The Unmuzzled Ox
Once in a while, my wife and I will look at each other and exclaim, as if for the first time, “We’ve got kids.” We’ve had kids, in the plural, for over a year now, and it’s still wondrous and alarming all in the same breath, like finding out you’ve stepped through an enchanted wardrobe. We had another encounter of that sort on Saturday night at the Sharehouse. Just down the road from where we live at Sinclair’s Eve, a number of friends and strangers gathered for a show benefiting a handful of inner-city Kingdom endeavors in Dundee, Scotland. Two hours and a broken string after we began, Katrina sat down to count the money. It is a task which I purposefully shy away from when I can. People who come to shows, either generous or not, are not nearly as apt to label my worth in dollars as I am. In this case, the money going to something altogether more pressing, more seemed to be at stake. I glanced at my wife’s face on occasion as she counted, and counted – and then counted some more. I tried not to think about it and went on talking to my friends. A few minutes later, she came to me and surreptitiously flashed the number to me on her phone calculator. I tell it to you now, because it does not belong to me, and I want to thank those who participated.
Kat and I looked at each other in silent amaze. Such a number meant that all the work from that point forth, all the fundraising, would go directly to those who needed it most. We were prepared to continue hammering away at the work before the work, if you take my meaning, but were flabbergasted, relieved, and grateful to find it accomplished in one swift stroke. Seeing as it was never our work to begin with, I say (with some trepidation) that I should not have been surprised, or at least could have guessed. The hearts of those present answered the call of compassion, given by the One who cups the sea in his hand.
Our resolve is renewed. I have a hammer, therefore I shall hammer.