Bagfuls of Prayers

Posted on by under God, Prayer, Scripture

In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans. (Romans 8:26 NIV).

From my 2013 Journal. As I pray a bullet list of requests for God to grant, He hands me a fistful of bags, heavy as gold but light as fairy dust, in which to carry the requests. First, I hand one to Alan for his trip. He accepts it and thanks me for it.

Next, I hand a bag to Betty. She shows me the needy children she cares for. I don’t have to drum up compassion. I have to walk the path God put me on and follow His leading in humble obedience. He will show me who I am to care for, and Betty will care for the ones in her care.

After that, I give one to Cherie. She drops it in her pocket, but I urge her to carry it next to her heart where the holes are.

Deidre comes next, but she wrinkles her nose, holds it at arms’ length and drops it. God instructs me to empty the contents over her head. Pretty sparkles of light and flower petals rain down.

I hand one to Edith, who cries with gratitude and eats it for strength, absorbing the nutrition for her mind, soul, and body.

Fran asks for one, too, but she’s too weak to hold the container. I empty the contents onto her reclining body and gently massage it into her skin—a healing balm. The prayer covers her like a mud bath to remove all the impurities and draw out the shame and inadequacies and fears. Next, she must choose to dip into the Salt Sea. My prayers cannot force her to do it. But in the spirit of adventure, I know she will leap in and be cleansed. Just don’t wait too long, dear one, or the mud will dry, and you’ll feel itchy and ugly. Go wash and be clean!

Gina begs for a double-triple portion—afraid that only one bag won’t be enough. I laugh and assure her that God’s power is immeasurable and His grace sufficient. Like Peter, she begs to be washed all over. But I’m instructed to squeeze only one drop from her bag onto her index finger. I don’t understand why, but I obey. She’s curious too. What to do with it? Jesus tells her to rub the ointment into her eyes so she can see clearly!

These bags of prayers (all alike I thought) from my lips change into different forms and substances, according to the needs of the receiver. How amazing is that!

Who’s next? I have so many bags left. I want to distribute them all, but they seem to be multiplying like the loaves and the fishes. I hurry over to offer one to Helen. She thanks me, smiles, and says good for me for handing them out and then carefully places it on her shelf, next to her idols. Sigh. Maybe her idols will topple over in the presence of the Holy One like the Philistine god Dagon.

One for Ira, who gladly accepts it and carries it around with him wherever he travels. He’s grateful for it and recognizes its power—ready for use at a moment’s notice.

Next I offer one to Janine. She thanks me, declares it smells good, and tosses it into the back of her car. I decide that’s not good enough, so I secretly toss a bagful, like fairy dust, over top of her house. Curiously, the particles dry up and dissipate before they touch her roof. I try a second time, and it happens again. What gives? There seems to be an impenetrable shield over her house that deflects my prayers. And now I know why. Instead of a believer’s bag, I need to hand her the red one—the one that contains the blood of Jesus. Sprinkle that one . . . no . . . use a hose! Cover, saturate, flood that home! It’ll force her to exit and look up. I happily spray her with it as well. She laughs. She tastes it on her lips. She wants more. She wants to drink it, dance in it, twirl like a little girl before she first got hurt. Jesus says, “Just hold the hose, Karen, just hold the hose.” Then she grabs it from me and sprays her neighbors who have come out to see what the commotion is all about. More laughter.

I box up two bags with extra padding and send them off to China. Though I don’t know their addresses, God safely delivers them to the doors of Kang-Chun and Liang-Lee, two persecuted pastors. There’s healing ointment in the one, I see, along with some bandages. I can’t tell what’s in the other box. The pastor isn’t home. Oh, there’s bread and wine and cheese and rice (of course!) for the starving wife and children. Like the widow’s oil, it keeps replenishing itself. Splendid!

I set down the rest of the bags. M through Z will have to wait for another day.

