Support Raising.
Ugh.
It’s such a loaded phrase. I picture a huge stack of letters covered in emotional expectations. It brings me back to memories of crying at a mailbox because of what’s in the box or lack there of. My printer always seems to run out of ink right when I’m in the zone. I never have enough stamps/envelopes/patience. I don’t understand how to express my heart for missions on an 8×11 inches of white space. And phone calls are awkward when I finally get up the nerve to follow up.
I’ve raised support for the past two Spring semesters to go on Summer Projects (fancy word for mission trips with Cru). I’ve seen God provided for two mission trips in the past. Totally funded. Actually, both times more than funded. So I don’t know why it’s so hard to trust God again. Third time’s the charm, right?
Support raising is so humbling. And my pride hates to be humbled. My roommate and I were talking about this a little while ago. A homeless man asked us for a few dollars to buy dinner when we went out for sushi one night. How does he do that? How can someone be that humble to have to ask another person if he can eat that day? Over and over again? It’s hard enough to ask for money once a year from people I know. I can’t imagine asking strangers several times a day. I wonder if his heart races every times he asks for money like mine does. I wonder if he feels awkward. I wonder if he feels like money is more powerful than he is.
But it’s just money.
I use dollar bills as bookmarks. There’s probably ten dollars on my bookshelf right now tucked away in a dozen different books I started reading a few months ago. I know, weird. It started when I was in South Africa, and I needed to mark my spot in a book. Using rand for five weeks made my one dollar bill worthless so I used it. I still use it. I’m not sure why. I think it’s to remind me it’s just a piece of paper. It is worthless. It’s just money.
It’s interesting how when I have money I say “It’s just money.” But that attitude doesn’t translate to when I’m asking for money.
When I’m asking for money it seems like it’s dependent on me not on God. It seems like this giant job to do. Don’t screw it up, Courtney. It’s like I have to convince people I am worth spending money on. That my cause is important. If they give me money, I’ll make it worth their while. “Invest in me, and watch you’re return for The Kingdom.” That’s how I feel. That’s why support raising tastes so badly in my mouth. It feels like work to raise money. It feels conditional on me. What if I ask wrong? What if I offend someone? What if they don’t get it? What if I disappoint them?
How am I suppose to convince people to give me $16,254 to go on The World Race?
But it’s not about me.
There are plenty of reasons why I don’t like support raising. It’s awkward and time consuming. It’s gross and messy. There isn’t an easy answer, and I get self conscious explaining it to other people. But all of those are just the symptoms of the real reason why I hate support raising. I hate support raising because it shows me my unbelief.
I hate that my faith is so dependent on whether or not I get a check in the mail that day. I hate that I spend more time micro-analyzing where the money is coming from instead of praying for the money to come. I hate that support raising brings all the lies I’m hiding to the surface. And then slaps me in the face with them.
But when lies hurt, God speaks truth to me in a gentle whisper.
He reminds me that He is more faithful to this calling than I am. He tells me my only job is to show up, and then He tells me what that means. Last month that looked like sending out support letters, but this month showing up looks like selling elephant T-shirts. He reminds me that I serve a God of immeasurably more not one that just gets by. He tells me that He loves surprising me, and that He gives good gifts. And when I really start to doubt, He provides for my desires to prove that He will also meet my needs. All the while, He gently reminds my soul that the doubt will fall away as I learn to trust the Giver of the Gift.
