Parable of the Pilot Light

The other day the pilot light in the water heater went out.  I carefully followed the directions on the side of the water heater.  It sparked, briefly flared, and went out.  I tried again, and again it poofed out as soon as I released the button.  I tried a third time, even setting a timer to make sure I held it for at least a minute, as recommended.  Yet again, the little blue flame winked out of existence.  For the next fifteen minutes I attempted to light the pilot with increasing desperation while Googling frantically for a fix and shushing the kids impatiently waiting for much-needed showers.  Was it the thermocoupler? A short in the wiring?  A clog in the valve that controlled the gas intake?  And what the hell was a thermocoupler anyway? I turned off the gas, I turned it back on.  I fiddled with the thermocoupler wire and checked the fittings for leaks.  I banged on the thrice-cursed chunk of metal. Nothing worked.  Finally I slumped against the wall, certain that this was beyond my help, worried about the undoubtedly exorbitant cost of fixing the appliance and the time it would take.

One last time, I promised myself, and then I'd have to accept there was nothing else I could do.  This time, before I touched any buttons or ignition, I prayed.  It started out a little desperate, but the further I went the prayer unexpectedly transitioned from panic to gratitude.  I was grateful for the comfortable life I enjoyed, for the expectation and ease and convenience of warm water on demand.  I thanked God for the universe of information just a few fingertaps away. I expressed my concern about the water heater, that it would be expensive and cause several days of inconvenience for us while we waited for a repairman—but that we could manage both the expense and the lack of warm water.  I asked for it to be fixed, but also acknowledged that we would be just fine without it.  As I said “Amen,” I pushed the ignition again, and held it down. The little blue flame sputtered to life. I didn’t bother to count.  I released the button.

It stayed lit.

Now, I know that there are a thousand practical explanations.  Maybe the gas line had a hiccup of air that just took some time to clear.  Maybe I wasn’t holding the button down far enough for long enough, or some other user error. Maybe it was just a coincidence. It didn’t have to be a miracle.  And if it was a miracle, then why did God orchestrate such a small one when I’ve needed so many larger ones?  Why have I spent years asking him to take certain burdens from me only to be met with silence, when this minor, insignificant thing was asked and granted as soon as I thought to utter the request?

I don’t know.  But I wonder how many other miracles I’ve missed because I didn’t bother to ask for fear my need or want was petty compared to the suffering in the world.  And I wonder how many miracles I overlooked because I was hoping for fireworks and fanfare, and never noticed the little, steady light I received instead. After all, the great and flashy miracles of the Old Testament weren’t enough to sustain the faith of the Children of Israel. They were fed and guided and healed by the hand of God and still forgot Him as soon as they encountered another inconvenience.  That’s one of the patterns found in the scriptures—miracles come through faith, but faith doesn’t come through miracles.

I’ll probably forget this little anecdote sooner than I’d like to admit, but right now I appreciate the reminder that God hears me, even in the small things, and even when He doesn’t answer right away or in the way that I told Him to.  That is enough for now.