And now, Lord, I need one for myself. It’s in pill form, easy to swallow. I don’t need to know what’s in it. God’s work/word is unseen as it nourishes my body, gives life to my brain, feeds my arms and my legs, my liver and my heart. Nothing gets wasted or eliminated. “Drink,” He instructs me. “Drink deeply of Me, of My presence, My Spirit, My love. Let it cleanse your every pore. Let it wash through you and make you clean . . . strength for today and always. Breathe deeply. I’ve given you the breath of life itself. It’s My breath. I breathed into you to make you a living soul. Your very being is a testament to My power and creativity.”

Photo by monicore on Pexels.com

Sabbath Rest

Posted on by under Choices, God, Scripture

From my 2016 Journal. Every Sunday, my missionary parents practiced Sabbath rules according to their own definition. We did not enter a restaurant or store, travel, cook, play table games, or indulge in handwork on that day. I began to question this logic when I discovered that Jewish Sabbath occurred from sundown to sundown Friday to Saturday, and never mind that we didn’t keep the rest of the Levitical laws.

Mosaic Law gave general rules for Sabbath (Shabbat) observance: no lighting fires in your house or cooking (Exodus 35:3) and limited traveling (Joshua 3:4-5). The ancient Pharisees interpreted and refined Sabbath rules according to their own parameters, and today their legalism extends to not pushing elevator buttons, turning on electric lights, or using any device-driven means of transportation.*

Jewish law prohibits work on Shabbat, but while resting is implied, the word Shabbat literally means “to cease” or “to sit.” God didn’t need rest after creating for six days. He simply ceased.

Reform Judaism says, “One should avoid one’s normal occupation or profession on Shabbat whenever possible and engage only in those types of activities that enhance the joy, rest, and holiness of the day.”

With this in mind, if I were trying to “keep the Sabbath” I would avoid housework, computer work, and the business end of my ministry. It would not preclude ministry itself according to Jesus’ example. He preached and healed all week long. You’d think He’d refrain on the seventh day and take this day off, but apparently His work wasn’t classified as labor.

I may not be Jewish, and yes, Jesus is my Sabbath rest, but I do need to “cease.” I need the change of pace, the chance to recoup, refresh, and recharge my body, mind, and soul.

So . . . once a week, I often turn off my computer, refrain from cleaning house, and occupy myself with things I enjoy doing—guilt-free, such as reading, doing a puzzle, or golfing with my husband (after church of course!)

What does your Shabbat look like?

*How far am I allowed to walk on Shabbat? – Shabbat (chabad.org)

*Laws of Shabbat for Beginners (aish.com)

Prejudgment

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions

From my 2013 Journal.

I stood in line at the Wal-Mart return counter behind a beautiful, young black lady linked arm-in-arm with a white man. From my view of their backs, it appeared to be an unlikely pairing. His head tilted a little to the left as if in affection. In my right periphery, another strange couple appeared—a white man with a very obese woman. Though there were two employees behind the counter, we all lined up single file so we could approach whichever clerk became available next.

I tsked under my breath when the couple to my right inched their way forward and nudged into line beside me. Though inwardly indignant, I remained outwardly gracious. If they wanted to be rude and ignore protocol, that was their problem.

The couple in front of me advanced to the counter, and I stepped forward to take their spot. At that moment, the couple on the right pushed past me to get in line directly behind the first couple. Astonished at their brazenness, I turned to the lady behind me to observe her reaction and mirrored her surprise. I shrugged and rolled my eyes as if to say, “Some people! Whatever!”

When the first couple finished their transaction, both couples turned and exited the room together. That’s when realization dawned. These were two special-needs people with their caretakers. The second couple was simply trying to stay close to their group. I felt duly ashamed of myself for my prejudgment. God forgive me!

Heavenly Worship

Posted on by under God

(1950s) Dad building our church out of mud brick and a tin roof. What remains in 2014 after storm damage.

From my 2013 Journal.

My first memories of church included sitting for hours on a backless mud bench, singing mostly American hymns translated into Hausa, accompanied by my missionary mother playing the accordion. Dad’s preaching would lull me to sleep if Mom didn’t occupy me with crackers. Women sat on one side of the church, men on the other, and nearly-naked children squished shoulder to shoulder on the floor or front pews. In later years, local pastors and women playing indigenous musical instruments led the joyful service.

