the most potent, practical prayer for our children

God’s Word instructs us to pray about everything. With prayer and thanksgiving we are to present our requests to God; accordingly, his promise to us in return is his peace—a measure of settled, heavenly comfort moving in to replace (or at least temporarily cover over) the disruptions of our hearts (see Phil. 4:6-7).

My heart’s been disrupted lately. How about you? Anything weighing you down and pulling you to your knees in search of answers?

My prayers seem to run in cycles. Whatever is most pressing (finances, church life, vocational strains, marriage, children, etc.) usually takes front and center when I entreat the Father with my thoughts. I wish I could say that I have this prayer thing figured out. I don’t. I wish my prayer life was more consistent. It isn’t. I wish I heard God’s voice more fully in my moments of concentrated conversation. I don’t. Instead, my prayer life is a strange mixture of half-hearted discipline, charged emotion, good intentions, and words that, more often than not, fill up a space rather than release the power of the Almighty.

Still and yet, I pray. Partly because of a long obedience to the practice, but mostly because there have been many times when my seemingly feeble attempts at communicating with God have yielded powerful, peace-filled results. Prayer works. All I have to do is to look back at the forty-seven plus years of my life to realize that where I am today … who I am today is the sum-total result of God’s willingness to move on my behalf because of the prayers of the saints.

Not that God couldn’t have brought me to this point of being the woman I am all on his own. God IS and does shape his children according to his great purposes. But I do believe he gives us a voice, his heavenly consideration when we bring our heartfelt petitions before his throne. Prayer is how we exercise our free will alongside God’s will. I don’t understand it all; I don’t need to. I simply believe in this joint, holy cooperation between the Father and his children to accomplish his great purposes upon this earth. Which leads me (and I realize it’s taken me a while to get here) to today’s rumination—the most pressing, on the front-edge-of-my-heart prayer.

What is the most potent, practical petition I can offer to God on behalf of my eldest sons?

There’s something they need today, something more from God that I’ve yet to see unfold. Accordingly, what could I ask of the Father that might hasten the process along? After all, isn’t that what we’re doing with most of our prayers, asking God to move on behalf of our requests?

Prayers for God to love them? No. He’s already loved them to death – literally. Nothing I can say can change the measure of God’s love for my sons. After all, they were his children before they were mine. God sets the standard for perfect parenting, perfect loving. Asking him to love them more is, well, a bit redundant. So I move on from there.

Other practical prayers. Prayers for good health? Good mates? Good jobs? Good friends? Good decisions? A good day? Well, certainly I run through these on a regular basis, some of them receiving more attention, more words as it pertains to the most pressing need of their daily existence. But really, these fall short for me; these feel more empty than full, like I’ve missed the mark somehow in my parental prayers.

And so I pray about it, a long while this morning and the better part of last night’s slumbering. God, what is the most potent, practical petition I can offer to you this morning on behalf of my eldest sons?

God speaks to me through his Word.

This is how to pray, Elaine; this is what you must ask for them: That my will be done in their lives on this earth as it is done in heaven (see Matt. 6:9-13).

He wouldn’t tell us to pray along these lines unless there was a need to pray along these lines. Somewhere between heavenly perfection and earthly attempts at the same, there is a line that separates the two. What is perfectly lived beyond us is not always perfectly lived within us. But I believe there’s a measure of it made available to us – our God’s perfect will unfolding before us even now, even as we live in this sin-sick, sin-saturated fallen world. A strong measure of how-it-is-done in heaven even as it is imperfectly done on this earth.

And this, friends, is the most potent, practical, and, yes, perfect petition we can offer to the Father on behalf of one another, eldest sons included. That God’s will might be made manifest in the lives of those we love; that he might orchestrate, push, prompt, and put in the paths of our children those people, situations, and even stumbling blocks that will bring them in perfect proximity with the perfect plan of heaven. All those other prayers we pray for them? For health, mates, jobs, friends, good decisions, and good days? Well, I’ll never tell you not to pray them. I would, however, tell you that all the temporal gains on this earth matter little if they don’t match up with the eternal gain of forever.

When God’s heaven cracks open just enough so that a little bit of it falls upon earth in radiant manifestation and speechless splendor, then we know that our prayers have moved the heart of God. That’s what I want – radiant, God-ordained heavenly movement in the lives of my eldest sons. The rest of it—their health, mates, jobs, friends, good days? Well, I don’t imagine they’ll get through this life without some heartache as it pertains to all of the “rest of it.” But this I do imagine . . .

When heaven drops down into their hearts, all of the “rest of it” can be lived in perfect peace and with abundant hope.

This is my mother’s prayer. The most potent, practical, petition I will offer on behalf of my eldest sons today.

