One of the thing I remember about growing up was the care packages we received from our extended family. In particular, I remember one package that contained some pants for me. My aunt and uncle, recognizing that our pastor's family often struggled to get by on the salary our church provided, had sent a box of hand-me-down clothes. Only one problem, my cousin David was short and stocky, I was tall and skinny. The pants I received were the correct length, but required a substantial, and I mean substantial, tuck to be taken in the waste line for me to wear. The fit was such that my friends initially thought I had the first bell bottom pants in the school. All that aside, our need was real, and the graciousness of the Michaelson's to recognize that need and offer their assistance was generous, and, underlying it was a depth of love.
Fast forward half a century.
Dammit, I'd like to be entirely self sufficient. Pride can itself be a debilitating thing. The truth is that all that has happened with my disability, with the change in my employment status, with medical bills, with coping with the challenges of life itself has left me in the position of either needing to recognize the need for help, and accept what help is available-- or to sink.
It's one thing to preach about Jesus Christ as being the Savior of the world. It's quite another to admit I need a savior.
I'd rather be the savior. This is particularly true of my manic side. I've had some opportunities over the years to be the savior. For example, when my daughter faced the challenge of student teaching. Substantial tuition, little financial aid, a requirement that she not work outside of student teaching, oh, and a car that went belly up in the midst of it all left her needing some help. "Daddy finance" came into play. The total of those expenses tallied up to more than my gross income for that period, but I found a way. I know it was hard for her to admit she needed help, and she was deeply grateful for the help that came. There was another dimension of it, and that was the opportunity it gave me to act in love.
Ministry also offered me the opportunity to 'save' people from time to time. Intervening in situations of spousal abuse, channeling donations to those in need, helping people negotiate the difficult decisions of life and death-- and many more examples. It feels good to be the savior.
It's quite another thing to admit one needs a savior.
The last five and a half years have been humbling in that regard. And I'm deeply grateful for the assistance that has been offered to me and my family. But most of all, I'm overwhelmed by the depth of love that has been shown to us, through this whole set of circumstances.
The last night my father was alive we had a wonderful conversation. At the end of it, as we each expressed our desire to have many more conversations like this, I apologized. My work schedule had severely limited the amount of time I had to spend with dad, even though he lived with us. "But," I told him, "at least its keeping the bills paid." His response, and the last words he spoke to me, was "Well, my hope is that my being here will take some of the burden off you." One of the beautiful things about Dad coming to live with us was that we could help him, and he was able to help us.
When I first entered the ministry, and was at Thompson Falls, the congregation was unable to meet expenses and pay my salary. Recognizing our predicament, Mom and Dad joined our congregation even though it meant driving 75 miles to attend church, and became the largest contributors. Dad was overjoyed that I had become a pastor but also was deeply aware, because of his own experience, of the financial challenges we would face. Both he and mom tried to help as they could.
As I faced disability, unemployment, and all that went with it, he was concerned. Dad realized that our financial challenges were far greater than those of my other siblings. Each of them, and their spouses, had done well in professions that paid much more than pastoral ministry. Dad was concerned for us.
What I found out this last week was that Dad asked one of my siblings to make sure that we'd be alright after he was gone. I was emotionally overwhelmed when I found out about that. Tears come to my eyes as I write this.
This would be 'touching' in many circumstances. When the reality is that we have indeed needed help, and need help, it is moving to the depth of my soul. I am grateful. I feel loved and cared for.
I don't know where we'd be if it weren't for such love and care. It has come to us from a variety of people in a variety of ways. Even when we couldn't meet the challenges that presented themselves, others have stepped up to help. Humility. Gratitude. And allowing people to show their love in concrete ways.
To be on the receiving end of loving care is a blessed thing. It is to experience grace.
I wouldn't understand or appreciate God's grace nearly as much without these experiences of grace shown to me. When everything is going wonderfully well, we don't need grace. We can make it on our own. At the risk of overstating my case, it seems to me that unless we experience the need for grace, we will never appreciate the gift of grace.
Today, I am grateful. For grace. For love. And for the people God has surrounded us with.
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