Provision came in the craziest of ways. Random people at church, some of whom barely even knew me, would slip a check into my Bible when I wasn’t looking. One time a group of ladies pulled up to my apartment and stocked my refrigerator and cupboards with groceries. Another time a man on a bus, a total stranger, walked up to me and said, “I really feel I am supposed to give this to you.” He handed me an envelope full of cash, just enough money to cover my expenses that month.
Coincidence? Happenstance? Sheer luck? I don’t believe that for a second.
The local food banks like House of Blessing greatly blessed Justin and me (as well as hundreds of other local families). We also benefited from the Salvation Army, which had programs where they would donate grocery store gift certificates to needy families. Those charities were lifelines for us. And today I’m proud of Justin for donating to various charities, including the ones that had helped us.
Financially giving back to God, or tithing, was important for me. Money is the only area in which God directly challenges us, in the Bible, to put Him to the test. “Bring one-tenth of your income into the storehouse so that there may be food in my house,” He says. “Test me in this way. . . . See if I won’t open the windows of heaven for you and flood you with blessings” (Mal. 3:10). So every Sunday, I gave ten percent of my income back to God. No matter how little I made. No matter how little I had left over.
A friend I’d known since we were five years old questioned my deep conviction. She knew me both before and after I was a Christian and had watched how I lived my life. She knew I gave to the church, and it was a difficult concept for her to comprehend. “Why do you do that?” she asked me many times. “Why do you give your money to the church when you can’t afford it? I see your struggles. I know you don’t have enough. If the God you believe in is real, why isn’t He providing? Where is this provider of yours?”
I just smiled. “I’m not giving to the church,” I said. “I’m giving to God and trusting in Him. God promises that He will multiply what I give. Watch what happens. Just wait and see.”
Today, that same friend has seen what has happened since I accepted God’s challenge. And it just about blows her mind. God has blessed me not only financially but in a whole host of ways.
You see, tithing isn’t really about money. It’s about being free from its control and trusting God will take care of you.
While Justin and I lived in that first apartment, John called one day and asked me for a favor. He had found a fourteen-year-old runaway named Liz on a park bench. She was homeless, cold, and hungry. He had talked to her for a while with one of his social worker friends. And though John wanted to help her out, he couldn’t do much for her overnight. He wasn’t in the business of taking home random teenage girls, so he asked for my help.
“Because I’m the director of the youth center, Sue and I can’t take her home with us, but she needs a place to sleep,” he said. “I’ll figure out how we can help her tomorrow, but can she spend the night with you and Justin?”
John reassured me Liz wasn’t a bad kid; she was just lost, literally and figuratively. Lost, hurt, and broken. He had a feeling the two of us would connect. Liz had a troublesome past and needed emotional safety. He hoped she would find it in me.
My heart jumped. Of course she could spend the night. Just imagining this young, helpless girl sleeping outside in an unfamiliar city broke my heart. God only knew what dangers lurked around and what kind of trouble she could get into. I told John to bring her right over.
I was surprised when Liz first walked through the door that night. She looked much younger than fourteen. Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled to the side in two neat ponytails, and freckles dotted her face. She didn’t look directly in my eyes when she uttered a breathy “Hey.” I knew she felt uncomfortable. I was a stranger, a stranger she had no reason to trust.
John was right, however. We instantly bonded. She was one of the sweetest, brightest girls I had ever met. The next morning I asked John if I could keep her. I was serious. Liz had nowhere to go. At the least I could provide her with a roof over her head.
I wasn’t sure how the logistics would work out; I just figured they would. John thought my offer was sweet but didn’t think it was possible. Who would allow a twenty-year-old single mother to take in a fourteen-year-old runaway? It was a ridiculous thought.
After a few weeks, though, John and I found out Liz had been in and out of so many foster homes that her social worker was at her wit’s end. She was desperate to find a home for Liz where she’d stay put. At that point, I don’t think they cared where she stayed. So one day I got a call from the exasperated social worker. “Here’s the deal, Pattie. If Liz agrees to stay with you, we’ll interview you, check out your apartment, and then make a decision.” It was as simple as that.
