One of God's Secrets
Up until this fall, I attended the same community group for 6 years. The first three years, I almost never brought snacks to contribute. Every 6 months or so, I would contribute some coffee to our hosts, but at the time, I felt too strapped for cash to bring anything on a regular basis.
The second three years, I determined in my heart to be a contributor, and brought something nearly every time. At times, this commitment was harder than others and at times, it felt like a sacrifice.
But, over time, I started to notice something. No matter how little I had, when I would buy something to give, I never missed that money. It never seemed to make a dent, even if I had more "month than money", as the saying goes. Since I first noticed that phenomenon, I've watched my giving, sense of sacrifice, and impact on my ability to eat and live. When I have given from a sense of principle, in response to social norms or a special offering at church, it is rare that I feel it's impact in a way that hurts. While some might suggest that I'm not giving enough, I would counter with "You're wrong." (Haha.) I'm talking specifically about those moments in giving, where you think twice and three times because you really DON'T have enough. And then watching, as God provides, and there is no lack.
This weekend, I learned that the same thing can be true in energy and time. People who don't know me well might think I have a tough time saying "no" to things. Those that know me better would likely say I don't say "yes" nearly enough. :-) I tend to be highly protective of my time and energy, and weigh things carefully before getting involved.
A good friend of mine began looking into buying her first home shortly after me this fall. We had the same (wonderful) realtor and mortgage broker. We compared notes on the process often, and her move-in date fell a week before my own. We belong to the same small group, and last week I received an email from our leader, asking for all able-bodied men and women for help in moving my friend.
Let me just stop and say, I HATE MOVING. I hate everything about the process, but the worst part is the actual moving day. I HATE carrying boxes, and furniture. I HATE going up and down stairs, HATE carrying heavy things (unless it's in a Crossfit workout for a short hour workout), HATE it. And not only that, I HATE helping friends move.
So much so, that I usually manage to escape the unpleasantries, and have vowed NEVER to ask friends for help because I would never want to subject them to something I have such a hard time doing with a good attitude. My church family is actually pretty amazing about helping people move, and every time I've moved, my pastor's wife has offered me the church's help. A year ago I changed jobs, and badly sprained my ankle right before I needed to move around 100 boxes. It happened right before an evening service, and because I had the refreshments for the night with me, one of our pastors had to stop by to pick them up. Without skipping a beat, he offered the church's help to move my classroom things if I needed it. I've never said yes to the offers, because I would never want to say yes if called upon to help someone else.
But this weekend, I wanted to be there for my friend. I know how psyched I am to move into my own first home in a week, and I wanted to be a part of her process, and a part of her joy. I wanted to see her home, and keep her company on the cold, rainy day when the men of the house were likely to do most of the work anyway. (Ah, writing is such honest work.) I had plans, but a different gracious friend let me reschedule with her in order to be there.
At the last minute, I almost bailed----because I had packing of my own to do. And given my low energy levels and high blood sugar of late, I was worried that If I spent several hours of physical labor, that I would be too wiped out to get my own packing done, in time for my own move.
There's a principle in the Bible about being where you are supposed to be when you're supposed to be there. King David stayed home once when his men went to battle, and ended up falling morally with Bathsheba. Saturday morning I knew unmistakably where I belonged.
So off I went, but unlike other moves I've helped with (I don't always get my way), I ended up doing a fair amount of work; lifting, hauling, and walking up and down stairs. An hour after the move, I was cold to the bone, and my muscles went into that slow, recovery process where all of your limbs feel tied to bricks, and it hurts to even move.
After a few hours of running errands, I arrived home and started to slowly continue packing. I hauled a number of my non-boxed items to the garage, and slowly my body warmed to the work, and loosened up. Last night I finished most of my packing, and have just incidentals and last minute items left to commit to a box.
If I had chosen not to help, it's probable that I would have tuckered out long before I did. Working hard in the morning on someone else's behalf made it possible for me to push myself. Energy begat energy.
And just like the offerings of monetary value made on funds I didn't have--God redeemed, so too, God redeemed my time. The hours I gave "up" to help, were given back to me in energy and productivity.
I wonder how much more time and energy I would have, if I said yes more often to the opportunities (which seem only like work) that God faithfully sets before me.
I have nothing to lose. I'm going to find out. Maybe I'll see you there.