The youth hostel served the most basic of mueslis, yogurt and bread for breakfast. My bowl was full of the oat grains and raisins by the time I reached the bread tray. Five slices of brown bread is what I took along with the small packets of Floralip butter. I knew no one in Geneva, and after a few days, I still had no idea what I was doing. The Australian dollar continued to plummet, and I concentrated on spending as little as I could. Included in the price of the hostel was a breakfast, my only guaranteed meal of the day.

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.