Faith
"Poor white trash" the bottled blond muttered as she waddled down the hall to retrieve another ream of bureaucratic red tape. Sharon balanced the baby on one hip while her toddler and kindergartner clung to her faded jeans. Oozing contempt and condescension, the staffer's comment stung like a slap in the face.
"Look" Sharon wanted to scream at the corpulent curmudgeon running the Community Food Bank, "I don't want to be here anymore than you do. Do you think I ENJOY coming here, hat in hand, begging for food? Do you think I LIKE having to rely on the generosity of others to feed my family? That I WANT to be here? That I don't have anything else to do?"
"Lord," Sharon bit her lip as she choked back the tears, "What in the world am I doing here?"
A former executive at a top Madison Avenue advertising agency, Sharon had it made: a fast-track career, six-figure annual income, and a reserved slot on Easy Street. Heeding her maternal tug four years ago, she left the corporate world in favor of full-time motherhood to her three young daughters. Her husband, Ryan, could easily support their growing family on his architect's salary. Until Johnson, Baker and Foulk lost four bread and butter clients in a month. Hemorrhaging red ink, the firm sharpened its fiscal axes and churned out pink slips like ice cream on the Fourth of July.
Ryan's lay-off couldn't have come at a worse time. Among other things, Sharon was six weeks into her fourth pregnancy, and her health insurance had just sprouted wings and flown out the window.
"We'll manage" Ryan assured her. "I'll get work with another firm and Chapel of Hope said they'd help in the interim."
"Well honey," COH's Women's Ministries Director tapped her notepad a couple months later, "I don't see that you've got any other options. I mean, let's be realistic. You can't take care of the three kids you have now. You're not seriously thinking of keeping a fourth, are you? How ‘bout I make you an appointment at Planned Parenthood?"
Placing a protective hand over her abdomen, Sharon excused herself and darted out of the church office like a gazelle fleeing a stalking lion.
(Ital) That should've been a clue. (Ital)
A year later, she held the squirming, cranky baby on her hip while the food bank staffer shoved forms at her. "Fill these out" the staffer barked, radiating the warmth of an iceberg as she gobbled another jelly-filled doughnut.
"But when I called, you said just bring a valid driver's license and proof of address" Sharon replied. "No one said anything about last year's income tax return."
The staffer rolled her eyes, hands on her ample hips. "They always got some excuse" she muttered toward a colleague.
(Ital) Who are "They"? (Ital)
Sharon's face flushed crimson. (Ital) Now I know how cattle must feel. (Ital)
"Lord," Sharon sniffed as she left the food bank and buckled the kids into the shabby backseat of their older-than-dirt VW Rabbit, "I never asked for this. We're not lazy or stupid or irresponsible or brainless. Ryan's worked like a demon to find another job. ANY job. But what's he supposed to do, hold a gun to a manager's head and say, `Hire me, or else'?"
"All the way my Savior leads me
What have I to ask beside?..."
"Spit happens" Ryan said. "Bad stuff happens to good people. No one knows why, although a lot of folks make it worse by guessing." He paused thoughtfully. "God gets our attention with discipline. But that's for known sin and when we repent, the discipline stops. If we're obedient and trying to be faithful and get the rug pulled out from under us, I don't think God allows that because we're jerks or because He doesn't have anything better to do." Ryan nodded to his well-worn Bible. "Or that suffering is a pay back or a quid pro quo thing, like `Hey buddy, there's sin in your life, so I'm gonna nail you till kingdom come.' God isn't cruel. He isn't sadistic. Sometimes spit just happens because it happens. He's got His reasons. Even if we don't know what they are, we know Him. Maybe that's what He wants? Maybe that's what faith is all about?"
"I'm tired of `having faith'" she snorted, "I want answers. I want solutions that put food on the table. I want answers that I can touch and taste and deposit in the bank."
They didn't come. But the cactus stares of COH members did, all spines and prickles. The sideways glances. Hollow greetings. Empty, averted eyes.
Frustrated as a pea hen in a downpour, Sharon was unable to understand their circumstances. All she knew for sure was that they were unforeseen and beyond her control.
"... Can I doubt His tender mercies
Who through life has been my guide...?"
She recalled the accusations, the barbed criticisms meagerly camouflaged beneath a veneer of "prayer request." She slammed the Rabbit's dashboard, "And while we're at it, God, I want some answers! Like, if You own it all and everything belongs to You and comes from You, then why do total shmucks live in Taj Mahals while people who love You and live for You wind up in dumpy shacks? Why do the wicked prosper?" She fumed, rehearsing the age old refrain. "Why do the righteous suffer and why, oh WHY don't You step in and FIX IT??"
"... Heav'nly peace, divinest comfort
Here by faith in Him to dwell..."
(Ital) What the heck? I'm on a roll. Might as well go for broke. (Ital)
Waves of frustration crashed over her as unanswered questions sunk their talons deep, clawing their way up from the dark, subterranean recesses of her soul. At least she was honest.
