My
bride and I were young and optimistic. A long, long time ago, we'd
signed up for an extended missions trip to a land far, far away, to
tell the locals about Jesus. Since we grew up in a church that had never
preached the gospel until the Sunday that I preached it myself, we didn't
know much at all about sharing the good news of Jesus.
We
also didn't know much about rest. We were only there for a few
months, and we were encouraged by zealous leaders to give ourselves
to the job at hand, and keep nothing in reserve for the trip home. We
bought into that value.
We
were on different teams. I was on the street preaching team and she
was on a team that presented the gospel through song and dance. We
were going hard, 18 hours most days, six or seven days a week.
We
were tired. We were also flat broke. We couldn't even buy a cold
beverage of indeterminate origin at the Golden Arches place (they're
EVERYwhere!!) and sit in their air conditioned space for a couple of
hours.
And
even more than burgers and carbonated beverages, after many weeks, I missed pizza. But
that was completely out of the question in that culture: they had no
cheese of any sort (I was afraid to ask what yellow stuff was on the
“cheeseburgers” that my wealthier friends had from time to
time).
I
had been practicing what is now called Lecto Divina in my time with
Jesus, and during these weeks, I had come to really value that hour
or so in the wee hours before the rest of the dorm woke up. It
appears that God's strength shows up particularly well when we're
completely dry of our own strength. Who knew?
One
morning, I'd been reading about God's provision of his disciples
(probably the feeding of the 5000 miracle), and if I'm honest, I was whining about
how broke we were. It was true that all of our needs were met, but it
would be nice to do something special with my sweetheart once in a
while.
I
felt something vaguely resembling faith (or maybe petulance) rise up
in me, so I got specific: “I'd really like some pizza, please!”
Ha! Fat chance of that!
I
spent the morning preaching on the streets within walking distance of
the dorm, while my bride was making her way across town (in a taxi
driven by someone who apparently idolized Mario Andretti!); we'd see
each other at dinner for yet another plate-full of rice and corn.
Mid-day,
I headed back to the dorm (I never knew how wonderful siestas could
be!) to relax a minute. A moment later, the building shook as the
pack of 20-something young men stampede to their end of the dorm.
Then quiet descended (relatively speaking). Another day in paradise.
My mind raced as I waited for the pack of hungry young men to speak up, but they never did. So I tiptoed down to the single mom's door and asked if she was serious? It turns out that she was. I have no idea what kind of pizza it was; it was round and flat and it had actual cheese on it.
I spent a fair bit of time that afternoon marveling at God's tender provision, and while there wasn't enough for me to share with her, I was looking forward to telling my sweetheart my story.
When she made it home (wide eyed at what a Formula One taxi driver could accomplish in the tiny streets and alleys of that town!), she told me her story about harrowing drives, mixed up ministry appointments, “But Sally-Ann bought us all pizza for lunch!”
So even though we were on opposite sides of the city, God gave us both pizza for lunch, in different ways, through different people. On the day that I had asked in the morning for pizza.
Please don't try to tell me that God is not attentive to his kids. I won't believe you.