When Liz moved in, we quickly discovered our apartment was too small. The addition of Liz to our household meant it was time to move. But how? Where? And, oh yeah, there was that little problem of money. I barely had anything left after using my assistance checks to pay for rent, utilities, and food. But I wasn’t too worried. I gave my notice to the landlord. We couldn’t stay much longer in an apartment where the three of us would literally bump into each other just about every time we moved.
I had two months to find a place I could afford. More than enough time, or so I thought. The waiting list for rent-geared-to-income housing was so long that we would need to look elsewhere. (By the time we got to the top of the list, Justin would already be in kindergarten.) I started looking for an apartment that would fit my measly budget. It wasn’t the easiest house hunt. I searched in the paper, asked around, and browsed online. I prayed and I waited. Nothing.
At the end of every church service, I asked my friend Tim for prayer about my apartment search. We did the same thing each week: I’d ask for prayer and he’d pray. Sunday after Sunday, I prayed the same prayer with no resolution in sight. Three weeks before I was supposed to move out, anxiety set in. I prayed louder, stronger. Still nothing. A week later, I had a full-blown panic attack. Where would we live? It wasn’t just me I was responsible for. I had to provide for a baby boy and a teenage girl!
Though he had watched my prayer go unanswered week after week, Tim didn’t seem a bit discouraged or disappointed. He tried to settle my nerves. “I really believe God is going to teach you a lesson in faith through all this,” he said.
I rolled my eyes at that. Are you kidding me? I looked at him, nowhere near convinced, and said, “If I’d just found an apartment, I could see how that could be true. But at this point, without even a potential place to live, this situation isn’t giving me faith, it’s weakening my faith.”
He smiled. “Sometimes God makes you wait, Pattie. And then wait some more. And sometimes even right at the last minute, He makes you wait just a little bit longer until He comes through. It’s how you learn to trust Him.”
I wasn’t so sure.
Another week passed. Nothing. I was beyond frustrated. Was this some sort of sick joke? Were we supposed to live out on the streets? Was that really what God wanted?
On the Wednesday before the three of us would be homeless, my mom called. She sounded excited. “There’s a new listing in the paper for an apartment on Elizabeth Street, and it’s available immediately.”
Hope.
Finally.
I drove with Liz and Justin across town to talk to the landlord. By the time we arrived, one family had just finished a tour of the apartment. They looked like the perfect tenants—a strong-looking husband, a beautiful wife, and an adorable baby. I’m pretty sure I also saw a golden retriever with his head hanging out of the window of their minivan. And wouldn’t you know it, after our tour of the place we saw another cute and perfect-looking family waiting for their appointment.
The three of us must have been quite a sight: a teenager dressed in funky clothes, a tired-looking mom who looked like a teenager herself, and a rambunctious two-year-old toddler. O
h well. We put on our biggest smiles and prayed the landlord would show us some favor.
The apartment was beautiful, complete with three bedrooms, a loft, an outside patio, and even a fireplace. The rent was cheap and included all the utilities. It seemed too good to be true. Maybe it’s a joke, I thought as I walked carefully on the dark hardwood floors and grazed my fingers on the fresh coat of paint that adorned the walls. Doubt tried to weave its way into my heart. Why would this guy rent to you? You guys look a mess! Why would he give this place to a single mom with a foster kid when he could rent it out to Mr., Mrs., and Baby Jones, a nice, normal family that doesn’t have your kind of money problems?
Valid points. Good questions. I couldn’t answer them save for “I don’t know.” I don’t know why this guy would choose us as tenants. I don’t know why he wouldn’t entertain other, better offers. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.
But still . . .
