When Prayer Looks Like Soup

Sitting beside my squirrelly seven year old, I helped him sound out long-vowel words and watched the clock, the seconds flying past. At eight-thirty in the morning, I was at the kitchen sink, swirling yesterday's coffee grounds out of the French press and into my compost bucket. Time spun and circled down the garbage disposal with the last of the fine coffee crumbs afterwards.

Photo Credit: Flikr User Frinthy, Creative Commons cc license

At nine, I called, leaving a message for her, stammering and saying in soft words that I was thinking about her and praying. The line rang long before the machine picked up. Ominous words had hung in the air all weekend, and this morning's appointment would bring answers.

Prayer looked like silent vigil at the sink, poured and slurped freshly-made coffee at the table, and wrangling in a first grader's attention again and again.

"Okay, with the long vowel o, what comes at the end of this word?" I'm waiting for him to draw a silent e, this quiet letter at the end of all his words today. The silent vowel sits quietly at the termination of each noun, directing, changing the sounds, and creating new words from the shy short vowel words who hem and haw and twist toes bare-naked in words surrounded by consonants.

Daniel draws graphite pencil down and around, and I sip more coffee, trying to trace out patience across my life too.

I check email throughout the morning and afternoon, awaiting word and praying for her and her family. Medical diagnoses can change so much, huh?

My parents due in an hour, I slip outside, down the deck steps, to a raised garden bed in the backyard. Surrounded by gaunt bony tomato plants from last year, shriveled and awaiting tomorrow's garden clean-out, I kneel next to the three surprises this spring. Three kale plants survived a Midwestern winter and curl purple leaves to the sky. I slice scissors across emerald and violet stems and then retrieve the fallen leaves from sandy soil.

Upstairs I submerge the vivid kale leaves in a chipped blue porcelain pot and run cold water high. Brown russet potatoes feel dense, earthy in my hands. I wash, rub them, and slide my green-handled knife deep into them. Drawing long the blade, lifting, slicing, repeating, I trace lines across them and into the white plastic cutting board.

Resting in God's presence and speaking out my love for him looks like this today, I've decided.  Trusting in his ability to bring beauty from crumbling soil, from gouged purple life, and from gashed earthy spheres, I rip apart raw Italian sausage, and pour in newly-chopped onions.

The aroma of browning sausage and onions seeps fragrant into me. Shaking out dried oregano, I watch the green flecks speckle into the jumbled meat and onions. Red pepper flakes tumble crimson. Stirring with my brown wooden spoon, I swirl silent praise and prayer, inhaling deep into this Pneuma Holy Spirit who describes himself like Breath.

I pour out the water that had immersed the kale. Droplets radiate light and life off purple-green stems and curling leaves.

I still don't know what news my friend has received, and I whisper her name to our God. Silent prayer and praising rises like steam from my simmering soup, an incense of sausage, kale and potato soup rising up before our Artist God, who is Enough. 


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Just After Hitting "Send" to God

"Nalia, look!"

I called her over and we both stared into the rumpled earth.

"I planted these last year and they hid under the snow all winter."

"What are they?" she asked in ten year old curiosity, as my seven year old Daniel peeked over her shoulder too.

Photo Credit: Flickr User: See-Ming Lee, Creative Commons, cc license

"They're parsnips; kind of like a white carrot," I laughed. Plunging my fingers deeper into cold spring soil, I traced dirt away from the white round vegetables in the ground.

Feathery green plumes marked each veggie treasure. I tugged and gently loosened them one plant at a time, before ripping them out of the ground. Black dirt crumbled and tumbled from the round tubulars and I laughed to see food and life burst from underground.

Because the truth was I had forgotten about them. Twelve months ago I had eagerly torn open the paper packet of seeds and stared in dismay at its contents.

"They're so tiny!"

Round brown flakes swirled and mounded inside the seed packet. Pouring a handful into my palm then, I had been afraid the seeds would blow away in a May breeze or be snatched up by cardinals and sparrows. Poking tiny finger holds into cool soil up to my knuckles, I slid one or two lightweight seeds inside, hoping at least several would grow.

