When I was in college, I flew down to Rio de Janeiro for a semester. Within six weeks, I realized I was in trouble. Not because I’d have to take courses like psychopathology in Portuguese (thought this was a serious concern), but because I barely had enough money to pay tuition and rent. How was I going to eat? My cash flow wasn’t restricted; it was nonexistent. I walked everywhere because I couldn’t even afford a fifty cent bus ticket.
Every month or so my mom would send me a twenty dollar bill, not knowing I was dependent on it for my meals. I began getting bad headaches. Some days I was too dizzy to attend class. I’d ration out the money mom sent, buying myself a two dollar cafeteria meal once a week where I could eat all the beans and rice I could pile on my lunch tray.
I didn’t tell a soul. There was no way I was going to let anyone know I was failing. Me–the girl they thought brave enough to move a hemisphere away for school–I was too proud. I wasn’t going to fail because I was out of money. I’d rather starve than admit I was failing.
It’s funny how hunger chips away at pride.
Around this time I began attending a church. It was a tiny little group that met in an upstairs room on Sunday evenings (I suppose to give everyone time to enjoy their morning café and beach excursions). In Brazilian churches they call their worship service culto. Once I realized it wasn’t a cult even though they didn’t meet on Sunday mornings (mind-blowing for this mid-westerner), I began walking the hour long journey from Gavea to Botafogo. Past the lagoa and through the concrete jungle I ambled, wondering at the smells and sights of the tropical city. I tried not to get there too early so I didn’t seem overly eager. But even introverts can get lost and lonely, and my feet picked up the pace when I knew I was near.
The tightly knit members became my weekend family. I was safe there. No matter what happened during the week, I knew on Sundays I was welcomed and loved.
No one ever asked me to put my money in the offering plate, but I felt a Holy Spirit dare to put in what I had, my widow’s mite. I emptied my pockets–a bashful promise to keep my hands open. Each week as I walked home in the dark I wondered, Jesus, did you see what I just did? What am I going to eat tomorrow?
I did this for months, which, of course, stripped me of food security. I was barely covering my rent and tuition, but I was definitely not eating enough. I stopped eating beans and rice in the cafeteria. I relied on the occasional exchange student meet-ups to temporarily fortify myself with complimentary salgados. I took up every invitation to homes of friends, dates, beach hangouts–any social opportunity where food was offered.
In the mornings, I had coffee and a slice of white bread with a layer of queso crema. For lunch I boiled a piece of pumpkin and sprinkled it with cinnamon. At night, I slowly ate my bowl of runny grits as I watched (and tried…and failed to understand, pre-google) the popular telanovela, O Clone.
Looking back, I don’t recommend starving, but no one stopped me. How could they? I didn’t tell a soul about my dare. My mom knew funds were short in other areas, but I was making ends meet. She didn’t know the details, and I wasn’t going to worry her. I was in a big city and I was making big girl decisions. It wasn’t so much about pride anymore, but survival, endurance. Released from the need to overcompensate my physical needs (I was eating a little, which was more than nothing), I was able to taste possibilities I’d never before considered. It was physically uncomfortable, but my experiment in giving was unintentionally turning into a form of fasting…and was growing into an intimate dependency on God. Taste and see that the Lord is good. Trusting Him became sweeter in a way I’d never known.
I’d stare out my open bedroom window at the Cristo Redentor statue, his arms held out to me. I was reading my Bible and begging for wisdom. How do I navigate relationships? How do I express myself in a different language? What is socially and culturally acceptable? Why was I raised to think only in terms of black and white? God, what do you want from me?
I was befriending people and telling them about Jesus. I was volunteering in a couple of drug-lorded favelas, meeting the kind of people I didn’t know existed. I was offered a position as a missionary at a kids’ outreach and health program. I was considering breaking up with my long term boyfriend in the States, sending him vague letters to test how he might feel about me staying in Brazil.
One day after classes, I stood in line in the basement of the life sciences building waiting my turn to check my email in the computer lab. I was antsy as always to get news from home–anything that wouldn’t make me feel hungry and homesick. My mom had written me a note. Pearl, it said, I hope you’re having a great week. Just wanted to let you know–someone gave me $200 today to deposit in your bank account.