After he finished showing us the lovely backyard where I knew Justin would love playing, the landlord spoke. “Listen. I could rent this apartment out to anyone. I’ve showed it to a lot of people, and I even have more appointments after you.” He paused for a few seconds, carefully choosing his next words. “But I’ve been praying about who to rent this apartment to, and I believe I’m supposed to rent it to you.”
I know it sounds far-fetched, but I promise you, it’s true. That’s when I realized that Tim was spot-on. The whole experience really did increase my faith. We lived in that beautiful apartment for almost three years. We were never late on our rent once, although we eventually got kicked out because it seemed Justin made too much noise. Between the drum playing, loud music, and typical toddler banging, we were a little too rowdy for our neighbors.
Liz stayed with us for a year and a half total. She was probably more of a gift to me than I was to her (though years later she wrote me a beautiful poem about how she was convinced I showed her the true meaning of love). Liz helped around the house and with Justin, who adored her. I like to think Justin and I were positive influences, because after moving in she stopped stealing and using drugs. She enrolled in school full-time and started going to church.
Although my life has been saturated with beautiful moments of miracles and provisions, like finding that amazing apartment, there were also moments of doubt, where the realities of life and unanswered questions distracted me in my heart.
Six years into my faith walk, I was taking a bath one night at a time when I was experiencing what some call a dark night of the soul. I had been begging God to help me with some things, but my situations remained unchanged. My prayers seemed to fall on deaf ears. I couldn’t hear God in my spirit, nor could I feel Him around me.
I prayed. I cried. I begged. “God, where are You? I need You so badly and I can’t find You.”
My prayers seemed futile. I didn’t know why I even bothered. Doubt began to leak its poison into me. I even started wondering if this whole faith thing was a big joke. Maybe when I lay in the hospital bed after I tried to kill myself, my wounds were so deep and my need so big that I merely imagined my encounter with God. Maybe I was so empty and lost that God was really only a figment of my imagination, a crutch I held on to so I wouldn’t drown in my misery.
While I had run into other roadblocks in my faith, most of the time I could encourage myself or even be encouraged by others. There were times I couldn’t hold on to my own faith, but I could hold on to the coattails of someone else’s faith. On this occasion, however, I couldn’t even do that. I didn’t have the strength to ride out this storm by trying to grab hold of another person’s life vest. So I was honest with God.
As I lay in the tub, I prayed. “I feel like I’m in a pit,” I cried out, my words echoing against the bathroom walls. “I don’t have the strength to hold on anymore. I don’t see You. I don’t feel You. This is goodbye.” My prayer was honest, a cry from my heart. I was ready to throw in the towel. I was prepared to turn my back on faith and walk away. It had been a good run, but it wasn’t for me.
That night I cried myself to sleep. I questioned everything. I mourned the end of something I believed in, something I had poured my heart into and had sacrificed the last six years of my life for. I had given up everything. I’d given up things I liked to do. And I’d done it all for a chance at having a relationship with a God who was not just the God of the universe but also known as a Father. That hurt the most. I felt like my heavenly Father had turned His back on me.
The next morning I got a phone call from a girl at church. We didn’t know each other that well, but I liked her. “Pattie,” she said, “I had a dream last night. It was about you.” My breath quickened. I didn’t want to jump ahead of myself, but . . . could it be?
She told me that in her dream she was walking with God in heaven and He was showing her all the marvelous things in that place. Streets of gold. Blindingly colorful fields of flowers. Choirs of angels singing beautiful melodies. Then He parted the clouds and looked down right at me. “Do you see my daughter Pattie?” He asked the girl. “I want you to go tell her I love her very much.”
The girl looked at God, bewildered. “Why? I know Pattie. She knows You love her.”
God shook His head. “No,” He sighed. “She doesn’t.”
The girl was even more confused. “But I know about her relationship with You. Trust me, she knows.”
God was adamant. “No, she doesn’t. I need you to go to Pattie and tell her I love her. And also tell her I see that she’s in a pit, and I’m going to be the one who lifts her out.”