Like a Bermuda Triangle in my garden, that corner of raised beds stayed stubbornly bare that spring, while Queen Ann sugar snap peas, Early Contender bush beans, and the butterfly-seedling life force of morning glory flowers had sashayed out of the ground.

In early summer, tall fern-like plants had stood up and crowded that corner of the garden, bowing heads conspiratorially, and I had hoped parsnips were fattening underground. Summer had swelled, crescendoed, and abated. Autumn's trees had dropped reds and yellows that crumpled into browns and tangled in the parsnip greens.

"Parsnips are better after several frosts," I told Mark as we peered out the living room windows in November and December. Snows fell.

This week, the soil warmed and ready, my red tulips bobbing in the breeze, I walked barefoot to my garden and tugged curiously on a parsnip's green top. Wiggling, prying, I pulled up a plump white parsnip.

"Nalia, come see!"

A small mountain of white parsnips mound up on my patio table now, the rain washing them nicely for me. And the parsnips suddenly remind me of my prayers.

Like tiny tremulous seeds I shake out and hold in small hands, they feel so paltry to the task. I plant them and wait, and time seems to slow some days. There are days when I wonder what will grow to fill that space. And as I wait, wonder, and trust the Grower's instructions, seasons pass. 

Life unfolds beneath the surface. In the dark, treasures swell and mature. In the time I've forgotten them, God hasn't. They are sweetening, ripening, growing better by the day. It's in the frost that kills and in winter's long nights that the parsnips grow the sweetest.

After winter's thaw, petite purple crocuses and grape-like hyacinth clusters mark the passing time. Greenery emerges new life from the parsnips corner and I'm suddenly reminded of prayers and plantings from a year ago.

Crouching to my knees, I dig and pull, finding the treasures God has been growing all along.

What's Sidling Up Behind You?

The worry's been creeping in again.

Hunched over a library computer today in between carpool trips, I scrolled website pages, scribbled notes, and slipped into anxiety. I don't know about you but for me it can masquerade as proactiveness or "being prepared," yet the truth is more subtle. It's about control.

Photo Credit: Flickr user, DeSales University, Creative Commons cc license

Earlier, in between lunch and carpooling teens, I scrounged up my green corduroy shoes and headed out to the backyard. Above-high temperatures of sixty degrees in a Minnesota spring has left an entire state giddy. Crouching beside cedar mulch flowerbeds, I brushed brown soil off spiky green and white variegated crocus plants, their growth a gift in slow motion. Giant purple crocus blossoms will be next. Three chunky daffodil or tulip plants poked nubby green heads from behind an oregano plant, and my fingertips brushed them excitedly.

Sliding long metal pruning sheers from their plastic sheath, I sliced and crunched out last year's dead branches, making room for spring's new growth. Beneath a cascade of rumpled crisp leaves, I spied them: small round purple and olive-colored oregano leaves unfurled in the warm sun. Crushing the herb in my fingers, I raised my hand to smell the heady fragrance.

Several hours later, back from the carpooled class trip and the library research, I'm feeling out of sorts, grumpy, and unsettled. Do emotions hit you that way too? Sidling up from the rear, they are faceless and vague. I'm often unaware of their effect until I sense it in my shoulders or recognize it finally in the quiet tumult inside me.

Relaxing my shoulders, rounding them up and back in circles, I capture my thoughts too, which have been spiraling unnoticed inside. Images flash in my mind of the nubby new life sticking out of the ground. Growing taller each day, the sight of them brings bubbly joy to me because I know the beauty they pack. Brilliant purples, magentas, crimsons, creams, yellows, and oranges are folded just out of reach within clumpy green budding plants or hidden still under ground. I know they are coming, though.

Life surges. Beauty awaits. New growth hovers, and you have to linger to see them fully.

And these truths about our Artist God's ability and character crackle away last year's brush from within me too. Hope and peace sink in, and I repeat the truths of who he is. Remembering that changes take time, I'm eager to see what he's growing in me. And what he's growing in you.


