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I’ve had the phrase “Don’t cry over spilled milk” running through my head today. But ‘spilled’ would be figuratively speaking. More like “forgotten and not put back in the fridge”.

I was stunned. Eight ounces, that’s right, EIGHT beautiful ounces that I’d pumped for Little N yesterday had sat in my pump bag all night and were long past the 6 hours considered “acceptable” for room temperature milk.

How could I have forgotten? I’d been great (in my own estimation) about making sure none of the milk I saved for her was wasted. As mentioned in my last post, our breast-feeding journey has been tough and for many weeks I was having to fight for every precious ounce. I can’t believe I still like oatmeal and I will be happy to never see another fenugreek pill again!

So even though there are 10 bags of frozen milk in the freezer and our situation is not as dire as it used to be, I still couldn’t relax. I was still mentally militant about it.

Poor Ry. He heard my muttered curse as I discovered the cooler of milk, no longer cool, sitting blithely in my pump bag instead of the fridge where it belonged. He patiently tried to help and figure out what I was thinking as my mind went into hyper-drive, quickly calculating how long the milk had been out, praying it was still salvagable, before my thoughts disintegrated along with my composure – it was past saving.

How could I have forgotten? Half a pound of milk – how could I have forgotten??  Various renditions of that thought were all that got through the mush in my brain even as I hyperventilated in Ry’s arms and he tried to comfort me.


I could hear God trying to get through, but I was too busy punishing myself.

When I finally calmed down, my thoughts settled enough to hear the quiet voice.

‘Even as I care for the sparrows and the lilies . . .’

‘I know, Lord, but it was so much! This hurts! I thought I was being so careful.’

‘How much more room then is there for Me to provide?’

Ow. The correction was gentle, but it still stung a little. Mostly because my forgetful nature when it comes to God is embarrassing. He has constantly shown Himself faithful in all things, especially when it has come to raising and providing for Little N. He is so worthy of trust and yet, when the rubber meets the road, so often I panic and grasp frantically at the fragile webs of control I spun.

He is more than enough. If all we have is Him, it is more than enough.

The milk incident this morning reminded me of a Hebrew word and concept I read about called ‘Dayenu’. Dayenu basically means ‘It would have been enough for us; it would have sufficed’. The Hebrews would use this word when they remembered and recited their blessings from God, saying after each one, ‘Dayenu – this blessing would have been more than enough’.

I am humbled, Lord.

You have blessed me and my entire family with life and a saving relationship with you – Dayenu!

You have blessed me with a husband who loves and supports me, a man of integrity and character – Dayenu!

You have given us a beautiful daughter, a delight to our hearts, as well as the possibility of more children in the future – Dayenu!

We are both employed, and there is a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, and food on our table – Dayenu!

Dayenu, Lord. I will remember and strive not to forget your countless blessing to me and mine. They are more than enough. You are more than enough.