This week, when one of my African-American neighbors died, his dear wife invited three of us white folks over to meet some of her friends who had arrived to provide comfort. They all circled up, holding hands, singing and praying—loud, long, repetitive, simultaneously. We three stood quietly apart, singing softly, joining in with our hearts. Later, at the funeral, the preacher’s sermon included thunderous shouting, huffing with each sentence, accompanied by organ crescendos and a robed choir.

I thought back to an Easter service at the Eastern Orthodox Church where I visited with a Jordanian friend. Worship included quiet a capella music and chanting, solemn contemplative rituals, and a brief homily. Beautiful icons, candles and incense completed the sensory experience.

At my contemporary interdenominational church, the congregational singing predictably goes from loud hand-clapping, hand-raising, drum-beating musical numbers with guitars and electronic keyboard accompaniment led by a group of performers followed by one quiet song before the conversational-style, 30-minute sermon.

Worship cultures . . . each with their own traditions, expectations, idiosyncrasies. There’s no right or wrong way—unless the heart and mind aren’t engaged.

And my preference? I’m somewhere in the middle—neither monkishly contemplative nor exuberantly outward in expression. Quiet suits me best as an introvert. And call me a heretic, but give me an intimate dialogue or deep conversation any day over a sermon lecture. Yet I still choose to attend churches that might not suit my personal preferences. I need the variety of the body.

What will heaven’s worship be like? In the book of Revelation, John records moments of loud and times of silence. Somehow all nations, tribes, and tongues will be unified in their worship and will enjoy Him together. I can’t wait!

Be Prepared!

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions, God

From my 2014 Journal. For our tour in Israel, our leader, Charlie Dyer, supplied each of us with headphone devices so he could speak to us in crowded places. Each time we arrived at a site, we’d leave our personal belongings on the bus and carry only minimal necessities—camera, notebook and pen, and of course the headphones. Because of their weight, I opted to leave behind the provided spare batteries.

When we arrived in Jerusalem, the climax of our journey, the bus driver dropped us off on the top of the Mount of Olives. It was crucial to have our listening devices with us if we didn’t want to lose our way among the elbow-to-elbow crowds.

To my chagrin, my headphone batteries died just as we began to descend the mountain. I felt like one of the virgins in the wedding parable who had neglected to bring extra oil for her lamp. I learned a powerful and humbling experiential lesson!

But all turned out well. Someone in our group graciously let me borrow his extra batteries. The God of second chances!

How Can I Help You?

Posted on by under Scripture
What’s in your hand?

From my 2013 Journal.

When someone shares a problem with me, Miss Fix-it here tends to jump in with a solution. I’ve learned, however, it’s better to find out what the person wants or expects first, or I may get a rebuttal. Sometimes people don’t want a solution; they just want a listening ear.

The prophet Elisha asked the prophet’s widow, How can I help you? What do you have in your house?

God asked Moses, What do you have in your hand?

And Jesus asked the disciples, How much bread do you have?

We need to start with what we have and work from there. This is a principle I learned from the book When Helping Hurts by Corbett and Fikkert regarding poverty—start where a person is, using the resources they already have. Don’t just jump in to fix it. Let them be part of their own solution.

A 2021 Update. I’m reading The Power of Moments by Chip Heath. In section II, the author suggests a better question for a health professional to ask than “What’s the matter with you?” is “What matters to you?”

Sometimes the solution lies in asking the right question.

Need help?

Unbalanced

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions, Peace, Scripture

From my 2015 Journal.

I have been working at breakneck speed for too long. I neglected to rest after an Intensive Retreat with a client, and when I finally found half a day to myself, instead of relaxing, I trudged right up to bedtime. Drowning in over-commitment and pulled in too many directions, my stressed body and chaotic mind won’t shut down. I keep writing lists and the lists keep growing. My mind’s hard drive is full and, with no margin, I’m afraid it will crash. Meanwhile, any quality time with family and God suffers.

