Extravagance

I have nothing left.

After being so sick it felt like someone kicked me in my ribs.
Another flat tire, riding on a spare until the bank account can manage another used tire.
Empty cabinets and an empty gas tank.

Hours are being cut at work again.
And a new semester starts next Wednesday.
In case I hadn't mentioned it before, a new semester equals new levels of stress and new stretching beyond what I believe is my capacity.

I've been saying this for a long time.  Despite how many times I say it, I always survive somehow.  It hasn't killed me yet.  And in the depths of need and despair, He always provides.  Always.  I'm still here.

But the provision is bare minimum.  Just barely enough.  A few extra dollars, a bag of groceries, a rim bent back into place.  Small miracles that everyone else sees as great provision.  But I am barely scraping by.  Just barely.

I know God can do more.

Why?

Because I've seen it.

I've seen Him hold back the rain at my request.
I've seen Him throw $3,000 at me, sending me to Africa.
I've seen cars start.  I've seen beautiful, beautiful things fall into place.

But it's been so long.

So when I said to my friend, "I have nothing left, please pray for me."

And he responded with, "be ready then.  God works His biggest miracles when we have 'nothing' left."

My response was instantly, "Bring it on."

Show me.  I'm ready for a big miracle.

Perhaps what I'm asking for is too much extravagance.  Beyond what I need.

We call this character the building.  The working in the just enough.  The learning how to live when things are tight and scarce.  How to depend.  How to make it work, despite all odds.

I've been doing this a long time.  Enduring sickness and pushing through an education and providing for myself.  I am on my own.  Today I'm bitter about it.  Today I'm hurt.

Last summer I stood in a group of hundreds of sweet, urban children.  My children.  Whom I love with a love so deep it hurts.  Who I'd die for, who almost every waking thought is spent on.  And I told God that I hadn't felt loved by Him in a while.  I missed that feeling, that sweet feeling of knowing that He heard me.  That He hadn't left me.  He swooped down then, in His way, and reminded me of the new way He was showing me love.

So I see.  Don't doubt that.  I see the way that He has given me just enough.

But I have forgotten what a big miracle looks like.  That big, unexplainable thing that you can't take credit for.  To be honest, and perhaps this is the problem, I've forgotten how to ask for one.

It's not money I want.  I know how to live on ramen noodles and gifted hamburger meat and free frozen yogurt.  I know how to walk to work and drive that spare tire to death.  I know how to cut corners and buy used clothes (if I buy any at all) and work until I fall over.

What I'm looking for is extravagance.  For the deep, supernatural expression of love.  The red.  The parting of the rain clouds.  Something beyond the simple, manageable.

Ungrateful? I know you're thinking it.  I know you're thinking of Paul, who claimed his contentedness in plenty and in want.  I know you're preaching faithfulness at me.  Faithfulness in the seasons of trial and hardship.  You're whispering Job's name.  The bravest, most righteous of you may even be whispering quietly behind my back that if I were to follow Him closer, if I were to be more faithful, I'd find what I am seeking.

I get it.

But I also know the God I love.  Remember that.  I know Him.  And I love Him.  However I fall short, this is true.

Quietly I remember another woman from that conference last year.  The one from Switzerland.  Who looked at me from across the table, even while I avoided eye contact, and called me Moses.  She had her story wrong, which I laugh about now.  But there was some truth, anyway.  She told me that God had told me there was water in the rock. That God had told me to hit the rock and water would flow out of it.  And I didn't believe Him.

The story actually goes: God told Moses to hit the rock and water would flow.  And Moses obeyed. Later, when God told Moses to trust Him, that He would provide, and not to hit the rock, Moses did anyway.  In desperation, in thirst, Moses hit the rock like he had before.  Water flowed.  But it wasn't what God had intended.

So maybe she was right.  Maybe that's what is happening now.  I've hit the rock before, I know water flows from it.  Cool, refreshing, what I need.  But He's told me to wait, to be faithful in my trusting.  He will provide.  Don't hit the rock.

But I need a big miracle.

Something sweet and unsullied.  I'm tired of having to dig through trash to find the treasure.

I need to know that the bare minimum is not all I get.

In just a few short days, my world will be thrown into chaos again.  Late nights, not enough hours at work, too much studying.  All working for a goal I've been working towards for almost seven years now.

I don't have much.  And I don't need much.

I also know my prayers are heard.  Because when I pray for others... things happen.  Things change.  Seas part and heads stop hurting and meals are provided.  I pray for others and I am heard.  My dreams are heavy with a barrage of their faces, the people in my life.  And I wake up with prayers for them on my lips.

I gave up a long time ago praying for myself though.  Those the prayers that aren't answered.  Daily I manage a chronic illness that no amount of prayer has eased, and I bear the scars of great hurts that were no fault of my own.

I feel myself funneled.  Like I'm journeying down this long corridor.  This long highway.  Exits are closed -- big, orange barriers impeding my departure.  Doors slam shut, bolts clicking.  Keep going this way, I am channeled in the direction I suppose is meant for me.

It is January.  And I am at the top of the roller coaster, about to descend into an exhilarating, terrifying ride all the way to May.

To May, when I leave.

Perhaps that is the extravagance I am anticipating.

But I have never been the kind of person that risked the hoping.

At the risk of sounding deeply ungrateful, I will remind you that every time groceries show up or there's money in the bank I can't account for, or when nothing changes and I still make it, I am thankful.

The deepest parts of me trust, because that's what I know to do.

But the tears are there.  Shedding them would be the only thing that would help.  But along with asking for big miracles, I've forgotten how to cry.

I just wish He'd hold back the rain again.