The Miracle

Every day there was less to eat in the cupboards. My insides felt shrunken and I wanted to lie down most of the time. Mumma would cry herself to sleep at night and ask in her dreams, “What have you done to us my husband?” 

The man to which our father owed a great deal of money came regularly to our door. He’d point his pudgy fingers at my brother and I.

“Those boys will be mine by the end of the month.”

Mumma had given him almost every possession but he wouldn’t be happy until he’d pillaged us of hope.

We heard the commotion before we knew what it was about. A prophet was in town. I imagined a man, eyes blazing fire, hair unkempt with flowing robes. But when we saw him in the crowd, he looked as normal as any other man. 

Suddenly my mother surged forward and knelt in the dust, calling to the prophet, bold and desperate. 

“Your servant my husband is dead,” her voice cracked with emotion. “And you know that he revered the Lord. But now his creditor is coming to take my two boys as his slaves.” 

The company of prophets murmured and swayed, some tore their garments and threw dust on their head. I flushed crimson, my heart pounding and my hands slick with sweat. 

The man of God replied to her, “How can I help you? Tell me, what do you have in your house?”

His voice was calm.

My mother was hysterical, as we had so little left.

“Your servant has nothing there at all, except a small jar of olive oil.”

“Go around and ask all your neighbours for empty jars, and as each is filled put it to one side. Don’t just ask for a few. Then go inside and shut the door behind you and your sons. Pour oil into all the jars, and as each is filled, put it to one side.” (NIV 2 Kings. 4:1-3)

And then he went on his way. The crowds dispersed and Mumma looked at us from where she sat with a tear-streaked face.

“Let us go my sons and do as he says.”

Shame accompanied me as I collected earthen vessels from my neighbours. Some looked at me with pity, some with suspicion and others barely paid me any attention at all as the transaction was made.

With the door shut, Mumma tipped out our small jar of oil, and it flowed golden as honey, in a stream, smooth and rich.

With the final jar was full, the flow of oil stopped. My brother and I looked at our mother. Tears of joy ran down our cheeks. We danced and we laughed and we sang praises to God.

We sold the oil to our neighbours and paid off our debts and there was money left over to live in comfort. I’ll always wonder if I could have found five or ten more jars. But now, when the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob calls for an earthen vessel, I’ll gladly supply it. For all provision comes from His hands and all glory and honour is His.