Currently, I’m planning two reunions, five trips, editing a magazine, teaching Sunday school, and preparing for two Bible study groups. And in the midst of these commitments, the floodgates for ministry opportunities opened wide. I crave peace and quiet, but drama reigns. I must cease striving and be still, put down my calendar and to-do list, set aside my goals (for now) and return to my priorities.

Visual: I see a picture of me as a teacher with her pupils (i.e. my to-do list). I delight in seeing a room full of wiggly children, but I have tolerated an unruly, chaotic classroom for too long. I place each child in her own cubicle—a cylindrical tube with a lid. I can keep the lids latched, but that takes away the fun away of watching little fingers waving in the air for attention. I instruct them to raise their hands for permission to stand and be recognized before speaking. The others must sit still and wait their turn. Okay . . . which child wants to go first?

Oh! Now I see Jesus behind me, directing their order. I don’t even have to worry about choosing.

Suddenly, a curtain descends in front of the group, the noise in my head stops, and I am alone with Jesus. Whew! I needed this. Refresh, refocus, return.

Be still before the Lord (Zechariah 2:13).

Unripe Fruit

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions, God, Inner Healing

From my 2013 Journal.

Recently, I broached a subject with a friend about an issue I’d noticed in her life. Her steely hard, plant-the-feet-in-the-ground, defensive posture, and irrational response all told me this subject was a trigger, and I needed to back off. She’s obviously not ready to receive my input, and so I have to let it go.

I know her heart desires truth, but she’s not ready to face her pain. And that’s okay. It’s God’s job to gently woo her to Himself and prepare her heart to be willing.

Don’t pick unripe fruit!

Keeping a Dream Alive

Posted on by under Emotions, God, Scripture

From my 2013 Journal.

Reading a biography or memoir may be interesting, entertaining, or even inspiring—but rarely life-changing, unless it intersects with my own—when I identify with the character in some way.

This morning I read Caleb, the spy’s story in Joshua 14. At age 40, he saw a piece of property he wanted in the land of Canaan, but because of the Israelites’ rebellion, he had to wander with them for 40 years in the desert. At age 85, he asked leader Joshua for that same territory, determined to rout the inhabitants with God’s help. Talk about keeping a dream alive!

Caleb’s faith sharply contrasts with the descendants of Joseph who complained they didn’t have enough land for their families. Joshua said to them, “Go clear the forest and you’ll have enough” (Joshua 17:17-18).

“But they have iron chariots!” they whined.

I can see Joshua rolling his eyes. “You’re numerous and powerful; you can do it.”

So I try to connect with this story. What dream have I held onto? Some dreams, I know, I must grieve and let go. But if God-directed, what excuses do I use not to fulfill it? Sometimes I need patience, endurance, and perseverance to wait.

What dream have you kept alive?

Food for Today

Posted on by under Emotions

From my 2013 Journal.

All art forms have potential to touch the soul. Some (like paintings, photography, and sculptures) are tangible and static, and you can linger over them. Performances (like music and theatre) are fluid—you can’t capture and freeze them except in your mind. Different art forms appeal to different senses (sculpture—eye/touch, music—ear, performance—eye/ear). The written word can be tactile (holding the book, typing a manuscript) or cerebral, creating images with words.

As a visual learner, auditory input is so transient for me. When the music stops, it doesn’t stay in my head like it does for my daughter Sharon. And, unlike daughters Cindy and Katie, visual art doesn’t linger either, once I look away. Stories, for me, last the longest, though I quickly forget the details.

Could it be that feeding the spirit is also transitory? I learn a lesson or a truth but quickly forget to apply it to the next lesson or circumstance. I have a hard time holding on to it. If I can’t remember the Scriptures I read yesterday, does this mean I may as well quit reading? Of course not. Just because I can’t remember what I ate for breakfast yesterday doesn’t mean I wasn’t nourished.

What’s the solution? Daily doses of food for the mind, soul, body, and spirit.