"Some of Your people are the worst walking advertisements for You I've ever seen. How can people claim to love You on Sunday and then walk over their brethren with hob-nailed boots on Monday? `Believers' can be the most gracious and the most vicious people on the planet. Why do You let them get away with that?"
Their financial struggles were the latest grist for the Chapel of Hope rumor mill, which seemed to have kicked into high gear.
(Ital) As if we just love being in this lousy situation and aren't doing everything humanly possible to get out. (Ital)
"Are you requesting prayer for work again?" she remembered Deacon Browne's frown as he leaned over Ryan's shoulder at a COH Sunday service. The deacon skimmed the Prayer Request section of the registration card. "We already prayed about that" he growled, "And nothing happened. We're tired of hearing it."
Ryan wordlessly returned the card to the pew rack in front of him. Blank.
(Ital) Does Grace have a time limit? "Oops, time's up. You've exceeded your grace allotment for the year. Time to shove off." (Ital)
"For I know whate'er befall me
Jesus doeth all thing well;
For I know, whate'er befall me,
Jesus doeth all things well."
Chugging home from the food bank now, Sharon recalled the roller coaster ride COH had launched them on, angry tears dripping off her nose. When she ran out of words, she waited for a response. None came. She stomped on the gas. The older-than-dirt Rabbit sputtered and lurched forward with her thoughts.
"Your name keeps coming up" Pastor Pete said after his installation as the new COH shepherd two years ago. "People keep asking, `How long do we gotta keep helpin' these people?'"
(Ital) "Gotta. Have to. These people." A disease to be diagnosed. (Ital)
"So we've decided to form a committee to study your problem" Pastor Pete continued, "We're going to come up with a strategy for addressing The Issues so you can get your lives back on track."
(Ital) What "Issues?" What "Track?" (Ital). Looking around the Chapel of Hope parking lot, she eyed the BMWs, Mercedes Benzes, SUVs and Cadillacs. (Ital) Oh, THAT track.(Ital)
"... All the way my Savior lads me
Cheers each winding path I tread,
Gives me grace for ev'ry trail,
Feeds me with the living bread..."
Six weeks later Sharon and Ryan appeared at the Chapel of Hope library in response to the committee summons. Bill, Gene, and his wife, Helen, were seated at a table in the church library.
"Before we begin" Bill peered over his glasses as he convened the meeting, "We're going to set some ground rules so we don't waste each other's time. You'll need to sign a written affidavit saying you agree with and will abide by the ground rules, or we'll adjourn and this committee will be dissolved."
"What do you mean by ground rules?" Ryan asked.
"This isn't a discussion" Dave replied testily, pushing a document with signature lines across the table to Ryan.
"Well, how can we `agree' to something if we don't know what we're agreeing to?"
"Perhaps I haven't made myself clear" Bill said. "What we have to say is not open to discussion. This is not a give and take dialogue. You're not here to respond, only to listen...."
Two hours later, Sharon and Ryan were still reeling. Five pages of "issues" had been delivered by the "committee" in machine-gun staccato.
(Ital) This isn't a "strategy session." This is a Spanish Inquisition. And if these people aren't a Torquemada Trio Incarnate, then I'm the Tooth Fairy." (Ital)
Indeed, not a single facet of their lives had escaped the committee's acrimonious scrutiny. Everything was fair game: their choice of Sunday school class. Their social calendar. Parenting styles. Schooling choice. Time management. Lacking teeth elsewhere, the committee chewed up and spit out their marriage between the twin jaws of presumption and impertinence.
"But we don't need marriage counseling" Ryan began, unable to believe that "committee" members who barely knew him or his wife could reasonably justify their conclusions beyond a few red herrings.
"Oh, yes you do!" the Torquemada Trio chorused, twitching like tigers ready to pounce.
"But..."
"Your prayers for work are being hindered for a reason. We think that's because you have a dysfunctional marriage. You're in denial. That's one of the issues we want you to address before you see any tangible help from this church. You need counseling. Either get it, or you'll not see a penny from any Benevolent Funds. "
"But..." Those red herrings looked positively Herculean.
Helen's voice turned icy, "Are you refusing to comply?" The herrings sprouted concrete waders.
"Where are you coming from?" Sharon asked, hackles rising. "You're coming up with all these unilateral directives but you never asked for our input or..." She didn't know whether to be offended, baffled, aghast, or just plain out-and-out appalled. Until she realized it didn't matter much one way or the other.
"This is NOT a dialogue!" Gene cut her off. Sharon sank back into her chair and plopped the pacifier back into the baby's mouth.
"And another thing," Bill wagged a finger at Ryan. "You have an entitlement mentality"
Let's be clear that this church doesn't owe you a thing. You need to deal with your arrogance. That's probably what cost you your last job. Certainly you must've crossed swords with someone at the firm and that's why they got rid of you."
