The Secret of the Shovel
I sat in the loudest, most chaotic “library” I’ve ever been in, and leaned in close to talk with a teacher who is not actually a teacher. He thought it would be nice to try teaching, and the need is great, so he was placed in a classroom of 63 third graders. The teacher doesn’t always make it to class, but when he does, he doesn’t know what to do. He’s not even sure about all the subjects.
I sat in a coffee shop with a social worker in training and listened to her dream about making a difference. I took that hopeful social worker to-be to meet an experienced social worker, so we could learn together about the untapped resources and the potential buried within the nation. The experienced social worker was not lacking in knowledge or information; instead she had a full detailed report of all the social services that are supposed to be available, yet have dried out. Oh, and there’s no option for kids with no birth certificate. She doesn’t get it either.
I sat in an office with a community developer. He carries a heavy burden on his shoulder and in his eyes. He sat, sunken into the chair, and reached, grasped, begged for some beacon of hope - something that might work. He can’t figure out why no one wants to make sustainable change. His best strategy is trying to sprinkle in the hope of Christ over deeply entrenched ancestral belief, like adding a touch of salt to rancid meat, serving it and wondering why people aren’t getting healthy.
There is a drought in this nation. A literal, physical drought that is putting our farmers in a crisis, and a hope drought. Eyes, hearts and dreams are drying up as needs increase and resources decrease.
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That overwhelmed teacher, that exasperated social worker, and that desperate developer have been weighing on me. Those conversations at been gnawing at my own hope, chewing away at some of my own dreams for this nation and for my own family. A drought leaves no one untouched, and makes us feel powerless.
There was a drought in another nation a long time ago.
The Lord spoke to the exhausted infantry that was tired, dehydrated and battle-weary. They needed water for themselves and their livestock. They had been marching for days. As their strength waned, they leaned in hard to hear Hope’s refreshing, alleviating voice. “He said, ’This is what the Lord said: Make this valley full of ditches.” (2 Kings3:16)
Hope Himself told them to pick up a shovel and get to work.
Digging ditches doesn’t make water.
It makes a space to hold it when there’s excess.
There was not a drop, but they dug.
Every day here, we get to work and try to equip people to do their part - to use their gifts, to use their hands, to build the Kingdom in the practical, life-changing ways.
Cook a meal.
Read a book.
Hug a child.
Everyday, we also have to remind ourselves that we can spread a little light over someone’s shadows and shake a little salt over someone’s wounds, but we cannot make it rain. When the real resources you need are not yours to make, you either lay down and die, or you do something anyway. A shovel does not make rain, and neither does a plate of food, a hand to hold, or even a birth certificate. But the secret is not in any of those things, and the secret is not in the shovel.
We are not in charge of the rain, the salvation of the people, or of promises being fulfilled. They will be. They have been. They are.
The story of the ditch-digging army continues like this: “You will not see wind or rain, but this valley will be filled with water. You, your cattle, and your other animals will drink. The Lord considers that an easy thing to do…” (2 Kings 3:17-18a)
We have been entrusted to the land. Entrusted to partake in something that matters.
We have been invited to pick up our shovels and work right beside, behind and before our Maker. It’s not because he can’t do it on is own, but because He wants us beside Him. He wants us to work up a good enough sweat to drink deeply of Him.
The shovel might seem irrelevant. Just like my meetings with teachers, social workers and community developers. But we make space with those shovels. We blister our hands and strain our backs to make promise-holders, landing places for the water that truly saves. We lean in and lean over until there are deep places to catch the life-water so it can be absorbed; it can wash; it can make clean.
The ground gets hard in a drought. If the rain comes today, in a dried out heart or in a dried out land, would it create a mudslide of confusion with nowhere for the water to go, or would we have already gone before it and dug a ditch for it? Would our blisters and thirstiness be worth it while we watch the rain fill, refresh, restore and save?
We set tables. We share burdens. We dig space-makers, promise-holders. We dig for the end of the drought.
We don’t make the rain. We pick up the shovel.