August 15th, 2023
My mom and dad hosted their own fundraiser for our church.
If that didn’t impress you, here’s a little more information: They don’t go to our church. They live 185 miles away from our parish, but they wanted to help us raise funds for our children’s wing, so my dad purchased Krispy Kreme Doughnut certificates and my parents sold them for $13 and gave our church all the profit.
Then my mom rallied her high school classmates who typically support one organization a year financially. This year they chose our church.
I came home for drill that weekend, and my dad sat me down and gave me this envelope with the name of each person who gave, including the friends of my mom.
As I write, I pause and just sit in the beauty of it all.
My parents didn’t have to, but they wanted to help and they did.
I’m learning so many lessons as a church planter. The big gifts are a tremendous blessing. They really help put space between the balance in the bank and the bills ready to be paid.
There is also something fishy about my parent’s way…like two fish and five loaves fishy. There is something historic and inclusive about it.
With this fundraiser, Emmanuel joined the ranks of a church whose history has a nuance that I am learning to deeply appreciate. My people do this. We fry chicken, we wash cars, we bring our own hammers and nails and we feed thousands. We take what we have and build empires ten times the size of our own living quarters.
I am so proud to be from Goose Creek, SC. To be from Mt. Carmel Reformed Episcopal Church, where Mr. Lucias always had the dope Cadillac and his brother always brought candy for us to church. The place where Mr. Raymond and his sons would serve the best post Sunrise Easter Service breakfast, where Mrs. Rosalee would make you laugh, and Aunt Lilly would pack the fruit in those brown lunch bags as Christmas Gifts.
The place that Mr. Hinson really convinced me that I had a chance at being a recording artist. The place my grandfather baptized me.
What a people. What a gift. What resilience. What ingenuity. What joy.
I’m thankful for my parents.
I’m realizing they’ve always taught me about generosity, but today I’m reminded that giving isn’t measured by the zeros. It’s measured by the heart behind the giver.
It’s measured by the one who is willing to give their fish and loaf in order to combine it with the other person’s three loaves and then watch miracles happen.
Sounds like Jesus to me.
Praise God that the miracle of Emmanuel will always have my dad and mom’s fingerprint on it. Praise God we join the family tree of that small congregation above who didn’t let Hugo destroy their tattered building, but who put together something that only grace, gifting, and collaboration could create.
Praise God for the people who reach in their purse for that lint coinage at the bottom, who will count out a dollar, give it to you, and do it again as long as they have it.
I pray each time you give whatever God has given you, that you receive the gift of giving.
Amen.
