How $58 buys hope

It was only day one of August rest.

Actually, scratch that, day minus 1, it was only July 31st. But I had been chewing all week on Ex 23:11 and what it means to “let the ground lie fallow.” That morning, when both kids wanted longer snuggles, I ignored my to-dos and held them longer. Later, instead of my usual 5-minute rushed get-ready routine, I went a little slower, enjoying a long bath, braiding my hair, wearing earrings. These things seem ridiculously minuscule, but it’s amazing how a little care turns mundane routine into sacred ritual. After lunch, I had to run an errand for Jeff, so I turned it into a treat for the kids, grateful there was no pressing plan for the afternoon.

Jeff’s errand just happened to be next to a local consignment shop where I’d taken clothes to sell once and never returned to gather my proceeds. The shop caught my eye, mostly because I’d tried so hard to get there recently, with no success.

I looked around the car, realizing the bag of clothes I’d chosen to consign was in the other car. *sigh* It almost seemed strange, how often I’d tried to take them there, but was always detoured. Finally, the day before, I’d sneaked away while Jeff was home for lunch, just to drive the clothes down to the store. Even though it was during business hours, they were closed. Odd. Strangely, something inside urged me not to sell them. The last bit of Ex. 23:11 came to mind, how during the Sabbath year the resting land was to be left “that the poor may eat.” Instead of selling my clothes and getting money, I could just give them away instead, to someone in need. I made a mental plan to take the bag to a certain out-of-town friend.

But here I was, the next day, parked right at the store on an errand for my man. I figured I’d zip in and see if I had a balance from what I’d sold before.  As I walked in, I realized the racks were almost empty, with signs “$1” or “75% off” on various shelves.

“We’re closing today, so we’re not taking any more consignments,” I overheard the gal at the counter say sadly to another customer.

Oh. That explains why they weren’t open the other day, and that explains why I had that strange nudge to not bring my clothes in. They were closing today? How sad, I thought, then quickly realized this was a great day to come in, everything was almost free! I looked around briefly but nothing caught my eye except a $1 sweater for my mom. I took the sweater to the counter, and gave her my name.

“I’m so sorry about the store closing.”

I looked at her, she was about my age, and very, very pregnant.

She smiled sadly, “Thanks. Me too.”

She looked at my information on the screen, opened the register, and handed me the $58 I had left on my account. Wow! That was unexpected! No wonder God had me come in this day, this was a profitable trip! I thanked her so much, and the kids and I walked across the street to our car.

We began home, but something hooked my heart. Something wasn’t right. It’d been a long hot afternoon and the kids were eager to get home, but that bit from Exodus came back again:

“The seventh year you shall let it rest and lie fallow, that the poor of your people may eat…”

It rang so clear in my heart: This is not a time to get ahead.

I felt sad for that girl. Clearly she had had a dream, had given it her all, and today her dream died.

Something urged: Go give her the money back.

I resisted: The kids are hot and tired! They’ll pitch a fit if I turn around and go BACK.

Then it came, that uncomfortable, shifting-in-my-seat feeling when I’m resisting the Holy Spirit. (You know the feeling, right?!)

I argued inwardly: I should talk to Jeff about it. I mean, this is our money, I should ask him what I should do with it.

More unease.

I am sure we make way less money than they do, even with their store closing. They’re probably wealthy; this was just a fun side-gig.

More unease. I thought of my wallet at this exact moment, how I’d tucked that cash she’d handed me in beside plenty of other cash.

I just want to get home. I could probably take her the money later.

More unease. I thought of this, her very last day open, of the sadness in her eyes, of the truth:

There’s no better time to obey than now.

I turned around.

“Where are we going?!” Both kids pipe up. “I thought we were done?”

“I just want do something real quick.” I was about to tell them to just trust me and not ask questions, but I paused. Actually … “You guys remember how that store we just went to was closing.”

They nodded and Dutch (usually lacking empathy) chimed in, “Yeah, it made me sad that they had to close.”

“Me too. So you know how they gave me the money I earned from selling my clothes?”

Dutch: “They did?! Oh you shouldn’t have taken the money, Mommy!” (Ha! Apparently His Spirit is more sensitive than mine!)

“That’s what I think too, Dutch. I think God is telling me to go back and give her the money back.”

“Oh mommy, I think God’s saying that too. Let’s go back right now and do it. Can I go in with you? I want to help her feel better too.”

Tears welled up, blurring each block as we made our way back to the store. Such a simple thing, responding to the Spirit, but so many things keep me stubborn. Here I thought this would inconvenience my kids, but it was a blessing to them. Every ordinary day there are discipleship opportunities as we travel the mundane with our littles.

We pulled up right in front of the store, both kids quickly unclicked their seat-belts, they were so excited. To my delight, the store was empty except the girl at the front, so I knew it wouldn’t embarrass her.

“Hi, I was just here and you were so generous to pay me my balance, but …” My voice caught with emotion, surprising me, “I don’t want it. I’m just really sorry you guys are closing, and I’d like you to keep my balance.”

Her face changed.

It lit.

“Are you sure?” She looked into my eyes. Just a quiet exchange of hope, solidarity.

“Yes. I pray you guys are blessed.”

She smiled wide.

“Thank you so much.”

And with that, we left, beaming, hearts light In the car Dutch announced, “Maybe that $58 was exactly the amount they needed!”

I smiled at his sweet childlike faith. “At least we know that $58 bought hope. For us all.”

{Happy Monday. It’s so good to be back here with you. Thanks for reading.}