I reached for my aching, swollen jaw — and looked down at my three toddlers playing and smearing Playdough — everywhere. Never down, much less out, I had “sprung” for the necessary and “decadent” root canal but disregarded sage advice: “Give yourself a week to recover.” Now, even Tylenol 3 was as effective as candy.
As the hours wore on, the children grew restless. They needed walking, reading, playing with, meals and a mother. I needed sleep. I looked at my options: my mother couldn’t take time off from work; my friends could spare but a few hours. And so I reached for my check ledger. As I crunched the numbers, I realized there was budget enough, but certainly none for a baby sitter or helper while I recovered.
I worked the numbers again. Suddenly I noticed something: I hadn’t paid my tithe. Why that would be just enough money for a nanny-for-a-week. And then I began to wrestle God for His check. Wasn’t my swollen jaw comparable to the mission field? Weren’t these three messy toddlers His children too? Shamefully, I went over all the misuse/abuse/miss-appropriation of tithe funds I ever knew. I even made God a list. If that wasn’t enough, I pointed out church workers driving Cadillacs (pretty low I know). Finally, I asked what kind of God he was to “ask his ‘girl’ to walk about miserably for such a relatively small check?”
But somewhere in that argument, I couldn’t squelch the microscopic-size voice telling me differently. It was like God was saying “You’re right honey; but put it in the mail anyway —put it in the mail.” And so seconds before the postman arrived, I put in the box. I’d like to say a happy, contrite woman put that check in the mailbox; but that would be lying. I remember actually slamming it into the mail and saying “whatever” and “there you go.”
I heard the postman click my mailbox shut. And now, I don’t believe in writing in the clouds, or voices, or silly dreams, but as the postman walked down my sidewalk, my phone rang. Literally it rang, and as long as I live I will remember that ring.
“Cindy how long has it been since you and the boys had a vacation?” Suddenly warm tears streamed down my face. It was Jean-Anne a church friend from the nearby Tri-Cities, Wash. Jean-Anne continued “If you can get just drive 45 minutes to our house, we are headed to our lake lot in Canada and we want to take you and the boys with us.” Now Jean-Anne didn’t know I was recovering from a complex-root canal. But she was impressed right that minute to invite us on her family’s vacation.
My boys and I spent one delightful week on prime real-estate beside a beautiful lake, enjoying home-made meals, loving friends that acted as nannies to each of the boys, with unlimited fun, boats and more.
Later, while lying on a sunny deck sipping iced tea, I realized, I hadn’t been able to obtain a baby sitter. I had, instead, been able to obtain a first-class vacation with built-in nannies at a fine resort. And the hostess refused over and over to take a dime! I have never had a vacation like that before or since.
Suddenly I heard that same faint, microscopic-size voice ask me from somewhere if I wanted my measly tithe check back. And with a smile — I realized my jaw had healed.
Recently a blogger e-mailed the GLEANER saying: “Not everyone who pays tithe gets rich.” And guess what? He’s right. Sometimes tithe is only God’s little handshake between him and I that the other 9/10ths will be alright.
By Cindy R Chamberlin, 2010.