What in the World Does It Mean to Be Blessed?
In about a
week and a half, we will get the keys to our very first house.
I am so
stinking excited, nervous for that very adult “m” word (mortgage), and just in
awe of God’s blessings.
And it’s got
me thinking of the journey that brought us here and wondering what exactly the
word blessing means. Truthfully, it doesn’t feel quite right to say I am
blessed because we are about to have our names printed on the deed of a house. I
think sometimes we get this idea that “blessed” means easy, smooth, and
abundant. Looking back, I can say that even in lack, I've been blessed.
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When Mike
and I were first married, we found a sweet little duplex in one of the roughest
neighborhoods in our town. I remember in the still of the mornings how I would
walk through all 850 square feet of our first home thanking God for every inch
of it. I declared that the faux wood-paneled wall made it a house with
character. I saw the seeds other people sowed into our lives, that for some
reason we seemed worth it. The hand-me-couch from our college group leaders,
the garage sale table my father-in-law refinished for us surrounded by the
dining chairs our pastors gave us, the kitchen cabinets full of wedding
registry items. So. Much. Love.
Mike and I
had our first arguments, our first adult discussions, we loved and we were newlyweds
trying out our newly wedded bliss. Love grew in that house. The neighborhood,
however, was probably not ideal. We saw
gang fights, one night there was a shooting directly across the street, we
lived down the street from a dealer. But Mike and I saw such purpose there. Kids began visiting our house, and we
shared the kid's ministry candy we stashed in our garage along with the love of Jesus.
We even took one of the gang members to church with us.
After two
and a half years of marriage and life in that duplex, our lives got shaken. At
five months pregnant, my husband’s business went under. He couldn’t find steady
work, so we made the decision to move in with my parents.
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The years at
my parents were hard. There were weeks when I wasn’t sure we’d be able to buy
diapers, weeks when people would slip money in our hands at church saying God
told them to give it to us, weeks when Mike couldn’t find any work, weeks when
random checks would appear in the mail. It was this strange mixture of hard
knocks and supernatural provision.
I remember once
when Addy was all fresh and new, and we set out to the baby store. I stood in
the baby girls’ section fingering the clothes. I had ten spare dollars, and I wanted just one
outfit amid everyone else’s generosity that would claim her as my kid. I knew
she was a baby and wouldn’t remember, but buying her something with my own
money just seemed to matter so much. It was like an outfit had the ability to
wrap her up in the security I longed to give her. I couldn’t give her big, ridiculous
bows to match every outfit or push her around in a fancy jogging stroller, but
maybe one romper could say to my daughter, “I love you so very much, and I promise
to take care of you.”
During that
season, the hardest thing I learned was the humbling that comes when you just
can’t. But friends, God still did. There were a few periods there where I am
convinced without the generosity of family (church included), we would have
been living in our car, sleeping in a shelter on the cold nights. There in my
parents’ house, we had a warm room with a walk-in closet that we turned into a
nursery stocked with so much love from our friends and family. Mike had all the
space in the world to find exactly what it is he is supposed to be doing with
his life. We even got a few mini-vacations thanks to God-promptings on willing
hearts. When I sit back and think of all God gave us when we couldn’t ourselves….
Just big, beautiful, grateful… tears.
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After two
years at my parents, my husband began working in pest control. It wasn’t enough
for us to afford rent and groceries in a normal situation, but somehow God
still provided. Our church offered us the small studio apartment located right above
the church. It had once housed the stinky intern boys (one of whom I married)
and was more recently an office. It had a tiny kitchen and a tiny bathroom and
only 400 square feet total, but it was ours. I called that place my New York
City apartment adventure in my own small town.
I remember
once walking down the stairs and being greeted by one of the staff pastors. I
had told him I wasn’t feeling well, to which he asked, “Oh, are you pregnant?”
I looked at
that man like he was crazy, “What? Do you seriously think I would bring a
second baby into that small space?!”
God
immediately checked my heart with a quiet whisper, “Amanda, you don’t trust
me?”
Mike and I
both wanted another baby so badly, but we were afraid to even talk about it.
Standing there, at the base of my stairs, I knew I was caught. I didn’t trust
God. Not really. Not even after all God had led us through. I had pride and
somehow in all of God’s provisions, I wanted the control back, I wanted to not feel the judgment from
people when all I had to show from my 5 years of marriage was a life lived on
the generosity of others. (Ouch—that’s a tough one to admit)
Mike and I began
praying, and we knew God was wanting to grow our family and asking us to trust
Him. It seemed ludicrous to bring another baby into our small studio with our
tiny finances, to knowingly bring a baby in on government aid. We chose to
trust God anyways.
Two months
later, I became pregnant. One month after that positive pregnancy test, Mike
got a much higher paid job in pest control. One month after that, one of my
former student’s parents put their condo up for rent. They let us move right
in, deposit to be paid when we were able. It was technically a one bedroom
condo, but it came with a bonus room for Addy and a huge walk-in closet that
doubled as a nursery. By the time Jed was born, we were no longer on straight government aid, but a program we had to pay into to receive medical benefits.
 |
| Both of our babies had their nurseries in our walk-in closet. |
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I quote AnnVoskamp’s line often: “Sometimes we only see God in rearview mirrors.”
Some of what
Mike and I walked through seemed difficult at the time. But this isn’t a sob
story. This is a story of God’s faithfulness. This is a story of learning to
trust.
God was with
us in the ghetto. He was with us when we lived with my parents. He was with us
in the tiny studio. Perhaps by some standard, we experienced lack. But I know
the secret, if God is with you, you are
never without. I think of what I have learned, experienced, seen… surely
there is so much value in the maturing, so much value in the knowing beyond a
shadow of a doubt that I am dearly loved by my God.
Really, it isn’t the house that makes me
blessed, or dreams coming true, or picking out paint colors. It’s getting to walk with God, it’s seeing
His faithfulness played out in my own life. I am not just now blessed, I’ve
been blessed from the moment I gave God my life.
By Grace,
Amanda Conquers
Linking up with this lovely community:
Linking up with this lovely community:
