Writers In The Storm

I went to the doctor today. Pain twinges too near the heart, an achy arm, another deep sigh.

Serious? Indigestion? Hypochondria?

My doctor is great. She entered my exam room wearing a mantle of care and concern. A soothing balm on its own, when walking in for advice on a sensitive matter.

She listened, asked questions, empathized. Of course, she did all the doctor stuff: EKG, BP, and when all that looked good, scheduled me for a stress test. She suspects hunching over the computer and a summertime ski injury as the twin culprits.

Her simple attention to this particular need brought me comfort. Okay, a clean EKG was a blessing, but having someone listen is becoming a rarity.

When my mother passed on, I had to fly home. I don’t remember the details as to how it happened, but I ended up with three of the wrong sets of tickets-through no fault of my own-and a maxed out credit card. I called the airline to get it straight. The woman would not let me finish a sentence without interrupting. I became less than gentle with her.

I finally got my story out, my credit card charges reversed, and the proper tickets on order. But it took considerably more effort than I wanted to spend. I needed someone to listen.

It’s easy to blame technology, but I bet this has always been true. Listening well is a gift. A gift I can give, one I hope to receive, and it is free.

That exemplifies the beauty of prayer. I can bow my heart before the Lord of the universe anywhere, anytime, in any situation, and He receives me with a ready love. Even if I cannot commit my plea to words, but offer only a silent release, I am unburdened. And if I ask it, all is forgiven.

I can listen, but only God can forgive. I am thankful His promises cannot be broken. May my attention to others mirror the mercy, love, and grace which He bestows upon me.   Including the lady from the airline.

I remember the first time that I really understood that God talked to Moses. Until I read the bible first-hand *, I thought the burning bush–so nicely depicted by Cecil B. deMille–was the extent of God’s conversation with Moses. I expected the subsequent messages to be more like an unspoken whisper, or a tug of conscience.

But God spoke with Moses. Directly. Routinely. As He would to a friend.

When the Hebrews wandered the desert for forty years, due to their sin, God led them in the daytime by a pillar of cloud and at night by a pillar of fire. That was God in His glorious image, as least what we could handle of it. When they settled for a while, Moses went to the Tent of Meeting to fellowship with God. They spoke about national matters, tribal matters, personal matters.

Prayer is like that. We get to commune with God. I don’t claim that he talks to me directly. Though I have heard him whisper. Twice quite clearly. But his unseen hand has guided my path on many occasion. I see the results in my rear-view mirror.

No pillars for me.

I’m not quick to ascribe something as God’s will for my life. I’ve seen it used to manipulate others, excuse sin, and rationalize doing exactly what someone was going to do anyway. I’ve got enough trouble without using God’s name in vain.

One of my wonderful nephew’s graduated from High School this spring. Way to go, Jimmy! We were asked by his parents to send along some words of theoretical wisdom for him as he heads off to college. I’ll share one of my cultured pearls here:

       Don’t be afraid to make a decision, but don’t be in a hurry either.

       Give the decision over to God.

       Get all the facts you can–notice I said facts, not opinions.

       Ask for His direction.

       Decide.

       Then don’t bother second guessing it.

God always shows up. He won’t reach us each the same way. For one it’s a whisper, for another it’s a shout. Rarely have I been clearly on God’s path while I walked it. That’s why I keep a keen eye on my rear-view mirror.

* Read the book. Don’t wait for the movie.

I gave my heart to Jesus during a West Texas thunderstorm. Twelve and terrified, I just knew the hundred-year-old lumber of my great-grandfather’s farmhouse provided little shelter from the imagined tornado that threatened to sweep me up at any moment. But over the clamor of rain pelting the tin roof, my heart heard the whispers of God.

Through the years, prayer has become more than crying to God in a storm and His quiet, gentle comfort. Sophisticated ACTS (adoration-confession-thanksgiving-supplication) formats and half-days in prayer with meditation and long Scripture memory have strewn my path to Him.Tears, anger, questions, and accusations have been hurled His way in some of my darker moments. But I still find that just as He heard the terrified cries of a twelve-year-old, He hears the whimpers, whines, and wails of a grown woman groping for a God she doesn’t understand–but with the assurance that He is God, even over the storm.

In different storms today, my heart listens for His still quiet voice. The storms may take the form of a disabled child, a difficult circumstance, or an unending pain, but He always hears my cry, holds me in my storm, and whispers to my heart.

Some days, I pray like Jay Leno, or Johnnie Carson. I monologue with God in a stream of self-serving requests. Perhaps I’ve watched too many Twilight Zone episodes, because I tend to detail His response options for Him. I don’t want to get stuck with a undesirable answer, due to my failure to foresee that particular contingency– Like a thirsty man in the desert wishing for water and gaining a salty sea. Technically, the request was met, but it didn’t satisfy.

I live for the good days, when I’m more like King Hezekiah, face down on the floor before Him. All the gray details of my life presented as an offering, because I love Him and trust Him to give me His best. He chooses from the palette colors vivid only for me. He knows the full scope of my canvas. He knows the shadows of my past, for He is the light that has seared my name in the Book of Life.

Art wrought and brought to life in the hands of the Master. It retains but a glimmer of the Creator’s magnificence. Yet, I am His work of art. And while I remain here, I am a work in progress.

If God already knows our needs, why pray?
Does prayer actually change things?
How do I stay focused when I pray?
My mind wanders to dirty dishes, piles of laundry and our hungry dog staring at me through the back door.

This week, we’ll talk about prayer. Add your comments, we’d love to hear what works for you!