After the girl finished telling me about the dream, she encouraged me with this verse:
He lifted me out of the pit of despair,
out of the mud and the mire.
He set my feet on solid ground
and steadied me as I walked along.
He has given me a new song to sing,
a hymn of praise to our God.
Many will see what he has done and be amazed.
They will put their trust in the LORD. (Ps. 40:2–3 NLT)
In that moment, the weight of feeling like my faith was empty or futile was lifted. I cried tears of relief. The dreaded fear of being abandoned was gone. God hadn’t left me. My faith wasn’t a sick or twisted joke.
Yet again, God had gone out of His way to assure me He was present. I wasn’t a forgotten child. He valued me. And I was worth enough for Him to take the time to make sure I got the message loud and clear.
CHAPTER
Eleven
Growing up, my son was a combination of Curious George, Dennis the Menace, Zack Morris, and Bart Simpson rolled into one. Women I knew who had multiple children actually told me that just watching Justin wore them out. The kid couldn’t sit still to save his life. Justin had so much energy, he was the literal embodiment of the phrase “bouncing off the walls.” I’m not even joking. Justin actually bounced off walls. Full of life, he was born ready to brave the world with a mischievous grin on his face and rambunctious energy in his step.
Early on, I gave up the hope that Justin would be a cuddler. When he started being mobile, tumbling and rolling about, he wanted out of my arms so he could explore on his own. He was always seeking independence. He’d loosely hold on to my hand while reaching out with the other to see what exciting new adventures existed beyond my reach, even if it was only a few steps away. Sometimes this hunger for exploring got him into trouble.
The few times I could afford to buy some new clothes, Justin and I took trips to the mall. I’d browse through the circular clothing racks and play peekaboo with him. Pretending I didn’t know where he was, I’d call his name while he hid and giggled loudly inside the clothing rack I sifted through. After a minute or two, I’d dramatically push aside a section of clothes, find him laughing hysterically inside of the rack, and yell “Peekaboo!” to his squealing delight. (How I miss those days!)
While I looked for a winter jacket on one such trip, two-year-old Justin and I engage
d in our tenth round of peekaboo. This time, however, when I pushed aside the coats and yelled “Peekaboo,” Justin was nowhere to be found. I panicked. I threw down the jackets I’d draped over my arm and dashed around the store, madly searching inside each clothing rack to find my little guy. He wasn’t anywhere. Not in the rack of blouses. Not in the rack of jeans. Justin was nowhere in the store.
My heart pounded and my palms were thick with sweat. I hadn’t been browsing at the rack for more than two minutes during our game; I didn’t understand how he could disappear so fast. My heart pounded wildly in my chest. Help! Where is my son? I immediately alerted a store clerk, who helped me look for him. Maybe Justin somehow found his way to the back of the store? Five minutes passed and still no sign of him.
I ran out into the mall, calling Justin’s name and asking passersby if they had seen a two-year-old blond-haired little boy wearing a red shirt and blue jeans. They hadn’t, but they were kind enough to help me look for him. A security guard had run over to help me by that time and had radioed all the mall employees to keep an eye out for a missing two-year-old boy. Ten minutes had passed and Justin was still missing. It’s a mother’s worst nightmare. I was in hysterics, walking in and out of every store calling out “Justin! Justin! Justin!” I desperately hoped that at any minute he would turn the corner and run into my arms. But there was no sign of my son.
Finally, the security guard heard a buzz on his walkie-talkie. Someone had spotted Justin at the other side of the mall in the children’s play area. I’d never run so fast in my life. I was panting and out of breath by the time I reached Justin. My lungs were about to explode. “Justin,” I called out. My frantic heart was finally able to calm down at the sight of him safe and sound. My son, of course, hadn’t the faintest clue I had spent the last ten minutes in an absolute frenzy trying to find him. “Look, Mom,” he squealed when he saw me, without the slightest care in the world. He pointed to the rocket ship kiddie ride he was trying to climb. “Look, a wocket sip!”
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