I got mad. I got mad, and I vented to and at God. I was already on edge, and I guess I didn’t even realize my meteorically hazardous condition until I detonated.
I rarely lose my cool. But the past few months had been hard. I worked hard to trust the Lord; stay surrendered; and stuff down frustration, fear, and, frankly, a huge lack of understanding of his plan.
Rationally, I knew his plan was perfect and knew he was working, as he promised, for my good. I was cleaning house and knocked over my iron, and the lid to the water reservoir broke off. Great! Yet one more expense I can’t even think about managing.
A few minutes later, I bumped a desk and knocked off a glass figurine given to me as a gift. It shattered.
That was it. I screamed. I cried and even uttered a few not-so-well-chosen expletives. I pointed my finger and poked the air, angry with God for not meeting my needs. I was tired, worn out from trying to wear the right stoic face in front of a Father who knows my heart better than I know myself.
After approximately ten minutes of my Paleolithic meltdown, I felt regret and guilt and crumpled onto the couch. I was a tired, worn-out pile of poured-out flesh. I apologized over and over for my lack of faith and maybe a little fear, remembering that God hadn’t had a problem offing a bunch of wandering, whining Israelites over an embarrassing manna and quail incident.
I wanted an answer right then. I wanted God to fix my problems right then. Tired of the struggle, I felt I had grown enough through that season of seemingly constant heartache and stress, and it was time to rest.
So fix it, God.
My good friend Gene told me about a time when one of his sons was younger, maybe seven or so. A long-planned trip was coming up for them, father and two sons, to a NASCAR event. It was all they talked about for weeks.
The day before they were to leave, the younger son came down with a horrific stomach virus, and they were forced to cancel the trip. When my friend walked into the bedroom to break the bad news to his sick son, he was a little shocked by the reaction. As ill as he was, the little boy begged his dad to change his mind. When told he was too sick to go, the boy jumped from under the covers, ran to the end of the bed, and began to scream and cry. He beat his fists against his dad’s chest, yelling that the decision was unfair and that his dad was mean.
When the child’s body grew weak from fever, he collapsed into his father’s arms and wept.
My friend knew how hurt his baby boy was physically and emotionally. So he took the pounding. He told me later that he was willing to take the punches because his child chose to come to his dad instead of the Enemy. He chose to go to the one he knew he could trust. He chose the one who would truly and completely understand. He chose to pull in close instead of running, hiding, and isolating.
I realized my old self would have done all those weak, foolish things—running, hiding, and isolating. Although I was still sorry I’d reacted in anger and resentment, I was relieved I had instinctively taken my rage and pain to the One who gets me and knows my love for him is real and honest. And he loves honesty. I still know there is a plan, and I will continue to wait on him—with him.
The Sunday morning after my conniption fit, my pastor gave the call for the offering. He spoke about real trust and about the one place in scripture, Malachi 3:10, where the Lord tells us to test him—to try him. To see if he will open the storehouses of heaven if we tithe.
During those months, I wasn’t able to tithe regularly. It drove me crazy. I honestly love the feeling of giving 10 percent of my income. But it made no earthly sense to tithe when I was already in the hole.
Yet the Holy Spirit tugged at my heart. Six dollars was in my pocket—all I had to buy gas and survive till Wednesday, when I got paid. When the bucket passed, I prayed. Here I am, Lord. The widow with her two mites. I don’t know if I’m offering this to further your kingdom, to prove to myself that you’re true to your promise, or to show you that you can trust me with more. Maybe the truth was a combination of a couple or all of those. I don’t need a jug of oil that doesn’t run empty. But my gas tank could use some help.
I reached into my wallet and grabbed the bills between my thumb and pointer finger. Before I had time to think it through, I suspended my hand over the bucket. I took a deep breath and released the money. I watched the bills fall as if in slow motion, almost as if I could still grab them before they disappeared into the murky abyss. I was afraid. But I was okay with that. I’ve learned that doing something courageous has little to do with fear. Fear is just an emotion. Courage is an action.
That afternoon, a man I’d never met or even heard of got hold of me and said he and his wife were coming back from Fort Smith. He asked me to meet him at a gas station just off the 430. We shared friends in common, so I wasn’t worried.
When I got there, he blessed me by making my mortgage payment. Then he took my car over to the pump—I didn’t tell him I was low—and filled the tank. Finally, he said they’d stopped on their way in and bought a gift card so I would be able to get fuel when I needed it. He verbally blessed me again, and they were gone.
I sat in my car with my hands gripping and my head leaning against the steering wheel. I cried, feeling Abba’s big, warm, safe arms wrapped around his ragamuffin son.
Matthew 18:2 (MSG) says,
For an answer, Jesus called over a child, whom he stood in the middle of the room, and said, “I’m telling you, once and for all, that unless you return to square one and start over like children, you’re not even going to get a look at the kingdom, let alone get in. Whoever becomes simple and elemental again, like this child, will rank high in God’s kingdom. What’s more, when you receive the childlike on my account, it’s the same as receiving me.”
I feel certain El Roi—the God who sees—takes into account how bratty his kids can be from time to time.
