
A few days after publishing my book, I found myself feeling… quiet.
Not disappointed. Not overjoyed. Just still.
The flurry of revisions, the emotional intensity of the cover design, the late-night formatting struggles—it was all behind me. The book was done. It was out in the world. And now, I was waiting for something. I didn’t know what.
That’s when I remembered a verse I had stumbled across—one I couldn’t shake:
“Cast your bread upon the waters, for you will find it after many days.” — Ecclesiastes 11:1 (ESV)
I looked it up again. Read it slowly.
It felt like a quiet answer to a question I hadn’t fully asked yet.
Because writing this book—and releasing it—felt exactly like that.
Like casting something precious into waters I can’t control.
🌊 When Faith Feels Like a Risk
Bread was sustenance. Bread was daily life.
And water? It was unpredictable. Moving. Slippery.
Throwing your bread onto the waters wasn’t logical—it was an act of hope.
It reminded me that not every faithful action comes with an instant return.
You can spend months pouring your heart into something beautiful…
and then watch it float into the world like a paper boat on open sea.
“The seed you sow may look small now, but its return is not your burden—it’s your belief.” — Unknown
This verse isn’t just about generosity or giving.
It’s about release—the kind where you don’t get to follow up, track the ripple, or demand the outcome. You just let it go.
And wait.
💬 The Quiet Cost of Letting Go
We’ve been conditioned to expect applause on cue.
If we don’t see likes or responses right away, we start to question the worth of what we gave.
But this verse reminds me:
Just because you don’t see a return today doesn’t mean the return isn’t already in motion.
Sometimes the most sacred things we do are the ones we never see the results of.
“Let us not grow weary of doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” — Galatians 6:9
I needed that reminder.
That letting go—of control, of outcomes, of needing constant affirmation—is not wasted effort.
It’s quiet obedience.
📖 The Bread You Can’t Track
This verse came to me during a time when I was emotionally raw. I had just clicked “publish” after weeks of wrestling with the invisible labor behind my poetry book—the doubts, the perfectionism, the redesigns. I was proud. But also… exposed.
And I remember saying aloud, “Well, I just cast my bread on the waters.”
It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t loud.
But it was faithful.
And not just with my book. I’ve cast bread before—
🔹 Quiet blog posts with no guarantee of readers.
🔹 Encouragement I sent to someone who never replied.
🔹 Acts of generosity no one saw.
🔹 Forgiveness that changed me more than it changed them.
Each time, I had to let go of the need to see a clear return.
“Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin.” — Zechariah 4:10
🔥 A Few More Words to Stand On
“Success is not in what you hold onto. It’s in what you’re willing to release.” — Anonymous
“Sometimes your harvest is on a delay because your soul is still catching up to your seed.” — Me, probably on a sleep-deprived night
“God doesn’t always show you the ripple—He just asks you to drop the stone.” — Someone who learned to let go
🧭 Three Self-Assessment Questions
Take a moment and check in with yourself—not to judge, but to reflect:
What have I been holding onto out of fear that it might not come back? Where am I demanding results instead of releasing trust? What might God be asking me to cast—without guarantees?
🌱 Final Thoughts: Faith Is Not a Transaction
This verse doesn’t say, “Cast your bread and you’ll get it back right away.”
It says, “…you will find it after many days.”
That’s not transactional. That’s trust.
That’s giving, creating, and loving without tracking metrics.
That’s publishing your story and choosing to believe it will reach who it needs to reach—even if you never get the thank you.
Because the bread you cast today?
It may not come back as bread.
It might return as peace.
As healing.
As someone else’s answered prayer.
But it will return.
© 2025 Amelie Chambord

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