Provision

I needed to kill some time the other day.  So, I wandered into a consignment store.  I found a beautiful black suede jacket originally from a high-end boutique with the chi-chi store’s tags still hanging from the sleeve.  The consignment maven was asking less than $15.00.  Did I buy that baby?  Absolutely!  I slid out my debit card quicker than you can say “bargain.”

I began my love affair with consignment stores my last year in high school.  That year my father’s company, a small defense contractor, was swallowed up by a bigger company – picture Pac-Man.  My family had been through this dance before; so, we knew what was  coming.  My father was now an executive, for all intents and purposes, at a subjugated country and so had instantly become extraneous and expendable.  In short order, his position was sent to the guillotine – the second time in less than 5 years.  He was devastated as were the family finances, and our entire family dealt with the fallout.

That year that our world disintegrated (again)  I was a junior at an ginormous Arizona high school, and MdN was my second high school.  I think I should explain that I loathed,  abhorred, and despised high school.  I was a 30-year old in a 16-year old body – like that ever works. . . Anyway, my father quickly found another job – back East.  I was going to start a new high school as a senior about as soon as I was going to start shark cage diving.  So, I did what any rational 16-year old (Please read this with the amount of skepticism it deserves.) would do: I graduated early.

There was no money for college.  My parents were clear about that but were also clear that I was definitely going to college.  At the time I thought it was all me – all because of my accomplishments –  that I was awarded a full-ride by the Air Force to go out-of-state to the University of Virginia.  Also, at that time I had never laid eyes, much less a foot, on the Grounds of Mr. Jefferson’s University.  I just knew that my family was going East, and I didn’t want to be “alone” in the desert.  I fed ex’d my application into the University the day it was due and considered myself fortunate to get accepted.  Later –  much, much later –  I’d come to understand that luck had nothing to do with it.

If there was no money for college, there was even less for a college wardrobe.  Now, pay attention; this is where I learned about the subtle beauty of the consignment store.  I was leaving the desert climate for a place that had true seasons – HOORRAY! or NOOOO!  I guess it depends on your perspective, but what was an absolute was that this girl needed different clothes.  I needed long warm pants and jackets and sweaters and a coat, none of which is cheap.  Now when I imagine the despair my mother must’ve felt over this my heart aches, but then I had about as much sympathy as the couch on which I’m sitting.

I don’t know how my mom discovered the consignment store in downtown Mesa, but one Saturday in February found us there.  When we walked into the slightly shabby storefront, I am ashamed to say, I was a brat, a snobby brat who had worn nothing that wasn’t brand spanking, sparkly new – preferably with a designer label – since kindergarten.   Obnoxious, right?  But that’s who I was, and I stood there acting like it.  ( I want to slap my 16-year old self, too.)

So, there we were in the tiny, wood paneled consignment store lit by buzzing overhead  fluorescent lights.  The place smelled faintly of stale cigarette smoke, and I just wanted to go home.  While I was practicing the teenage passive-aggressive thing and resisted the only clothes my parents could afford, my mom wandered over to a rack of wool slacks.

“Those just came in,” the proprietress announced from behind her counter less than 6 feet away.  My mom nodded and murmured her acknowledgment as she moved to my size and began flipping through the hangers.  I saw her eyes grow wide, and she called me over.

“Rachael, come here,” her voice rose with excitement.

I’m sure I made a lovely (ugly) face and continued to stand right where I was.

She was not to be dissuaded; her eyes narrowed  “Get over here right now!”

I shuffled over, still behaving like I’d rather be stamping license plates, but when I got to her side, boy did that change!  She’d laid her hands on brand new, designer, with original tags still attached, lined wool pants in MY SIZE – not an easy thing to do as I was, of course, high-school-tiny at the time.  No hems had ever been sewn; so, no one had ever worn them.  There were probably 10 pairs of them.  Talk about serendipity! (I love that word!)

The lady behind the counter spoke up again.  “There are jackets and some sweaters, too, on that rack over by the wall.  They were samples from a trunk sale, I think.”  And then, “That stuff has been here a while.  I can mark it down by maybe 30%.”  I think my mom might have been ready to cry; at the time I wouldn’t have understood – self-centered, terrible teen that I was.  Now, I want to cry myself.

By the time we left, the only thing I still needed was a real winter coat.  On the way home my mother made an executive decision and stopped at Goodwill.  If a consignment store was initially a stretch for me, Goodwill would’ve just about snapped me in half.  But the consignment store finds had proven to be nothing short of awesome, thus, rendering me more amenable to Goodwill.  In other words, my mother didn’t have to use a gun to get me out of the car and through the door.  And do you know that within 5 minutes I had found a gorgeous European grey wool full-me-length (5’0″) coat with suede floral accents for $9.00?  Serendipity!

It would take me years to understand this, but what I had taken for luck, fortune, etc., was really Provision.  Notice please that “P” is capitalized; that was, indeed, intentional.  My college scholarship, my acceptance to UVA, the very clothes on my back were provided because I needed them, because my parents needed them.  Now, I’m not discounting that I worked hard to get into school or to get my scholarship, but I’m sure there may have been other people just as qualified.  I was awarded those things because they were the right things.

When I ruminate over the past decade – not something I like to do, mind you – I can cite many examples of His financial Provision.  When I was single and working as a school nurse before I was diagnosed with Chronic Migraine, there were times my paycheck was $30.00 or less because I had been too ill with the awful, freakishly debilitating headaches to work, but that $30.00  would stretch for two weeks.  Later, when I was teaching nursing but then, finally, couldn’t work at all because the headaches had become too severe and too unpredictable, He provided the VA.  When my soon-to-be-ex-husband cleaned out our joint checking account leaving less than 50¢ and me in a panic, He sent my amazingly gracious friends – I love those girls! – to help, even to help pay for the divorce, until I didn’t need their help anymore.  I can produce more examples, and I’m sure if I sat and really thought about it, I could list at least one example for each week of my adult life, but I wouldn’t do that to you.

Provision is ultimately about Love.  Thinking about my mother standing in the consignment store teary-eyed over wool slacks, I imagine that He was no less teary-eyed for her.  His heart was breaking for her need.  And why not?  Because as much as she loved me, He loved her infinitely more. 

He promises us in both Old and New Testaments that He will provide.  It’s a matter of how I interpret the world around me whether I see it or not: luck, fortune, or Love.

So, back to that black suede jacket.  I love the word “serendipity,” but I am awed by the Love that provided that coat.  Amen!