Toward the end of the day, I would reach into my handbag for the napkin-wrapped five slices of bread. Plastic knives and forks were part of my improvised travel kit and handy for buttering bread on a bench facing Lake Geneva. (What was I doing sitting outside, at the windy lake, in the middle of winter?)
Every day I asked God to provide me with food. Most evenings all I had were the five slices of bread and butter. Every time nothing came, I sat with the bread and said, “Thank you Father for my daily bread and butter” because it was enough.