The Angel of the Shampoo Bottle

Did you give me $200 in the past month? I asked my husband. He looked at me oddly. 

$200? For what? When? Why?

I don't know! I am counting my money, I have $200 extra ,and I don't know where it came from! I replied in frustration. 

I grew up with a mother as an accountant and at a very young age I learned how to take care of my money. First, we always put aside 10% of our pocket money for tithes and then another 10% for offerings. Those were given in church. Then we put aside another 10% for charity, which, as my mother explained, was for helping poor people or buying gifts for others. The remaining 70% was ours to keep or save as we wished.

As I was just a kid and not needing to save up for anything big anytime soon, I usually spent my money on chocolates, ice-cream cones, sodas, and books. I loved books. I saved up my pocket money each week until I had enough to buy the next book in the St. Clare's series. I'd go down to the corner bookstore and point to the one I wanted, then hand over my carefully hoarded Egyptian pounds. 

Or, if I had extra, I would buy the icecream cones that came in a paper wrapper with the thin cardboard lid on top. Once I pulled the tab back, revealing the sweet treat underneath, I would check the lid to see if there was a You have won! printed inside. If I had, I could return to the shop and get another ice-cream cone for free. The best part was the bottom of the cone with its solid chocolate core. Usually I didn't win, but my mom did several times and I was quite envious of her. I had better luck with the emerald green glass bottles of Sprite. I would pop the metal cap, peer underneath, and if I saw the magic words I would run to get a free bottle of soda. 

As I grew up, the few pounds changed into a few euros and then a few dollars as I moved from country to country. Uncles tucked a few bank notes into my hand, grandparents carefully counted out our vacation allowance that they had been saving all year, and family friends gave from their generosity. Then I was earning money from cleaning toilets and helping a little old lady in a purple tracksuit with deep purple socks walk around the loop for her constitutional. And each time I put aside 10% for tithes and 10% for offerings. The 10% for charity had, by now, morphed into my regular spending as I tended to help others on a regular basis. 

Over the years there were stories, time and time again, of how God provided at just the right time for my needs. When we had to go to the dentist, a family friend donated their Sabbath earnings from the hospital towards our dental bills. When I needed to pay for my sponsored child in Bangladesh, the little old lady whose cards I helped write and bills I helped pay gave me my pay a month in advance. When we needed to buy appliances for our apartment, the money we made from selling our household items in the previous country covered all we needed to buy and more. 

And each time I sat down to do my accounts, I marveled. I marveled at God's goodness, His generosity, and His deep intimacy with the little details of my life. Nobody else knew when I prayed and asked Him for a specific amount of money that summer I spent shredding termite-infested papers hour after hour, doing my part to earn as much money as I could but knowing I would come up short for the expenses I would incur. Yet just a few days before the summer ended, I found myself holding an envelope from a dear family friend that contained the exact amount of money I had been silently asking God for, for several weeks. Where I had just about given up hope, He had never stopped listening to my prayers.

I am convinced there is an angel who tucks cash into different places and refills shampoo, oil, and rice containers, I told my mom. And I was. I knew there had to be. There was no other explanation as to how two people could manage on a missionary salary, regularly host guests, and still have a fridge/freezer and cupboards full to bursting with dry goods and staples. We were never in want and had never been. 

Taste and see that the Lord is good;

blessed is the one who takes refuge in Him.

Fear the Lord, you His holy people

for those who fear Him lack nothing.

The lions may grow weak and hungry,

but those who seek the Lord lack no good thing.

~Psalm 34:8-10

Don't Let Me Go

Fine, then, I'm going home, I said, as I turned around and walked off. My shoulders hung low in defeat, tears barely held back, as a deep feeling of sadness came over me. But I had made my choice, so I had to stick to it. The way I was feeling right then, I wouldn't have made very good company anyhow, so I set my feet in the direction of our apartment and carried on. 

An hour earlier, my husband had eagerly asked me if I wanted to join a friend and him to go to the Deniz Muzesi, a naval museum just across the Bosphorus Strait. We'd tried several times already to go but hadn't lucked out. The first time, the museum was closed as it was a Monday and we hadn't realized most museums were closed on Mondays. The second time it was too close to closing as we had had too many errands to run that day. Finally, today seemed like the day. We just had to eat something and we could be on our way. 

Hurry up, my husband urged, as I slipped his water bottle into my burgundy Quechua backpack in preparation for our adventure. 

What time are we supposed to meet? I asked. 

3:20 he replied.  

It was already 3:10 and we had at least a 15-20 minute walk down to the pier. I slipped on my shoes. By the time we reached the door, it was 3:15. 

We threaded our way through the crowds out for a Sunday afternoon, heading to the pier. By the time we reached the ferries, it was 3:43. 

Where is he? I asked, craning to see over the crowds. 

He's not here yet, he just got on the metro, my husband said. 

I looked at my watch and calculated the amount of time we had left. By now it was 3:47 pm. 

We can't go to the museum today, I said, bitterly trying to hide my disappointment. It doesn't work. By the time he arrives, it will be 4 pm and we still have to take the ferry across and walk to the museum. By the time we get inside, we will have 45 minutes at most to see it. I didn't know if it was a small museum or not, but we were going to pay for entrance and I didn't want to be rushed after paying. We were balancing our last few dollars until payday, as, yet again, we'd had to shell out nearly 20% of that month's salary for residence permit expenses. 

Okay, we won't go to the museum, my husband agreed. 

Then I'm going back home, I said. 

He asked if I wanted to just walk around the pier area; I looked at him helplessly and said, What's the point? 

It was Burkina Faso all over again. I was 7 or 8 years old—my father had found an unbelievably low price for tickets to England and we were going to be able to go and see my Granny, favourite aunts and uncles and cousins, in the year we normally wouldn't have had a paid furlough. I was so excited. I could hardly wait. Until my father came home and announced that the price was just a one-way ticket and we couldn't go after all. We were a missionary family and the salary didn't stretch far enough to pay for 4 tickets at twice the price he'd originally thought it was. 

My little heart broke that day and never quite recovered. Now, more than 35 years later, it still remembered the bitter disappointment and somehow equated a trip to see family with an afternoon outing. It still hurt. I still felt just as alone today as I did back then. Lost and alone. 

But there was nothing I could do back then and there was nothing I could do now. I shrugged out of my backpack and handed it over to my husband, then headed for home, crossing streets without looking for cars, imagining hacking off my long wavy hair, wishing I could break every plate in our dinner set, trying to think of some way I could release the pain that would never let go of me. But there was no way to lance 40+ years of being left behind. 

So I went home. And cried.