Father, thy will be done in their lives, on this earth, even as it is done in heaven. Amen.

As always, friends . . . 

Peace for the journey,

 

let the evening come . . .

“Jacob left Beersheba and set out for Haran. When he reached a certain place, he stopped for the night because the sun had set.” –Genesis 28:10-11

 

Certain places. We’ve reached a new one—a God-ordained assignment just an hour south of our last one. My number nineteen; pastorally speaking, our fifth appointment with the United Methodist Church.

Like Jacob on a night so long ago in Bethel, we’re stopping here for a season. The sun has set on our previous day’s traveling (our six months’ worth of running), and now we have the great privilege of rest, of living and breathing in this new place landscaped by open fields, few stoplights, fresh peaches, and neighbors who drop by with fresh vegetables . . . just because.

Certain places. We’re well-suited for this one. Sometimes a heart just knows when it’s home. And this morning as we worshiped alongside new friends in filled church pews, my soul was stirred at the deepest level. First Sundays rarely go as planned; there are always a few hiccups and a few whispers, but none of that mattered to me on this first Sunday of my number nineteen.

What mattered?

The peace of knowing that I am home. That I can rest my head upon this stone named Saint Luke and can find a stairway that stretches straight forward to the heart of God. Like Jacob, my soul proclaims, “Surely the Lord is in this place …” (Gen. 28:16).

It’s not that the Lord hasn’t been present in my preceding eighteen places; it’s simply a great soul-relief knowing that he resides here as well. That God has already graced this place with the present of his presence long before my arrival.

I’m grateful for the setting sun, for a tangible sign that a previous day’s laboring is finished. It’s a good thing to shut my eyes and pull down the shades on the struggles of recent days, knowing that even as I rest, God is at work . . . ascending and descending on his ladder of mercy, making certain that I don’t miss his whispers of grace. I imagine he will tell me great and unsearchable things in this night’s pause (Jer. 33:3). Divine disclosure is a guarantee for the children of God. As we are faithful to rest in God’s house, our Father is faithful to entertain our hearts with his.

I want nothing more.

I just want to know God and then, out of that knowing, lead others to know the same. This certain place is the right place to do both. With God’s help and because of the heavenly generosity afforded my soul, I pledge my affection to this new ministry soil. I’ll put my hand to the plow, alongside my husband’s; together we’ll sow kingdom seed, and we’ll trust God for the harvest.

And so I pray,

Let the evening come, Lord. Let the stars shine brightly in this night’s rest. Slow me down and show me your glory. May the labors of my yesterdays serve as a strong foundation for my today, as well as an anchoring remembrance for my tomorrows. I thank you for this stay in Bethel and for this stone upon which I lay my head, my heart, and my faith. Make this pause in my journey count for your kingdom. Keep me on my knees, and awaken my heart to yours. Thank you for the struggle that has brought me thus far, and thank you for the grace that has kept me moving forward. Home is within reach. I can see it from here. This certain place is the right place for my heart. Amen. So be it.

PS: There was a beautiful flower arrangement on the altar this morning, given in honor of our arrival. Thanks to Mr. Bill, I have fresh cut flowers all around my house. It’s good to be welcomed!

Rodeo . . .

 

This isn’t my first rodeo.

In the course of my lifetime, I’ve lived in five different states, ten cities, and changed physical addresses at least eighteen times. My family and I are less than a week away from making it number nineteen.

A new home. New community. New ministry. New everything. Alongside the new, will arrive some old. It’s the old that sustains me. Strengthens me. Maintains me. That old?

God is near. (Ps. 145:18; James 4:8)

God.

Is.

Near.

When breathed in isolation, those three words hold enough theology, imagery, breadth, and depth to transition a heart from the old into the new. God and his nearness are old. God and his nearness are new. Never changing; ever the same. Ever present, active, and accurate. God simply and profoundly IS wherever I am. I cannot outrun his presence or hide from his heavenly GPS. He knows where I am and is willing to keep pace with my progression. Movement wins when God is with me.

This is how I can do this thing—keep making these moves and living the itinerant life. Knowing that God is near me keeps me upright in the saddle and focused on the finish line. Certainly, I’ve kicked up a little dust along the way, taken a tumble every now and again, and even knocked over a barrel on occasion. Each rodeo comes with its unique obstacles. But even then—even there in those moments of holding on for dear life—joy can be found. There’s something about the ride that trumps the risk.

To ride and rope and gallop alongside Jesus is to live life on the solid edge. This is how faith feels to me right now—dusty, wild, fast, and furious. I am hanging on for dear, sweet life. I’m resolved regarding the finish line, tenaciously gripping the reins in one hand while waving to the crowd with the other . . .