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The Stranger at McDonald's

Red and blue tube slides curved around the ceiling like sinuous snakes, and clubbed green helicopter blades whirled overhead. Kids scrambled up slippery slides, crawled through plastic tunnels, and emerged grinning on the floor, hair standing tall with static electricity.

Two brown-eyed children with curly black hair stepped apprehensively closer to the indoor playset, their curiosity drawing them nearer. They craned short faces to the ceiling, watching my son's hands bob and wave from various corners of the labyrinth.

"They're afraid," said a woman's voice behind me. "He was born premature, only five months old. He just slipped out of his mama, my daughter. He had a lot of health problems," she told me, long black hair falling straight around her shoulders and down her back. "His mind is like a three year old's and he can't see very well. No depth perception, so he's afraid. What to us is only a few feet looks like it's very far away, so the tunnels scare him."

Her grandchildren sidled closer to the steps leading up, and then pleaded for their grandma to join them. She grinned and padded up the winding stairs on her hands and knees. Fearful wails and shuffling sounds marked their path through the right side of the playset. Concerned for them and wanting to help, my seven year old Daniel called out cheerful hello's, waved his hands, and sent comforting messages echoing down the round hallways and intersections.

When the fear had loomed too large for too long, the three of them wedged around and made their descent, the grandma laughing gently and encouraging her grandson through his tears.

"Good job!" I cheered her as she emerged. "That's brave of you to enter the tunnels. Were they claustrophobic?"

"I'm Jennifer," I continued once she was settled on the ground again and her kids were busy playing.

"Pam," she smiled.

She shared hard things, and we talked of alcoholism's grip and the sadness of watching loved ones spiral deeper into fear and darkness.

"The ache is gone," she said in response to a question I asked. "It used to hurt a lot, but now I just pray for her and care for her kids, knowing God loves her too."

We talked, Pam and I, in the McDonald's playland, as a Hmong dad and kids entered and ate ice cream cones by the window. Five children ran through, past, up, and inside, and we talked about God's deep love, his ability to bring transformation and hope, and then we stopped and prayed.

Our smiles, as we parted, shared a sense of community and camaraderie, this stranger at McDonald's and me.

While You Were Waiting

Photo: Moon Lee, Creative Commons, cc license

Collapsed and cubed cardboard boxes climb the downstairs couch, and scatter the floor. My gardens and landscape beds lie neglected, choked with broadleaf plantain weeds, skinny grasses, and surprise sunflowers from last year's blossoms. I don't how long we'll be here, so I decided not to plant anything this year.

I feel a little bit like Noah from the Bible, who started building the ark before he saw the rain. This week we start packing up for a move that hasn't happened yet. Labeling boxes for a new kitchen, living room, and bedrooms, we guess where they'll be and can't picture our new home yet. Paperwork that completes our house's impending sale is up in the air still, and we are hesitant to put an offer on a new house before they fully clear. So, we wait and trust, and wait and wonder.

It's an odd thing, this waiting game we all find ourselves in some days. We probably have different things we wait for and wonder about. Whether you are waiting for your kids' school to resume, or for a doctor's prognosis, a friend's call, a relationship to heal, or a job change, we all have moments to wait. What does this waiting season look like? What can it look like? It looks differently depending on the day for me.

I pull my Bible, gratitude notebook, and journal close this morning, with my french press coffee on the side. Starting with the gratitude gifts notebook, I scrawl simple things I see: #3750 summer, #3751 breeze with sweet scents, #3752 lazy white cotton seeds floating by, ...herbs growing in a bucket, hot fresh coffee, sleeping in this morning, worship floating through the house, last piece of strawberry rhubarb pie for breakfast. 

It's not until eleven counted gifts in that they start getting deeper: deep talks with a son, scary lessons learned, seeing my negative influence affect my daughter's choices too. Humility always follows thankfulness, doesn't it? Counting God's gracious gifts that stack and topple high never fails to help me suddenly see my own shadowy sins in the corner. Brought to the surface, they are carried to Him, confessed, and forgotten, though. God's kindness overflows.