(Ital) Why do so many people confuse confidence with arrogance? First red herrings, now straw men. (Ital)
Bill swivelled in his chair, turning toward Sharon, "And you have a bitter spirit. Hebrews says, "Let no root of bitterness spring up..... "
(Ital) Gee, you think there might be a little Cause and Effect in play here? (Ital)
"... Tho my weary steps may falter
And my soul a-thirst may be,
Gushing from the Rock before me,
Lo! A spring of joy I see
Gushing from the Rock before me,
Lo! A spring of joy I see."
"We've spent weeks going over this" Glen continued in drill sergeant fashion. "We need to break this cycle of joblessness. God's withholding His blessing from you because...."
(Ital) Ever heard of a guy named Job? (Ital)
What a contrast to last week's visit with Barbara Sue. Wrinkled with age and the hot arid sun of the Kenyan plains, Barbara Sue pondered her question. "Why is God allowing this hardship in your lives?" the retired missionary reiterated, eyes crinkling. "Well honey, I don't know. No one knows why God allows His children to go through hard times. But we DO know that God is good. He is faithful. He doesn't make mistakes. Maybe He's allowing you to struggle to give others the opportunity to minister?"
The trio droned on. Sharon shifted uneasily as she recalled the Inquisition.
"What's your Biblical basis for this `strategy'?" Ryan finally asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I'm wondering what Scriptural principles you're using to base this `issues strategy', committee thing on? Where does the Bible say you throw a committee and a contract at a brother in need?"
If nothing else, the Torquemada Trio was clear. "We're going to put you on a contract" they explained. Included were expectations for Sunday school attendance, extra- curricular involvements, a social calendar, and marriage counseling. Written updates were mandated in excruciating, diurnal detail. A white paper on "Spiritual Authority" was due next week.
"If these conditions are met after you sign the contract, then Chapel of Hope will pay your back rent. We're also prepared to pay for additional schooling and we'll get you current on your professional fees and dues. If you refuse to comply with these requirements, then the relationship with Chapel of Hope will be severed, and our members will be instructed to shun you."
(Ital) Nothing like holding a gun to our heads. (Ital)
They signed the contract. So did the trio, as COH representatives. Ryan and Sharon submitted the white paper. Went to the marriage counselor. "Why are you here?" Dr. Gray asked after the second session. "You're wasting my time and yours. You don't need marriage counseling. There's nothing wrong with you!"
They complied. It took half a year, but all their I's were dotted, all their T's crossed. They kept their end of the bargain. Then the landlord sold the house out from under them. Bidding a wrenching "adieu" to their home of 10 years, Ryan and Sharon uprooted kit and caboodle and moved to another county.
"Well, you moved" Bill bristled when Ryan inquired about the contract's provisions per COH after the dust settled. "That offer was on the table only so long as you remained part of Chapel of Hope" Bill said in a voice like the cutting edge of a buzz saw. "You moved, so we don't owe you anything."
"There was nothing in the contract about that" Ryan sighed, "and it wasn't OUR idea to move." He knew a brick wall when he hit one.
A tsunami of unfulfilled pledges littered the waterfront while Chapel of Hope adherents folded their collective tents and withdrew, leaving the struggling family as alone and isolated as marooned sailors on an uncharted isle.
Or were they?
"... All the way my Savior leads me
O the fulness of His love!
Perfect rest to me is promised
In my Father's house above."
Their prayers redoubled. And groceries appeared on their door step. Anonymous gifts arrived in the mail. Shoes and diapers materialized on their porch. A second hand car showed up, gratis. It wasn't fancy, but it replaced the aging Rabbit. Bits and pieces of work dribbled in, not enough to ensure "comfort", but always within pennies of covering their basic needs.
It was past midnight when Sharon turned tail on the past and yanked her thoughts back to the present. Even now she fought the rising tide of disillusionment as broken promises and betrayals paraded past. Ghost soldiers rattled rusty sabers from bygone battles.
"I'm tired of this" she murmured heavenward. "You say to "rejoice always.... but," she looked around the battered living room, the water-stained rug, the frayed curtains. The ragged home and shattered dreams. She ran to the One whose arms are ever open, "How can I `rejoice' when I'm so... so... lost, when I have to call a place like this `home'?!"
"But child," the still, small voice replied, enfolding her in the Everlasting Arms, "you haven't lost your way." The tender presence of the Provider surrounded and immersed her in a Love unspeakable and endless, "and you're not HOME yet."
Sharon stopped, pulled up short like a mule on a two-inch tether. Suddenly she knew. The food bank wasn't her Way. COH wasn't her Way. Not even the hardships and struggles were solely hers. Refocused, Sharon knew what Fanny Crosby understood so well; what always was and ever will be the ONLY Way that matters:
"... When my spirit, clothed immortal,
Wings its flight to realms of day,
This my song thru endless ages:
Jesus led me all the way;
This my song thru endless ages:
Jesus led me all the way!"
###
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