I am never going to be a rich woman, nor will I ever be totally destitute.

I am sure of this because, throughout my adult life, the same scenario has been repeated. Whenever a bill arrives in my mailbox, I know I will soon receive a check or an opportunity to earn the money to pay it. Conversely, whenever I amass a healthy bank balance, something needs to be repaired or a bill must be paid. I no longer question this financial seesaw, but am confident things will balance out in the end. I save money when I can, spend it when I must, and leave the rest to the Father.

The biblical verse that gives me peace with this odd situation is Matthew 7:26: “Look at the birds in the sky; they do not sow or reap, they gather nothing into barns, yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are not you more important than they?”  

A lovely century-old song, “His Eye is on the Sparrow” rephrases this musically. Popularized by actress and singer Ethel Waters, the song’s refrain states with steadfast faith that “His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me.” Last month, during one of the area’s most intense nor’easters, God once again proved his strong yet humorous touch in my life, and, like the sparrow in that old song, I was assured he was truly watching over me.

Each winter, as I perform the necessary yet detestable chore of removing the latest snowfall, I write my own obituary press release in my head, updating it with both age and snow measurements. Last month’s edition was "Forty-(mumble)-year-old Central Jersey Woman Dies of Heart Failure and Winter Contempt Syndrome While Clutching Blue Plastic Shovel in Home Driveway;” the sub-headline read: "Dying words, 'I should’ve moved to Arizona' muttered while lying on 18 inches of wintery white mix.” 

After I arduously dug a path to reach my mailbox, I found a letter from my bank which warmed my heart: my small certificate of deposit would reach maturation the following week. 

For several years, I have carefully set aside every dollar I could to create a fund for my dream vacation: a trip to Hawaii with my friend Lisa. Though a pleased and proud native New Jerseyan, I crave more warmth and sunlight than God allots us and have long dreamed of seeing our 50th state. But reality periodically intervened: job changes, college tuitions, car repairs and other surprises made dipping into the fund necessary. I was always grateful that the financial buffer was there and that God kept his teeter-totter principle of finance engaged, but my Hawaii vacation was deferred time after time.

Taking the trip this autumn was my latest goal; as I plunged the shovel into the snow to reach driveway blacktop, I envisioned Lisa and I clad in capris, flowered t-shirts and flip flops, debarking from the airplane onto Hawaiian soil and luxuriating in sunshine. We would be presented with leis and paper-umbrella-adorned drinks while swaying to the sound of a ukulele strummed by Don Ho or his cohorts, I dreamed, and smiled as I continued to clear the precipitation.

Later that evening, my convalescing son and I were ensconced in the den watching the Winter Olympics while munching chips, most likely consuming the same amount of calories being expended by the skiers we saw on television. Jeremy’s torn ACL had been fixed and he was recuperating quickly. As part of his physical therapy, his leg was strapped into a whirring electronic machine that slowly bent then straightened the knee to increase its flexibility; the motion was reminiscent of a late-night infomercial for training geriatric Radio City Rockettes.

Suddenly we heard an all-too-familiar sound from the basement: the metal-on-metal screech signifying the intestines of my home’s 30-year-old furnace had come loose once again. My usual coping mechanism for unexpected and unwanted home repairs is musically based; I sing the “Homeowner-in-Denial” Song, putting my fingers in my ears and chanting “la la la la” until the annoying situation goes away.

Tonight’s cacophony was louder than usual, so I flicked off the furnace’s emergency switch and looked for the phone number of the local power utility.  Since I had purchased their “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” service contract, I knew this visit would be covered, but I dreaded the inevitable cost to replace the ancient electronic beast downstairs.

Beginning to feel a slight chill in the air, I dialed the utility’s after-hours automated repair line. My fingers danced over the phone keypad as I was assured that my call, indeed, was important to the little electronic woman who was pleased to serve me. After enduring a few minutes of the frenetic on-hold music, seemingly performed on a tiny violin by a manic hamster imbibing highly-caffeinated Red Bull power drinks, I heard truly frightening news: the first available technician would arrive between 8 a.m. and noon the next day. This automated female was snug and warm inside her computer system, and Jeremy and I were in danger of becoming human popsicles! 

I yelled to my recuperating son, “Run, or at least hobble quickly! Get into bed and conserve your body heat!” We retreated to our respective rooms, burrowed into the flannel sheets, and breathed solely through narrow straws emerging from under the covers. “No problem,” I thought. “Soon I will be snorkeling for real in the Pacific Ocean off the beautiful Hawaiian coastline. This is just dry-land practice.”

I awakened in the now-55-degree house and prepared coffee and a rag-towel walkway on the carpet for the pleasant young technician who arrived at 8:30 a.m. Stamping the snow from his feet, he descended the basement steps to encounter his nemesis. His first words upon seeing the furnace (which was most likely older than he) – “Oh, wow, look at that!” – were akin to the reaction a group of elementary school kids has during their class trip to the dinosaur wing of the museum.

As the technician performed his micro-surgery on the unit, I cradled a hot mug of coffee and prayed that his skills were enough to rouse the furnace from its deathbed. Then I heard the tentative call from the technician, “Um, ma’am?”, and was immediately alarmed for two reasons: First, my days being summoned as “Um, miss?” had probably drawn to a close, and second, I sensed this situation would not have a happy resolution since I heard dollar signs in his voice.

The mechanic explained that he could nurse the furnace back to life that day, but its future was uncertain and it would be lucky to survive the rest of the winter.  With a sinking heart (and sinking bank balance), I sighed and asked him the cost of a replacement furnace. I knew the figure before he answered, even before the technician at headquarters he consulted finished clicking his abacus beads. I knew because of God’s track record with me, his wry timing, his policy of teeter-totter finances, and most of all, his sense of humor when it comes to my life. The price the technician quoted me was $100 less than my soon-to-mature CD. 

Though the bank CD had matured, my inner child had not. At this point, she was sprawled on the floor, banging her fists and kicking her feet and crying, “I want to go to Hawaii before I get too old to hike and swim and drink things with tiny paper umbrellas in them!!!” Should I indulge her and spend the whole nest egg on two weeks of fun and sun, or ensure the safety and comfort of my family for years to come?

I knew the answer. The warmth of God’s love for me outshone that of any furnace, even that of the Hawaiian sun. He had once again kept his eye on this troublesome sparrow; I was grateful, and would do the responsible thing. 

It looks like my trip to Hawaii will have to wait a bit longer.  Maybe to console myself, I could use the remaining $100 to buy a Don Ho CD, put a paper umbrella in a mug of hot cocoa, and sit in a lounge chair… enjoying the warmth of the new furnace.