I powered off the computer and walked out of the lab. It was unexpected, and I was stunned.
Pragmatically, I knew God could do it. Through the testimony of others, I’d seen Him show up in a thousand ways. But until I’d actually given my last pennies away and sat at the door, waiting, I don’t think I had any idea what He could offer me. I could gaze out on the waves from my safe perch on the boat and believe He made the water and could walk on it. I could never get my toes wet and still believe there was a Jesus that loved sinners, a God who looked down from Heaven at His tiny creation. I just didn’t know He loved them in a way that surpassed the way human beings can understand: food, water, clothes, shelter. I didn’t know he loved it when I asked him questions and heaped my cares on Him. I didn’t believe He mothered his little ones, patiently answered their questions, wrapped His arms around them and fed them from the spoon on his table. Nor could I comprehend His peace, patience, hope and joy while I was waiting on the little things.
When I was finally, totally desperate, God proved himself dependable. In fact, He waited for me to become desperate before He wrought miracles. How else would I know? Could it have been anyone but Him who came to my rescue? I was a Gideon, tentatively setting out my wool at night to see if He might get it wet. I was the lady in the crowd, quietly sneaking in and out of people to try and touch the hem of His garment. I had no business putting myself into a position to gamble… I was just banking on the promise that He is a good father and that he generously rewards those who seek Him. Until I was empty I didn’t understand His gifts were perfect, wholly beyond my scope of what I thought I needed. The money I needed for food had become secondary to the revelation I was having: Jesus is all I ever really want.
This is an insane privilege to acknowledge. His provision, His crazy love keeps proving itself true in my life again and again. Me–a person who has no title, valuable training, personal history, resumé, or talent–no business even pretending I have control over my life–I have access to God the Father. He hears me, he knows me, and He has let me know He is enough. He doesn’t do contracts and deals, but He listens to and loves His children. He answers their prayers in tangible ways and then some.
I cannot elbow my way into His presence. I can’t draw up a blueprint and ask Him to stamp His approval on my plans. It doesn’t work that way because He is a Father. It’s like my little girl who begs to not go to bed at night. I still make her lie down by herself, because she needs to learn to sleep on her own. God knows what is best for me, but I have to agree with Him, have to offer up my will to His, in order to receive His best.
I’ve realized this is how He works: He waits for me to continually make room for Him to surprise me with his goodness. I must choose to keep things wide open to make room for His big moves.
This doesn’t mean it isn’t a calculated risk. Neither is it a “let’s add things up and see how much this is gonna empty my savings–that which I could technically recoup.” No, if we use this math, we will never take the leap. It’s actually a bigger risk than we could safely bet on. It’s cliff diving, potential harm, maybe death. It is putting my whole life on the line.
Jesus said, “If you try to hang on to your life, you will lose it. But if you give up your life for my sake, you will save it.”
How much do I trust God to make up the deficit? Do I have faith he can help me break even? Will he redeem the things I can’t fix? Do I believe if I give to him–my kids, money, lifestyle–he can make up the difference–filling my lap up, pressed down and overflowing (Luke 6:38)?
This is what Rio taught me: God loves a dare–he loves it when we gamble and bet our entire lives on him. My poverty, my hunger. It’s the weakness in us that exposes His strength, His power to love us in deeper ways we’d never otherwise understand.
I’ve done many other things that were, in a sense, a slaughtering of dreams. I’ve abandoned my college degree, the one that labeled me as a senior “most likely to succeed”. We’ve moved away from family and friends. We decided I’d stay home with the kids and he could follow the career path. We’ve given up our time, resources, and income to walk away from prettier pursuits.
How else could we approach the Savior and say, “we’ve left everything to follow you” (Mark 10:28)?
How can he promise an increasing return if we haven’t invested what is precious to us?
How can we “count it all as loss” (Phil. 3:8) when we hold so tightly to our temporary treasures?
You worried about your kids? Work? Relationships? Money? Church? School? Your ideas about how the future ought to look? Put it in the hands of the One who gives the best returns, the One who has already laid a firm foundation.
What does the first, small step look like? It could be a few pennies in the offering plate, a few paces in the opposite direction of success and security.
It’s a bit of a dare.
Test me and try me, He says.
