Our church has been mobile for 11 years. We never meant to be a mobile church. It just happened out of necessity. We never meant to stay mobile so long either, we just couldn’t find anywhere else to go. We live in a continuously thriving city. It is wonderful in many ways, but it also means that the growth has spread almost like wildfire in every direction. For us, that means buildings and land have been scarce and expensive. We have gone at our search from every angle. We’ve sat in offices with businessmen that thought they might be able to help, we’ve enlisted successful real estate people, and we’ve sent letters to every church around us multiple times. Then one afternoon last May, we were sitting at my youngest daughter’s softball game. Being where we needed to be. Doing what parents should do. Chris was talking to the head of school about our dilemma and the man two rows in front of us turned around and said, “I’m a land developer.” Everything after that day has been like a red carpet rolled out before us.
Funny, not so funny, the day that I spent diving into the possibility of another tumor or cancer, we received the contract for Destiny’s piece of land. Then the day we signed it, my husband ended up in the emergency room with a strange headache that his doctor was concerned about. I wouldn’t let him leave the house until he signed the contract. This feels important. It feels like legacy. It feels like a battle I don’t want to leave for another generation. We’ve laid our lives down for this, and we will see it through to the grave if needed.
If we aren’t living for something bigger than ourselves, are we really even living? If we aren’t living to give of ourselves, are we only just hoarding what moths and rust will one day destroy? Shouldn’t we be empty of ourselves when we reach heaven? Shouldn’t we be able to say, “I spent it all?” And hear me, I don’t take those words lightly. I know they are deep. I know they are costly. I know the pain of them. I know the loss of them. But I’ve also known the great filling that replaces the emptiness that’s left from being spent. I’ve known the pure, stripped-down delight in a generous God that always repays what we spend. That, my friend, is worth living for, it’s worth dying for, it’s worth being spent for.
The way He repays is beyond all we could ever ask or think. The richest of ways He fills the one that comes to Him with empty hands isn’t with coin or clutter. He fills with treasure that is beyond compare, a treasure of the greatest value. He fills with Himself. He spends Himself on us, and His currency far outweighs ours. Who does that? Who but a good, good Father. Who but the One who still takes my breath away. The One who makes a way to the places I thought impossible to go. The One who takes me through the valley of weeping and into a place of springs. The only One who can take all I’ve lost, remove the emptiness from it, and leave me fuller than before.