Just One

I scrub the last bottle. I wash the last little ring that fits between the bottle and the rubber nipple, that one little component purposed to prevent milk from leaking. I set it to dry on the rack next to Christopher’s various feeding paraphernalia. As I dry my hands on the last unused dishtowel, my eyes rest on the sun setting just behind the hills outside my kitchen window. It is a rare moment of indulgence, and I permit myself to become lost in the magnificence of the orange-red-blue sky. There is such splendor in watching the sun retreat from the day and give way to the lull of an evening sky.

I stand thinking about the yellowy sun dipping into the cool, wide-open ocean. How beautiful the sunset is from the shoreline. I think of all the sunsets I’ve ever known and how each is unique in its own right. The ones setting in big Texas skies over fields after a rainstorm. The sunsets in Boston from atop Craig’s downtown office that cast a golden glow over the entire city and made it easy to see why the land was ordained a city on a hill so long ago. I think of the sunsets in Uganda; the ones where shadows of giraffes and hippos and wildebeests touch that precise spot that the sun met the grasslands. I muse for a moment over how only a creative Creator could design each unique sunset. Just one unique sunset at a time.

Craig’s call to join him on the back patio halts my gaze. He sits sipping a glass of white wine near an empty chair and an untouched glass, both meant for me. Faithful husband sits with his laptop propped up on his knees, and he crunches away at the budget. From my vantage point near the sink, I see just one opened spreadsheet with itemized lines for life’s expenses: taxes, tithe, childcare… For my sake, he’s trying to make it work. In honor of the burden on my heart, he is doing his best to support yet another cause.

Last month, I came to him with information regarding a sex-tracking organization, in hopes that we could find a little room in the budget. “But this one is different,” I implored. “The other organization fights for women’s freedoms. This one teaches them vocational skills.”

Last week it was the San Diego humane society. “But, Craig, just look at these poor puppies!” And then there was, “Honey, can’t we give our friends just a little bit of financial support toward their training school tuition?”

I’m a bleeding heart. Craig is a patient man. I wish I had endless access to finances to help heal hurts and meet others’ needs. I don’t believe it’s the government’s job; I believe it’s mine. And it’s yours, too. But our finances our limited, mine and yours. The need overwhelms me sometimes.

I’m no saint. In fact, I’m pretty darn selfish at my core. I like my stuff— my car, my cute home, my teacher clothes, my cushy vacations— just as much as anyone. But more than knowing what I like, I know what I don’t like. I don’t like to see people hurt. I don’t like to see people in need. I’ve been there. Oh, how I’ve been there.

I know what it is to be that little girl who watches her daddy walk out the door, choose another woman, and never come home. I know what it feels like to fill that emptiness with other loves, loves that leave the heart emptier. I know the struggle of paying for my first car and college and a wedding with very little assistance. I know the heartbreak that lingers long after the loss of a dream, the kind that comes in the form of a miscarriage. I know the pain of wrestling with the Lord and choosing my rebellion instead of His holiness. Oh, how I know.

But I also know how good it feels when someone loves me, forgives me, carries me, shares with me in Jesus’ name. I know how healing it is when people share their cup with a stranger and bind up the broken hearted in Jesus’ name. Oh, how I’ve been there, too.

So, I sip my white wine and rock. I wait for Craig to look up with an answer. His eyes are so serious, so unlike him. There is little evidence in his demeanor of the light-hearted, goofy natured man I married. He is taking seriously the things I take serious. Thank you, Jesus, for this man.

He stops moving budget lines around, sips his glass, and looks out at the sunset. Then he looks to me.

“Just one.” There is disappointment in his voice, which is why I know I can trust his words.

I think for a moment. There is nothing else to say except,

“Okay. Just one. And thank you.”

And I pray.

Lord, thank you for this one little girl in Uganda who will be covered by our contribution. Thank you for Compassion International. Thank you for her mom or dad or aunt who signed this little girl up for the program. 

I pray you send just one person who will tell her she is beautiful and worthy and that her life matters. Just one person who will fight for her innocence, shield her from exploitation, and protect her from evil. Just one person who will invite her to sit and warm herself by the fireside of Truth. I pray for just one person who will unlock the chains of poverty by way of an education and vocational opportunity. 

Lord, thank you for the portions you’ve given me. Teach me what it means to be a generous giver. Should we earn more income in the future, show us what it means to increase our standard of giving before we increase our standard of living.

I look again at the sunset. Although the colors appear a little different from the back porch than they do from the front kitchen window, the sky’s incalculability humbles me all the same. It is the same big sky over Boston and Texas and Uganda, but on my porch, I see just this one view. And it is beautiful.

Lord, for tonight, let just one be enough.

(If you'd like to give to just one kiddo in need: Compassion)