Just so you’ll know I’m still here. Just so you’ll know I haven’t given up. Just so you’ll know that I’m still committed to the ride, regardless of how bumpy it gets some days.

How grateful I am for the nearness of God and for this ride that draws me ever closer to his heart!

*Fair Warning: Number nineteen, here I come! Saddle up, and get ready to rodeo, friends. We’re in for the ride of our lives. May God grant us his favor, his strength, his discernment, his joy, and his peace for the journey that lies ahead. I thank you for the privilege of riding my horse next to yours.

 

dancing in the car . . .

Tonight we danced in the car.

Never mind the two kids in the back of the van or the fact that we were driving in six lanes of traffic. When the song hit the airwaves, our hearts were immediately fastened on one another and on the reality that is ours to hold.

Deep love. A love that carries burdens and holds on for the rest of the story. I imagine it’s what we do best, how we’ve made this work. We carry and we hold despite the odds that are forever trying to isolate our hearts from one another.

Never more have we needed this holding love. The current of life is swiftly (and sometimes harshly) pulling us along, and there are days when the waters rush over us with the force of Niagara. Sometimes, it feels like we’re drowning in this craziness called right now. It’s in those times . . . a right now kind of time, when we need a song like this one. A favorite country music melody that allows us to dance in the car – touching hands and crying tears and making a choice, once again, to hold on to the rest of our story.

I’ve long since given up trying to predict the lines of our upcoming chapters. But every now and again, I dream a little with my man. I remember our way back then and think forward regarding our up and coming, and find myself exceedingly tender about and grateful for the right now.

Right now?

Well, right now we take a pause, take a hand, and take a moment to dance in the car. Just like we did on that night so many nights ago when his long locks captured my fancy and his fancy footwork stepped on my toes a time or two. We’ve come a long way since our first barn dance, and I imagine we’ve a few more turns around the dance floor before the lights go down. At least this is where my dreaming takes me tonight.

I love the way he loves me, and I love the song that allows us a dance in the car from time to time.

Keep dancing with the ones you love, friends. Keep holding on to one another. Your rest of the story just may be the best of your story. I’ll meet you on the dance floor.

To learn more about our Summer Book Special, click here.

a table for grace . . .

It’s not much. Just an old table with two even older chairs. I spied them alongside Hwy. 70 while winding my way home from my annual run to the eye doctor. My U-turn came as no surprise to my eldest son who made the trek with me; after twenty-four years of being my child, he’s grown accustomed to my motherly whims. After all, he needed this collection of not much.

A table for grace. A table for my boys.

“Think of the meals once shared there, Nick. The stories told there. The tears cried there. The prayers uttered there. Think of them, son, when you and your brother find your places around this table in coming days.”

And there it lingered between us – our thoughts about coming days and about how a table for grace might just be the thing to keep our family together, even though our paths are diverging.

Grace tables are keeping tables because grace tables are framed upon firm foundations. What is built there (through meals, stories, tears, and prayers) is enough to write a history and fortify its remembrance. Hearts are shaped, beliefs are forged, memories are collected, and sins are forgiven at a table for grace. It’s where we do some of our best work as human beings. Why?

Because when we sit down at the table with others, we lean our hearts, minds, and souls toward understanding. We extend reciprocity. We offer respect. We lend grace. Tables cry out for such generosity. To deny them this possibility is to live underprivileged. Who wants to live like that? I certainly don’t, and as the mother of two cherished and adored, grown sons, I must extend this privilege due them.

And so, I made a U-turn on Hwy. 70, did some negotiating, and came home with two chairs and a table for grace. I know something of its value, even though my boys have yet to bow their heads in thanks around it. That will come for them and for the four of us they leave behind; of this I am certain.

As a family, we love the table for grace. We didn’t just discover it. As far as we know, it’s always been . . . long before any of us made entrance into this world. A keeping table built on a firm foundation that will outlast our earthly occupancy and that will carry us forward into our eternal one.

Think of the meals shared there, friends. The stories told there. The tears cried there. The prayers uttered there. Think of it all – God’s all – when you find your place around a table for grace in coming days. God’s children (the ones who await our arrival at the heavenly banqueting table) understand the value of such meals. They no longer live under their privilege. Instead, they live inside of it, surrounded by grace and keeping company with the King.

A table for grace. A worthy U-turn. An everlasting history.

Would you take time to live your privilege this week? Find a table and find a loved one. Share a meal and write rich history together. Grace is waiting to meet you as you arrive. As always . . .

Peace for the journey,

To learn more about our Summer Book Special, click here.

 

error: Content is protected !!