Twenty-two. I will never forget the irony of the tears that were streaming down my cheeks. The cement sidewalk under my feet felt hard, unfamiliar to the grassy hills I otherwise spent most of my life thus far frolicking through. Making the move from the sleepy valley of Cambridge, New York to the hustle of Chicago, Illinois meant making ends meet one way or another in order to pursue my dream of becoming some sort of full-time recording musician. I was only days away from moving back east, as no job had come in those summer months spent taking trains back and forth from the city to navigate this new terrain, all the while on a mattress on the living room floor of my friends one bedroom apartment, simultaneously shared with her husband, Siberian Husky, and Maltese pup. Yet there I was, down to $0 and met with a strange offer to work as the Credit Compliance Administrator for a Dutch bank, positioned rather foreignly on the 21st floor of a Chicago high-rise, and in the way of a bank with wealth in their possession, able to provide a very generous salary. The kind of offer where I sat in that large windowed corner office needing to physically keep my mouth from gaping open. Yet still, my eyes welled up with tears as I turned the corner past the polished revolving doors on the ground floor. I felt the generous weight of God’s provision, and yet I knew it would come at a cost. For those that know me, I do not exactly fit well into the mold of corporate America. One of those artsy types that needs movement and more trees than computer screens. Yet there I was, newly independent, rent and bills and all those grown up things that you romanticize as a child, until all in one moment you realize their weight. That city walk was an altar of remembrance for me. Met with both great relief and overwhelming angst, it was a moment where unexpected provision joined with the sacrifice of self… but I knew it was the only way.
In my years adulting it, this has been a repeating story. How I would love to share every story with you, but only a cup of coffee and perhaps a warm pastry would make do for such a telling. Dull moments would be intertwined with the more exhilarating ones, though all pointing back to what would perpetuate these altars of remembrance. Like when our jeep swung around the slippery highways of Montana at midnight, probably multiple times but I was too disoriented to be able to tell, projecting us into a barbed wire fence of which our vehicle needed to be cut out. Sitting stunned on that desolate snowy highway soon had us considering what this would mean for us financially, especially as we saw orange cones and flashing lights surround our vehicle. Yet somehow only cosmetic damage was done, and as touring artists, the prospect of anything beyond that could have been the end of our time on the road. Instead, we ended up receiving an insurance amount that went right back into our dwindling bank account, and our vehicle simply had some affectionately dubbed battle scars as we continued onward. The provision we were granted dit not mean a new car. On the contrary it meant being okay with a rather gnarly looking vehicle. Any part of us that favored polished materialism needed to be buried in order to gratefully receive instead the gift of groceries and the next few nights of hotels without depleting our already limited resources.
Or come with me a few years later still, and I find myself sitting in our living room, presented with a gift from our church family that brought me to tears once again. This time in the wake of having only weeks ago been pulled from my job. Feelings of hurt and betrayal all too close to my heart, and yet these luminescent faces reviving a trust in relationships and speaking into my identity, all with an overwhelming outpouring of generosity. The provision we received in that moment was not some magical lottery that demanded only to give up a few bucks, coin scratch, and cross my fingers. The moment came on the heels of sacrificing another part of myself, and thereby all the more able to see the beauty of provision, as it came by way of a cost.
Altars of remembrance. Moments when we are on our knees in desperation, where we consider our brokenness and acknowledge our deeply dependent selves. Moments where we turn upwards and call out: “Please God. Don’t forget me.” And He remembers. And we see, perhaps more so than when we had plenty, that trust demands a losing of self to fully embrace the gains of God. I still struggle with wanting it all, so to speak. The ideal home. The ideal finances. The ideal relationships. The ideal church. The ideal work. I still propagate in my head what it might take to accomplish those subtle, and not so subtle, joys that seem sure to cuddle up against the right circumstances. Though it seems, if our stories can speak, that the most beautiful moments, those that bring life to our discouragement, are where provision meets the problematic. If indeed that is the case, then there is no room for fear in all of the moments that are anything but ideal. Fear preys off of those circumstances that feel beyond your control. Like a spreading virus, for instance, that threatens the livelihood of those whose income is in flux but their mortgage payment remains due. Where we hoard toilet paper and hand sanitizer to alleviate our loss of normalcy. What if, instead of reaching desperately for chaotic solutions to mend what leaves daily rhythms suspended over the unknown, we look to find the humility and ease that run alongside trusting in provision. And I must say, from what I’ve seen so far in life’s meanderings, the most unbelievable stories and memorable moments come when we can only place minimal trust in ourselves and our circumstances, and so instead expectantly wait for our Creator’s creative hand of sustenance.
We are in need. Now to witness where provision meets the problematic.
EXPOSITION: What has you fearful? It could be financial and provisional, but perhaps also relational, physical… really any unknown or less than ideal circumstance that leaves you wondering, waiting, and weakened. How do you combat the fear that comes when provision is lost and your sense of self and sustenance sways in the balance?
RISE: Although we might naturally associate looking for a need to be met as the result of an underlying fear or problem, we rarely relish in the loss or unideal as a way to see God move. Consider turning your need for provision from fear of what is unknown into expectation of witnessing how God will provide for you.
DENOUEMENT: Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time. Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you. (Peter’s letter to the church)