The Desert Prayer

Today I come clean.
I bare an intimate part of my story.
A part that witnesses to the sweet faithfulness of God.

You can't tell me God doesn't answer prayer.

I know He does.

So here's my story...in less than 1,000 words.

Five years ago, my third child was born.

She joined two siblings, neither of which were old enough to begin Kindergarten.

Motherhood was kicking my butt.

My husband and I were adjusting to zone defense at home.

My expectations were too high.

My tools for everyday survival were dangerously low.

The chasm between those two felt like the Grand Canyon.

I was being swallowed up.

Expectation and reality lie at opposite ends of the continuum.

And to add insult to injury, 

I. was. exhausted.

Children do that.

So do transitions.

Our church was transitioning too.

We were without a senior pastor,

leaving my husband as the only pastor on staff.

At the point our third child was born, 

we were entering the second year void of senior pastoral leadership.

Ministry was kicking my butt.

People's expectations were unreasonable.

The tools passed on to us for navigating these uncertain waters were minimal.

The chasm between those two felt like watching an endless horizon while at sea.

This was a time of great darkness.

I was struggling emotionally.

My husband was struggling.

Some people were constantly challenging, complaining, criticizing, thinking the worst.

Nothing seemed good enough. Fast enough. Effective enough.

My husband was getting beat up.

My husband was held responsible but not given authority.

My faith brothers and sisters seemed more like rivals than teammates.

Fingers were pointed.

Trust was breached.

Hurt happened.

Defenses went up.

And I did what any sleep-deprived, ministry wife who had just delivered their third child would do.

I shrank into myself.

I walled my heart up.

I pulled away from relationships.

Relationships were, after all, the reason I was experiencing so much pain.

I couldn't take another blasted second of any of it.

Motherhood.

Ministry.

Unable to deal with the demands of three small children.

Watching my husband bleed before my eyes while I scrambled to find a tourniquet.

Each morning, when I'd wake up, I would cringe at having to face the day.

I would pray that I could just face it with my family and not have to see anyone else.

Especially at the church.

Because the church didn't feel safe.

The church was inflicting pain, not relieving it.

I was a mess.

And not the kind of mess that looks bad but can easily be cleaned up in 20 minutes.

That's my kitchen. Or my bathroom.

No, I was a MESS.

Loads of emotional baggage. Years of believing lies and seeing God for who He wasn't.

Shattered illusions of my life lay in shards at my feet.

I was a free-falling, fear-clutching, faith-questioning mess.

And then I made one of the best decisions of my life.

I went to counseling.

I still see that decision as grace.

I was in so much pain I couldn't see straight

but God allowed me to get to a brown leather couch

so I could spill it all.

Everything pent up, shut out, holed up, breathed in, spewed out.

And little step by little step, 

I began to walk through this desert time.

And at some point in the six months I sat on that couch, 

I began to whisper a prayer.

A prayer I didn't fully understand in the middle of my pain.

A hope beyond what I was able to accomplish.

A God-sized circle as Mark Batterson calls it.

Father, give me a love for your people again.

It was one of those prayers you love and hate simultaneously.

I knew it was right. I knew it was the way of health.

I could remember days of feeling the love for those who currently felt like enemies.

I wanted it again.

But to get there?

That would require the hard work of forgiveness.

and self study.

and God study.

It would require a re-assembling of my faith that still felt fragile and immensely private.

But I prayed it anyway.

Father, give me a love for your people again.

Counseling lasted six months.

My desert time lasted three and a half years.

182 weeks of relearning truth and reframing my life with that truth.

1,300 days of heart-wrenching realignment to the One who knows me best and loves me most.

30,660 hours to fall in love with the God I thought I knew but only saw in part.

Slowly I walked with Jesus out of that pit.

Each new statement of belief,

each lie rebuked, 

each day faced, 

each moment lived, 

each fear disarmed, 

each injury pardoned, 

each person affirmed,

formed a step that I placed all my weight upon

and lifted me closer to freedom. 

And two months ago, 

when our congregation was facing turmoil

and transition threatened to resurface, 

and some were revealing the uglier sides of their nature,

I realized something.

Two months ago, 

when my heart for God's church was marked by

protectiveness, 

gentleness, 

kindness, 

patience,

I recognized one, singular, glorious fact.

God had answered my prayer.

He had restored a love for His people.

My pain, my hurt, my injury

absorbed by Him

and in it's place...

new love, 

greater love.

My arms were opened for embrace

and not closed to brace for retaliation.

My eyes could see the potential for growth

and not the potential for ruin.

God had answered my prayer.

And I am overwhelmed.

And abundantly grateful.

All for His glory and for His purposes.

In Which I Get Some (Prayer) Things Off My Chest

I lead the weekly prayer time at our church.
And I believe in prayer.
And I believe prayer is important.
Imperative.
Powerful.
Transforming.

Most believers would probably not disagree with me.
At least in word.
But what am I to presume when, on average,
3.4 people show up 
to pray together at our weekly prayer time?
Is it not our behavior that proves our beliefs? values? priorities?
Isn't that the point James was making?

Words are really only hot air unless we give them feet.
So what does it say when christians recite the importance of prayer 
but do little to practice it?

Oh, I know what some might say...
I have heard it ad nauseum lately - 
"Just because I don't come to prayer time doesn't mean I don't pray."
"You can't judge a person's spiritual walk by whether they show up for prayer."

Both of those statements can be full of truth.
Both of those statements can also be 
defensive justifications of living life on our terms.

