Last fall, I prayed a prayer. A rather greedy prayer, but my heart was hungry–a roaring hunger for something deeper than the ordinary. I wanted a glimpse of the divine. Some reassurance HE hears me.
I needed a whisper, a Holy Spirit high five, a manna flyover. The rhema word. Just something. Can I get a Jesus with skin on, please?
On my bed, snuggled in tight, early in the darkness of the morning, coffee cup by my side, with tears rolling down my face, I pleaded, “God, will you show me a sign of lavish love?”
I wrote the words in my journal and closed up my little bookstore in peace. I say bookstore, because I generally have about 5-10 books and devotionals in my morning nest, with blankets and pillows and sometimes my dog cuddled at my feet. It’s the best part of my day. The stillness, The sacred. The words that pour out of my heart. The promises I say over and over to remind myself of the truth. And the beauty of a God that is so close.
I knew He would answer. I didn’t know how. But I knew enough to wait, to watch and to be curious.
On some level, I thought he might show me a sign of romantic love. But a few days later I knew it was finally time to end an on-again off-again relationship. Maybe the lavish love was the solace of being alone?
All I knew was it felt bad…but then strangely good. I felt relief.
Over and over, as I mature as a believer, I find what appears to be abysmal circumstances are actually GIFTS from God. I just have to unwrap them and do the work.
My lavish love wasn’t going to be tied up in pretty wrapping. It might look like a capsizing ship or a fiery trial.
They say be careful what you pray for…
It started with one of THOSE weeks. The kind that Murphy invented. When everything that can go wrong, does. So DARN WRONG.
I got a serious health scare. Abnormal lab results. The waiting.
There were prayers and anxiety and tears until I surrendered like a child.
Finally, the appointment.
And while the news wasn’t great, it was fixable.
And I felt loved. Lavishly.
That evening my engine blew up on the freeway as I was on my way to pick up my daughter from dance. My power steering went out and my brakes. It’s always an adventure traveling on the 5 freeway at 75mph and losing the ability to steer or stop.
I dragged the wheel as hard as I could and tried to pull over, but the car just kept going and then rolled down an off-ramp. It finally slowed and came to a stop at the corner of a major intersection one hot second before I careened into oncoming traffic. I was blocking a lane, but I was alive. It was dark and I was in a construction zone. But I was alive.
Did I say I was alive?
I’m just a little grateful here. Beholden. Delighted. Filled with gratitude.
A man pulled his car up next to me and rolled down his window. He waved at me to come over. My Spidey senses were on high alert. I approached with trepidation, ready to use kickboxing or hair pulling if necessary. (I’ve seen the trailer for Taken, so I know the signs!).
But this guy was more angel than villain. He hopped out of his car and jumped into action. Turns out my hero was a mechanic in overalls. He grabbed some tools and tried to charge the battery, but my car was not responding to the CPR. Super Dude thought it was the fuel pump and encouraged me to call AAA.
Which I did. After I stopped hyperventilating and reeled in the dying cat noises.
He also told me the safest place to stand as cars flew by. It was dark, cold and truly terrifying. But this man made it feel strangely safe. Peace in the midst of total chaos. I thanked him profusely and he laughed and said he would have stayed with me, but he had to get home because his wife had dinner waiting.
It felt like a little heaven in that moment. A God rescue.
The tow truck took 2 hours to arrive, and I just stood there directing cars who got stuck behind mine. My best friend pulled up an hour later and we waited in her car until the tow guy arrived. A nice and warm toasty car with giggles and her bestie love.
And I felt loved. Lavishly.
The next morning, I woke up with a scratchy throat and a headache. Then the auto shop called. The car was totaled. My only option was to rebuild the engine or donate it to Cars for Kids.
Ouch.
The scratchy throat turned into the flu. Seriously?
A few days later my dad and I went to look at cars. We found a little SUV I wanted with low mileage and a solid price and as I started to give the guy my credit info while coughing up a lung and watching my savings disappear, my stepdad whipped out his check book and said, “don’t bother with that. I got it.”
I’m sorry…what? (Insert happy dance, more coughing and tears)
And I felt loved. Outrageously. Lavishly.
God knew I needed the kind of love and support that only dear friends, random mechanics and a loving dad can bring after you’ve had a relentless shit storm.
I needed Philia: friendship and affectionate love that does not involve any passion or sexual impulse.
I needed Storge: love for family.
I needed Pragma: enduring love by my heavenly Father.
And most of all… Agape: perfect/unconditional love that only the God of the universe provides.
The child, in danger of the fire, just clings to the fireman, and trusts to him alone. She raises no question about the strength of his limbs to carry her, or the zeal of his heart to rescue her; but she clings. The heat is terrible, the smoke is blinding, but she clings; and her deliverer quickly bears her to safety. In the same childlike confidence cling to Jesus, who can and will bear you out of danger from the flames of sin.
