Our Father Knows!

Sorry for the interruption! It was caused by two females, one quite agreeable and cooperative, the other a violent bag of wind. The first is a real lady, Becky Robbins, our Missionary Associate for the past two years. Becky moved last week and wasn’t available to format and send our “Renewed Cities” material. The second female was anything but a lady. Irene, a hurricane, came roaring up the East coast and we were forced to evacuate. We are happy to report that we are safe and that our home was spared any damage. Others in our community were far less fortunate.

Now that we are back on line, I’d like to share an account of our Lord’s miraculous provisions which built faith and helped prepare us for a life of radical trust. It helps to remember how I was formed. My parents were the children of European immigrants. My father was the frequently stern, but benevolent patriarch who earned wages and established financial priorities. My mother was a stay-at-home wife and nurturer of us three children. The arrangement worked famously, so well, that I wanted to follow the same formula for familial success.

Pat and I married in 1967. I had college degree and an entry level credential which announced that I was qualified to preach and lead a congregation. We were confident, full of eager enthusiasm, and loaded with expectations created by more than two decades of culturally formed family life. My interpretation of “family” collided with Pat’s. Her mother, Martha Kolas, was a businesswoman, immersed in the family bookstore business. Pat’s family ate in restaurants. I didn’t even know how to order a meal confidently in anything more upscale than McDonald’s or an A & W drive-in. Pat complied with my decision, but could probably have earned more than me during the first winter months of marriage when my trade was dormant waiting for Spring. Over some objections, Pat stayed home, prepared meals, and kept the three lean-to rooms attached to the back of the church ready for company. (The word “parsonage” is a very flexible word!) Yes, she could also contact absentees and make friends with people in our neighborhood. In that sense Pat did more pastoral work than I while I went hither and yon looking for work.

In 1967 rookie preachers in our denomination were expected to support the church with their “secular employment.” Getting to be a professional preacher (getting paid to preach) was reserved for the more experienced. As newlyweds on the verge of being really hungry, we began to learn how to trust God. I was too proud to ask our parents, or anyone else for help. And then, one evening we sat down to a plate of plain, naked elbow macaroni (no sauce) with a bit of margarine trying to melt. We gave thanks for God’s provision of macaroni. I was fearful of facing the next day without anything to eat in the cupboards or refrigerator. The clicking of knife and folk against plates seemed louder than usual. I didn’t know what to say, nor what to do.

In the middle of that meal, a knock came on the parsonage door. A widow was at the door. Alice returned our greeting with, “Could you use some food? I’m on the way home from the butcher. I bought a half of beef and don’t have room enough in my freezer.” In addition to the best steaks, ground chuck, roasts and assortment of other cuts that filled our freezer compartment, Alice also left behind several bags of groceries! For the next couple of weeks we ate like royalty! Pat and I still tell the story to those who doubt God will intervene in their circumstances. It has worked to build faith in others more times than we can remember.

The experience reminds me of Jesus’ assurance, “And when you pray, do not keep on babbling like pagans, for they think they will be heard because of their many words. Do not be like them, for your Father knows what you need before you ask him. (Matthew 6:7-8)

Look up friends! Our Father knows!