Eleventh-hour faith

What comes when all hedge funds run dry | Amy Henry

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EBDesperation has a way of forging a greased path from my mouth to God's ear. It is a cable connection, lightning quick: God, help us. We have no job. The house will not sell. The mortgage payments keep coming. The money is running out. Hurry. Please.

His response, however, comes via dial-up, with finger-tapping, stomach-churning slowness. We are the Hebrews, perched on the banks of the Red Sea, camped between Migdol and the water, horses' hooves thundering, doom imminent. We cry out, "Why did you bring us out of Egypt?" That land of abundance where at least the children's bellies were full. Where we, despite occasional beatings, had homes and occupations and some semblance of comfort. Why?

Who needs faith when the checking account tops five digits, the children are healthy, and the job is "recession-proof?" When everyone is covered 80/20 by a head-to-toe health insurance policy? When business is good and clients abound, when the furnace is working and the pantry is stocked? When transmissions work and no one is in the hospital and the 401K is fully vested and all the disks in our backs are unherniated and no one is complaining of mysterious stomach pain? Faith is a frosting. A fringe benefit. An overly abused nicety that we talk about while sitting on padded pews in warm church buildings.