Lessons from the Dirt

My husband and I are both blessed to be gainfully employed in jobs that suit our skills and passions. He keeps people safe. I put my communication skills to use in meaningful work in the defense of women and children.

But as some of you may be keenly aware, life is expensive, so to supplement our income, my husband and I occasionally deliver groceries and food orders to the locals. It’s a good way to make a quick buck on your own schedule, and let me just tell you: the life of a delivery driver is an illuminating one. I feel like I could write an entire book based on said experiences. Chapter titles could include:

• “You Really Just Paid $20 for Two Hostess Cupcakes?”

• “100 Degree Heat+30 Miles+Ice Cream=Why?”

• “Why Your 8-Year-Old Cannot Sign for Your Beer”

• “Trans and Rebel Flags: Pray Before Knocking”

• “How to Reduce Your Home’s Creep Factor”

• “Why No One Will Accept Your 400 Item Order if You Don’t Tip”

• “No, I Will Not Bring Your Groceries Into Your Home. It’s Idaho; I’m Not Getting Shot”

In all seriousness, though, you see it all when you deliver groceries. This morning I looked at my bank account and at our rapidly accruing stack of bills, and I set out to do what I always do whenever I get stressed: work harder and do more to solve the problem myself. So I loaded my rambunctious toddler into the car and logged into one of my delivery apps and accepted what I thought would be a quick grocery order. Suffice to say, I was wrong. The order was involved: lots of heavy lifting and specialty items that were difficult to find. My child decided to be particularly uncooperative about halfway through the order. He began bellowing inconsolably at the most abrasive sounding pitch, drawing the attention of pretty much every single person in the store.

By the time I crammed the last item into my trunk and got my rugrat buckled into his seatbelt, I was starting to wonder if it was even worth it. Then I plugged the delivery address into my GPS and let out an audible gasp when I realized that I would need to drive this load all the way up into the diddysticks on back roads at about 15 miles an hour. At least it was almost naptime and, with the right music, I could almost guarantee my little helper would fall asleep.

To make a long story short, by the time I finally arrived at my destination, I noticed the driveway was at least a quarter mile long and straight down. Not only that, but the entrance to the driveway was obstructed by a whole crew of construction workers maneuvering a cement mixer. I would need to hike the groceries down the driveway one armload at a time and then haul my out-of-shape butt back up to retrieve the others. I made eye contact with the guy operating the cement mixer and he signaled to me that it was okay to pass, so, armed with multiple packs of diet soda, three cartons of milk, and a few grocery bags full of ground beef, I began to make my descent down the driveway.

And about five steps into the effort, I felt my foot slip on the gravel beneath me, and I knew it was trouble: I went sprawling, groceries and all, landing flat on my backside in front of a whole crew of construction workers, none of whom could be bothered to come and even ask if I was okay.

As I lay there staring up at the sky, I was struck by the intensity of my emotional response: I wasn’t embarrassed or scared or even that surprised. I was just angry. Like really angry. “I’m busting my tail to try to take care of my family,” I remember muttering toward heaven. “Does it have to be this hard? Why can’t anything just be easy?”

I began to take an inventory of my family’s litany of financial needs, and it all just became pretty overwhelming: Orthodontia, child support, medical insurance, seizure medication, therapy, legal debt, therapy, vehicle repairs, etc. You know—the same garden variety stressors that plague almost every family in America while I dramatically convince myself I’m uniquely burdened in a way no one else could possibly understand.

Drama queen theatrics aside, I did have the good sense to ask God to show me whatever it was I obviously needed to learn in this season, and when I finally shut up long enough to hear, it occurred to me that a decade ago, my present challenges would have been a dream come true.

Ten years ago, I was still trapped in a violent, unfaithful, loveless marriage just trying to claw my way through one day at a time. I had no sense of purpose or identity or direction. I remember doodling a pretty symbolic drawing during my prayer time, desperate for a miracle from heaven to bring me out of my personal Egypt. In the drawing, I remember illustrating the Bible story about the parting of the Red Sea, convinced that God would do the same for me to liberate me from the self-made bondage of my personal life. I look at the drawing now and realize how faithful He’s been. He rescued me from that marriage. He brought me out of my Egypt. He’s leading me toward the promised land. Back then I longed for love and identity and purpose. I have all that and more today.

But when God led the Israelites out of Egypt, He didn’t give them a million dollars and tell them to buy a mansion on waterfront property and take it easy for the rest of their lives. In fact, He only gave them enough bread for one day at a time. If they gathered more than a day’s worth of bread, it would rot. They didn’t get the luxury of surplus. God required daily trust in His faithfulness to provide. He wanted the Israelites to remember the source of their provision and blessing. He wanted them to avoid the trap of self-reliance.

And He’s doing the same with me. I don’t like to need anyone else. Most abuse survivors I know struggle in this capacity. We like to believe that if we just work hard enough, we can pull ourselves out of our own mess and provide for our own needs. Don’t get me wrong; diligence is a good habit. But complete self-reliance is not. And I think when I accepted that grocery order this morning, I was leaning a little too heavily in that direction. I was striving when I needed to rest in God’s promise to be faithful to provide.

My husband and I have both recently walked out of our own versions of Egypt. And God is guiding us into a terrain neither of us really know how navigate. Neither of us have any kind of track record of happy, peaceful, abundant living. Our backgrounds include self-sabotage and failure, so it’s sometimes hard to have faith in a better trajectory. I don’t enjoy living paycheck to paycheck. I want to have an inheritance for my children someday. But Rome wasn’t built in a day, and I think sometimes God needs us to be patient with the process.

My personal temptation is to believe I’m so unworthy of the blessing that I have to work harder to earn it instead of receiving it as a blessing purchased by the lover of my soul. I want to hoard my daily bread so I don’t have to do the grueling work of trusting it will fall fresh again tomorrow because trusting requires hope, and hope is really heavy to hold.

I have really poorly executed tattoo on my left wrist, a youthful impulse that will probably require cosmetic improvement at some point in the future. But even if I didn’t choose the most skilled artist, I would choose the same sentiment to express. It’s a line from one of my favorite hymns called “Sometimes a Light Surprises.” Two of the verses are especially relevant to me today as I nurse my aching back and remind myself to rest in the Lord’s goodness to me:

”In holy contemplation
  We sweetly then pursue
The theme of God’s salvation,
  And find it ever new;
Set free from present sorrow,
  We cheerfully can say—
E’en let the unknown morrow
  Bring with it what it may.

It can bring with it nothing,
  But He will bear us through;
Who gives the lilies clothing,
  Will clothe His people too:
Beneath the spreading heavens
  No creature but is fed;
And He, who feeds the ravens,
  Will give His children bread.”