And my truth is this, 
I think these statements are more often, 
most often, 
simply deflective, defensive statements 
to hide our luke-warmness.

If the church really believed prayer was powerful and necessary;
if the church really believed prayer was important enough to practice both privately and corporately...
don't you think we would see evidence in the body of this passionate pursuit of God?

Prayer is fresh air.
When is the last time the majority of a congregation 
knew they were gasping for breath because they were God-deprived?

Prayer is connection.
How often do we look on prayer as an obligation to fulfill instead of a privilege to embrace?

I am not trying to point fingers.
I am not out to book anyone on a guilt trip.
(Both of which I could easily be accused of 
because we don't like to talk about these things.)

I have my own shortcomings on this issue.
I, too, can lack zeal and commitment in my own life.

But...

I sometimes wish I had the ability to call the church to prayer. 
Solid prayer.
Unending prayer.
Constant prayer.
With no agenda.
Only expectation.

I wish I could clear the calendars.
Stop the activity of doing.
And just be.
Together.
As a congregation.
A body.

I wish I could help others taste the sweetness of
"wasting time with God" 
as Henri Nouwen describes it.

I wish I could help another savor the moments of relationship
with the One who knows us best and loves us most.

I wish the church would wake up.
I wish sleepy headed christians would become passionate dreamers.
I wish church leaders would see prayer as the first step 
of decision-making 
not the last resort in a crisis.
I wish followers of the Way 
would show up to do the things we say are important.

Either that or forget about prayer.
I am quite tired of talk.
Saying something is true doesn't make it true.
Nor does writing something down as a value make it valuable.
Sometimes words are just hot air
and written values are just good kindling.

It's ok.
You can tell me I am oversimplifying.
You can tell me I have no idea what your quiet time looks like.
Both of those statements are probably true.

All I know is the church is lacking passion for the One who called her.
And I don't like it.
In fact, I hate it.

All I know is prayer is a conduit that keeps passion alive.
So I will keep at it.
And pray for awakening.

“To be a Christian without prayer is no more possible 

than to be alive without breathing.”

-Martin Luther King Jr.

Practical Theology

1 Thessalonians 5:17 says:

Pray without ceasing.

Henri Nouwen said:

The discipline of prayer is the intentional, concentrated, and regular effort to create space for God.

So, to weave those thoughts together, couldn't we say:
At all times we should create space for God.

Promise Fulfilled

Six weeks ago, He made a promise.
Late one night, 
while I was lying in bed, 
brain a-buzzing.
He promised to meet us at Cedarly.

I know, 
it sounds strange to say 
God committed to show up
in Wisconsin 
while my husband and I 
were away on retreat.

But it happened.

No audible voice was heard.
No booming thunder swelled.
Just the still quiet voice
that stirs the soul.
A hushed whisper of heart 
that ushers peace.

As the weeks progressed, 
my anticipation grew.
After all, we had a rendezvous 
with the Lord of the universe.

I went with specific questions.
Ones that plague me.
Ones that persist.
Ones that leave my heart unsettled.
And deep down, 
in my honest recesses,
I have to admit
I was hoping 
His promised presence
would mean 
answers to my questions.

Now, Cedarly is a memory.
Last week is done.
Retreat is over.
Routine life has replaced breathing room.
I am left to process and reflect.

What I can say is this...
God kept His promise.
He showed up.
He was present.
Almost tangible.
Nearly palpable.
Cedarly, once again, served as a thin place.

I spent 5 days 
in the company of the Everlasting.
I walked intimately 
with the One who is above all.
I basked in the camaraderie
of the Friend of sinners.
I enjoyed kinship 
with Abba Father.

It was a week
reminiscent of Adam and Eve,
with glimpses into the garden-life.
Surely we are all garden people.

God kept His promise.
And none of my questions got answered.
At least, not in the way I had intended or originally hoped.

The one answer I did receive

was always the same.

The same answer 

that has been given through all of time;

to ancients and moderns alike.

The answer that leads us always back to the Source.

My only answer came in four words, 

for every inquiry, 

for every probing, 

for every examination,

the same.

"Stay close to Me."

The quest for Him 

is the solution 

for every other quest.

And so, 

in finding Him at Cedarly, 

I found the only answer I need...

Him.

Ode to Cedarly

Here.

Lovely. Quiet. Hope-filled.

The cuckoo clock ticks time 

and I am here waiting.

The sun shines

on flowers' glory

and I wait.

Nothing as lovely as Him.

He's promised His presence.

Here.

So I wait.

In the stillness, I wait.

In the peace, I wait.

For Him.

As for me, I am poor and needy, but the Lord is thinking about me right now. 

You are my helper and my savior. Do not delay, O my God.

Psalm 40:17

When I Need Answers

I have a lot of questions.
And what I want are answers.

Lately, the One who knows me best and loves me most 
has something to say to me about my quest for solutions.

Better Than I Planned

photo credit: ibspro.net

Having naturally curious children who love to ask questions 
makes reading the Bible an adventure.
And I love that.

A Dishwasher and My Future Son-in-Law

Two weeks ago, my 8 year old daughter, Eliana, and I were bonding over unloading the dishwasher when she asked this whopper of a question...what kind of husband do you hope I have? 

When I Read About Joash

I finished the bible story, shut the book, and my heart was sad.
We read about King Joash tonight.
How he was 7 years old when he became king.
How his uncle helped him rule until Joash grew to be a man.
How Joash repaired the temple.
How he served and loved God.