“And you shall remember, (giving thanks for) the whole way that the LORD your God has led you these [9 months] in the wilderness, that he might humble you, testing you to know what was in your heart, whether you would keep his commandments or not.
And he humbled you and let you hunger and fed you with [mangoes] … that he might make you know that man does not live by bread alone, but man lives (and exists) by every word that comes from the mouth of the LORD.”
Deuteronomy 8:2-3 (emphasis added, World Race edition)
Recently, I’ve spent a good majority of my time trying to not quit this craziness and go home early. What I mean is, I’ve just had one of the hardest months of my race, maybe one of the hardest months of the last couple years. I do know the truth of it all: that I should want to be here, loving this place, these people, these moments, and that I should make the most of my last month, and sometimes I do…but sometimes, err –a lot of the time– it’s just wretchedly hard.
For privacy reasons, I really can’t share why things have been so difficult, but yeah…
We’ve stress-ate our weight in ice-cream.
Now since I can’t talk about all of the sad stuff, I’ll tell you about our mango tree instead.
A few tire leaps down from our porch, there’s a towering mango tree, with green and brown freckled leaves, exotic birds fluttering from branch to branch. In the afternoons I suspend my hammock high up in it’s arms, and breathe in its fragrance with needy gulps. It’s presence is entirely magic.
I awake to mangoes lying across the dirt floor. There’s been an underlying promise with these brightly colored fruits, that somehow, we’ve been like the Israelite’s traveling through the desert and these mangoes that come like the morning dew are our daily manna, our heavenly bread.
About a month ago, one night was especially rough. In desperation, and need for guidance we’d decided to blast our worship music and pray for healing over each member of our team.
“God, what do we do?” I’d asked, as I stood beneath the tree, staring beyond its leaves at the hollowed deep night sky.
His response came so clearly to my heart, “If you stay, I promise you will always have enough.” And a mango snapped above, dropping instantly at my feet.
And he took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” – Luke 22:19
Months ago, I’d been praying for this sort of thanks, the messy kind that says “yes” to the hardest things in life. It’s the tearing open of the bread, crumbs falling to the table. If Christ offered himself as a sacrifice for us, and we are found in his body, salvaged by grace, then don’t we also share in this breaking of the bread?
The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise. – Psalm 51:17
He took the bread, and he broke it. He takes us, his body, and he breaks us open sincerely, painfully, and he offers us to the world in remembrance of himself. We manifest his sacrifice through grace, through a broken and contrite heart.
This month has been sharing in his suffering, but it’s also been thanksgiving, the gritty thanks that only comes when there’s salty tears, and open wounds. To live in this measure of gratitude, accepting every second of gut-wrenching brokenness as a gift of wholeness, where his body and mine may become one, this is where the joy of my salvation is restored.
But rejoice insofar as you share Christ’s sufferings, that you may also rejoice and be glad when his glory is revealed. – 1 Peter 4:13
To rejoice in his suffering, is to rejoice in his coming glory, and to believe that in his dying, and his rising again, there is always enough.
Everyday, I collect the mangoes from under the tree, our teams daily “bread”. We remove the skins, cut them apart, partake of the tangy flesh, and remember grace, love, life-revived. We accept the gift of his joy, that comes wholly in our thanksgiving sung through the breaking, the losses, the trembling.
With these 31 mangoes I have left, 31 days of rejoicing on the race, 31 ‘thank-you’s despite circumstances, he’s breaking me beautifully, and I’d like to extend an invite to you…
This is his dare: to believe in the infinity of the cross, holiest of things. A dare to accept that there will certainly be grace enough for the children’s squabbling during English lectures, for the unapologetic pointed-fingers, for tightened lungs in our disbelief, for defenses against the very acceptance of grace-itself. A dare, a belief, that love could really bandage-up match singed-fingers, and cure the curses cast into the hearts of these Nicaraguan families, our families.
A dare to trust, and to know that in our crying out, we are heard.
In our thanksgivings, his sweet promise will come like the dawn, heaven’s bread of life, “There will always be enough.” Joy complete.
If you’re praying, thank you, thank you, thank you, really, we’ve felt your extended hands. Blessings to you from my little Nicaraguan bungalow!
Yours in Christ,
Jen
