Trusting God for provision sounds lovely on paper. Like something you’d cross-stitch onto a pillow and place on a chair you never sit in. But in practice? It’s a bit more like trying to bake a soufflé without a recipe, ingredients, or an oven—just blind optimism and a whisk made of anxiety.

The bills come in. The account goes out. You stare at your refrigerator like it might spontaneously generate something redeemable, and you start to seriously question if lunch meat and cheese is nutritionally viable long-term. That’s when the Bible verses start swirling—“Consider the lilies,” “Do not worry about tomorrow”—and you wonder if any of those lilies have child support due on the 1st.

There’s a strange tension in asking God for sustenance when you don’t even know what sustenance is anymore. Is it money? A job? A box of canned soup from someone’s church pantry? Or is it the quiet nudge that, even though things are fuzzy and frightening, you’re not doing this alone?

Faith, I’m learning, is less about answers and more about awkwardly continuing forward while God seemingly ghosted your last five texts. It’s showing up to life—even the weird, uncertain, slightly mildewed parts—and saying, “Okay, fine. I trust you. Sort of. But I’m going to need signs. And snacks.”

And somehow, the provision does come. A friend checks in. A check appears. A bit of peace sneaks into your chest like a cat finding a sunny spot on the carpet. That’s how he works I suppose..

So no, I don’t have clarity. I have a God who listens. And a very questionable freezer. So I’ll keep walking. I’ll keep praying. And keep trusting. And maybe checking under the couch cushions one more time, just in case provision looks like loose change.