my face and goosebumps rise on my arms. I refuse to be so threatened. I was here first.

I am meditating on the Israelites today. And manna. And obedience. And manna. And the worth of six days. And manna. God told Moses that the children were to collect manna every day for six days, and on the sixth day there would be enough manna for the seventh. I'm sure it was an object lesson in Keeping the Sabbath Holy, but here is what sits on my mind today:

I will rain bread and they shall go out and gather a day's portion every day, that I may test them, whether or not they will walk in My instruction. On the sixth day, when they prepare what they bring in, it will be twice as much as they gather daily. Exodus 16.4,5

The thought of God testing me makes me squirm in my white rocker on the side porch. I do not like the image of a God who tests me. I do not like to defend a God who tests people. I do not like to admit that I have been and continue to be tested by my God. But I didn't write the Bible and I didn't create mankind: He who tests us did and is. So there, it's out, God tested them, He tests us. He is not some doe-eyed white robed individual who stretches out his nail scarred hand and let's us write our own gospel.

I am a good student, though, and I know when I'm being tested. I'm sure the Israelites did too, after the third or fourth Sabbath of plenty. It's easier to trust when you know the routine. But while I know the routine, I don't know the end. Trust can't be in the manna arriving on time, it is in the God who says it will be. And God wasn't testing them so he could slap the hands of those who gathered an extra day's portion on the wrong day, He was testing their obedience day by day by day.

Here is my conclusion: we do not carry tomorrow's portion most days, we are collecting today's. But sometimes He instructs us, and we don't know why, to store up, to have a reserve--not because he wouldn't care for us if we found ourselves lacking, but because he wants our obedience. We deposit into the bank lessons, character, and faith, so that on that day when we need it, it is in plenty.

So we gather what we need for today, no more, no less. He instructs when we must gather for tomorrow too. Our only duty is to obey. He tests not because He is a hard schoolmaster, but because He is a wise one.

He sees the storm rolling in before we do.