At the end of this month, I lose my job.
There. That's the sentence.
I have known it was coming for a while. The American humanitarian and health assistance that has sustained so much of the work I have been part of is wrapping up, and so, apparently, is this particular chapter of my career.
I would love to tell you that I have responded like a deeply surrendered Christian woman. Prayerful. Serene. Hands open. “Jehovah Jireh.”
Lol.
Instead, my brain has been doing spreadsheets.
What about school? What about the kids? What about the projects we have invested in as a family? What if those don't work? What if I don't find another stable job? What if the ministry doesn't become financially sustainable? What if this book I keep talking about never really becomes anything?
Underneath all those very sensible adult questions is a simpler one: Will we be okay?
And, if I am really honest, another one: Will I be okay?
Because my job has not just been a job. It has been evidence. Evidence that I am safe, employable, respectable. Evidence that even while I wander into these strange callings involving mental health, ministry, writing and helping women become whole, there is still something solid holding the whole operation together. A salary. A contract. A proper job. Something my nervous system can understand.
Then this week I was reading John 4, the woman at the well, and Jesus says, “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again.”
I have read that passage many times, but this time I heard something different: Stee, you keep asking things to be water.
Ouch.
Let me feel secure because I have a stable job. Let me feel worthy because my children are in a good private school. Let me feel significant because I publish a book. Let me know I am actually called because the ministry succeeds. Let me know the future is safe because our family projects work out.
None of these things are bad. I am not about to withdraw my children from school, abandon financial planning and announce that budgets are idolatry. Please. I am African. We will budget. 😂
The problem is not the thing. It is what I quietly ask the thing to give me.
Security. Worth. Significance. Safety.
That is a lot of work for a job description.
That reflection took me to Jeremiah 2:13, where God says His people have forsaken “the spring of living water” and dug for themselves “broken cisterns that cannot hold water.”
I realised that although I had heard the phrase broken cisterns many times, I had never really thought about what a cistern was. So obviously, I Googled it.
A cistern is a man-made structure for collecting and storing water, often hidden underground. Sometimes all you see above ground is a lid, while underneath sits this large concrete chamber holding the water you have gathered.
And I thought...oh.
That is exactly what I do.
Somewhere underneath the visible architecture of my life, I build hidden storage systems for the things I thirst for. Enough money to feel safe. Enough career stability to relax. Enough achievement to feel significant. Enough success in my children to reassure me that I am a good mother. Enough fruit in ministry to prove that God really called me.
And the difficult thing is that cisterns can work.
The salary really did make me feel secure. Achievement really can make me feel significant. Savings can calm my anxiety. A good school can reassure me about my children.
There is water there.
The problem is that Jesus says we will thirst again.
The contract ends. The project stalls. The school fees go up. The praise fades. The book doesn't do what I hoped it would do. And before I know it, I am looking around for another cistern.
Maybe the business.
Maybe the book.
Maybe Afriwellness.
Maybe the next job.
Quick. Find another cistern. 😂
And this is the part that has really stayed with me: cisterns require labour.
You build them. Maintain them. Monitor them. Make sure there is enough.
If success makes me significant, I have to keep succeeding. If my career makes me safe, I have to keep the career. If ministry success proves that God called me, every quiet season becomes a crisis. The very thing I built to give me rest starts demanding more work from me.
And then there is Jesus, offering living water.
The contrast is so simple I almost missed it.
A cistern is built.
Living water is received.
That word has been sitting with me because I am very good at building. I can work, plan, strategise, produce, make another plan and, if necessary, colour-code it. 😂
Receiving is harder.
Receiving means I cannot manufacture certainty. I cannot store up enough security that I will never need God again. I cannot demand that He give me today's bread plus the business plan for the bakery for the next ten years.
I have to come back and drink.
Maybe that is the invitation of this season. Not to stop caring about school fees, our projects, the book or ministry. Not to stop planning wisely. But to let those things become things again.
Let the job be a job. Let school be school. Let the book be a book. Let ministry be service. Let money be provision.
And stop asking good things to do God's job.
The job is still ending. I still don't know exactly what comes next. I still worry about my children and our finances, and I still have moments when I wonder whether I am remotely good enough for the ministry I find myself in.
Comments
Post a Comment