That Fateful Day

I was working at St. Joseph’s House Rural Apostolate, Madonna House’s outreach to the surrounding area. On that fateful July day I was asked to go to the local lumberyard to exchange some bags filled with rags for some wood shavings which we needed for the floor of the chicken coop.

That in itself was a struggle with poverty, albeit a minor one. I had not grown up bargaining. I was used to having money, my money, and buying something, pure and simple.

Begging

But in Madonna House, whereas we do purchase some things with donated money when necessary, whenever possible we ask or “beg” for what we need directly. This is our way of depending directly on God for our needs. And begging helps to keep us humble.

In this case we were not begging. We were offering something in exchange for what we were asking for. But my tender feelings interpreted and inflated it to “begging.” But this was only a minor prelude to the struggle that was to come.

As I was driving to the lumberyard, I became hot. I was then faced with another struggle.
The truck I was driving was equipped with air conditioning that worked—not always the case with Madonna House cars—but we try to avoid using it because it burns a lot of gas and is therefore against, yes, poverty. So I didn’t turn on the air conditioning.

Between the heat and the humidity, I felt like I was rolled up in a wet wool blanket and lying next to a blazing hot woodstove. And I was thirsty.

Here I should mention that in my life before Madonna House, one of the things I enjoyed was a tall glass of Coke, especially on a hot summer day.

As I drove into the unpaved parking lot of the lumber yard, the dust rose high into the hot air. Then as I stepped into the office building to speak with someone about making the exchange, I saw people sitting at their desks, clutching their soft drinks of choice, and rubbing the cold, glistening cans on their foreheads and necks.

My pasty tongue was sticking to the roof of my mouth. I felt thirstier than ever.

How wonderful a can of Coke would be! It would taste so cold and sweet, and on this dragging summer afternoon, the caffeine would perk me up.

The manager, who was the only one who could authorize the exchange, was not in, so I would have to come back later.

As I was leaving, feeling more than a little sullen about having to come back, my throat was parched. Oh, for a cold can of Coke!

I had a bit of money with me, but in order to buy a Coke, I would have to somehow get in touch with my director of training to ask permission. Sure, I could spend an hour trying to track him down, but this would be an obvious waste of time on a busy afternoon. And my thirst was not going to wait that long.

Now as I drove back to St. Joseph’s House, the legalist in my brain kicked in. I tried to think of a technicality that would enable me to buy a Coke without asking for permission.

The great decision time was getting near. The next left would take me straight to St. Joseph’s House. Or if I kept going straight, I would pass right by the convenience store.
Surely it would only be a venial sin for me to buy a can of pop. God wouldn’t mind so much, would he?

Oh yes, God. Hmmmm. I hadn’t thought much about him during that afternoon. Now I did. I pictured myself before the glorious throne of God asking him for permission to buy a can of Coke.

It Wouldn’t Work

But no. That wouldn’t work. The Holy Spirit seems to prefer working through the ordinary channels of grace, in this case, my director of training, whom I suspected would not be sympathetic to my request. The staff get by with water on hot days. Why couldn’t I?
I continued arguing with myself. Having a can of Coke was just such a little thing, I thought. It’s not like I was going to rob a bank, now was it?

Yet…

Suddenly all my arguments were gently blown away. Sure, buying a Coke might only be a venial sin, and yet… That quiet “yet” had a hold on me, for it was a question of fidelity. It was the Lord Jesus who was humbly asking for my fidelity. Did he ever hold back anything from me?

And yet here I was holding back from him. For he was the one that this was really all about.

Besides, if having a can of Coke was really such a little thing, why was I making such a big deal out of it? Maybe it really wasn’t such a little thing after all.

Somewhat grudgingly—I’m a sore loser—I pushed downwards on the turn signal indicator and turned left. I had had enough of spiritual wrestling.

I trudged into St. Joseph’s House and drank a tall glass of cold water.