miracles and mustard seeds {tales of a hometown missionary}

My faith was small. It could not be compared to even a mustard seed. Perhaps more like a chive seed. A fleck of black on your palm. Too small to hold between your fingers but visible.

I was working every day at the bank at four-corners in the center of town. The one in the towering brick building that smelled of old paper and lollipops. My life was scraping mundane and I was learning to walk with questions. Where to  next? What should I be doing? How am I to be a light in a dark world when I feel like I’m the one who is blind?

I didn’t see the miracles coming. Not the smallest glimpse. But I should have.

I should have known that when I wandered down that street, the one with the broken windows and blue tarps tacked to the porches and the men and women in lawn chairs on the sidewalk, that God was moving mountains.

I should have seen Him in the eyes of the children playing in the middle of the street as I walked by, day after day.

I should have known the minute I saw the for sale sign on the little white cottage with the apple tree and bright orange poppies and towering lilacs. The secret garden in the middle of rundown desolation.

I should have known it was God. The wind. The waves. The mountains crashing.

But I didn’t. I was so wrapped up in my lack of money, my lack of plans and my scars. 

I should have known that God isn’t dependent on my bank account. Of course He’s not dependent on me. But I was just a broken girl with crushed dreams and my ears were deaf to the rocks crumbling.

One evening I was going to a birthday party, tying my sneakers, running late as usual and instead I met a Realtor at the little white cottage. I still didn’t understand. I was walking the house, praying for God to send someone, answering questions like, “Do you think this is structurally sound?” and “Is there anything you could do to these walls to make them presentable?” and my ears were still deaf to the roaring of the avalanche.

Two days later I was handed a check that covered the down payment and was signing a purchase offer. The mountain had fallen.  The flecks of chive seeds had grown in my palm and His voice was echoing loud and clear. Go to the children  meant these little half-pints that scampered up and down this street.  

I should have realized, of course, that rarely does a mountain exist surrounded by flat land. There were more and God was not done with me yet.

Part One {In Jars of Clay}
Part Two {Wind and Waves}
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9 thoughts on “miracles and mustard seeds {tales of a hometown missionary}

  1. This has been interesting!
    I completely agree about our mission field usually being in our own backyard. It’s interesting how even widely renowned foreign missionaries usually started at home like that. I personally love it best.

    Like

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