My pen scratches beauty seen and captured: cotton puffs erroneously landing to try to live on my coffee cup and the quirky laughter that gives me; a friend buying a house that is nearby; and romantic thoughtfulness seen in my man. I stop and tap out a quick text to him, smiling quietly to myself at the table.

I write and count more: red-capped birds scavenging in my weedy garden; succulent jade plant thriving, a neglected garden meaning a summer of change, and suddenly the gratitude list turns personal, and I find myself actually talking to Him. Praying, trusting you, choosing to trust. Lessons of choosing to trust you, God, to believe you. Knowing you! 

The joy mounts, and I feel the peace settle in, relaxing my shoulders. I write more, realizing that it finally feels like talking to him face to face, no longer just an anonymous list. Knowing your heart, your hand, God. Waiting for your timing; heading off here now to encounter you in your word, I smile and get ready to zip open my ratty red Bible cover. That your word is active and alive; I keep seeing the gifts now for which to thank him: that YOU are active and alive! Lord, I want to meet with you, learn from you. 

And the waiting mood has changed again. Reminding myself of who he is, and of how he cares for his creation resets my mood. Thoughts shape feelings. Truth determines attitude. 

Grabbing the verse that has become a mantra lately, I'm going to heat my cold coffee and start packing books. Join me? "I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I put my hope" (Psalm 130:5).

What a Warrior in a Wine Cave Would Tell You

 

It was easier last week. Easier when the screen displayed five or six options, to breathe in blithely and say that we were trusting God for our new home.

It's always easier to feel relaxed in trusting God when the cars in the driveway start, when the bank accounts have wider margins between the credit and the debit boxes, or when the houses For Sale line up nicely into the categories we like.

Once the For Sale signs start lowering, and the pretty homes with the open layouts disappear, I'm required to really stand up and figure out what I'm holding on to. Am I trusting God for our next home only when the weekly emails state that there are eight or nine feasible options?

And that is the real question, isn't it? Glib answers crash quickly when the easy options fall off the table. If my stance of peaceful trust is only secure on clear blue days with no hint of storms, then my peace is less about Him, and more about me. My sense of self-sufficiency, my bank accounts, my cars that start... In other words, it's about life looking easy anyway.

The real test, the real test comes when it doesn't look like I can do it on my own, when there are only three houses on the list with enough bedrooms for us, and time shows that they seem to disappear quickly.

"But, where's the challenge in that, Jen?" he whispers to me. And I'm reminded of a warrior's cave musings from the Bible book of Judges. Among vintage wines, oozing grapes, and purple puddles on the ground, God approached a young Jewish warrior, hiding in a wine-press cave. Describing to the man the battles he was about to wield and win with God's help, God affirmed one key truth.

"You are going to know that I was the One who did this, not you, and not your nation. It's by my power that you're going to win these skirmishes."

In fact, God whittled down Gideon's fledgling army to a mere 300 men against 135,000 enemies. Statistically, calculates my husband, this meant that every one Jewish warrior would have to fight 450 men on his own, and survive to battle on. Not very good odds.

But our Warrior God, who loves to write thrilling stories into world history, loved that these odds would point to only one conclusion: God had done this himself. This wasn't the work of any Spartan-esque army. This was God showing off.

"Where's the trust, Jen, if it looks easy? What trust is needed if your options lie wide open? Trust me now, as the email screen of available houses shrinks, and your papers are tied up in City Hall meetings, and spring approaches. Do you trust me now?"

And this God-- who has walked us through cancer-scares on our little girl when she was five years old, and who found us this home, and who has always taken care of us --watches me, cocks an eyebrow, and asks, "Will you trust me now? Want to really up the stakes?"

What about you? Where do you say you are trusting God, but it has really just been because it's been easy to do on your own? In your marriage, with your dreams and future, in your finances, or with your kids? Our God loves us, and enjoys building our faith in him. Is he cocking an eyebrow at you too today?

(Photo Credit to Steve Snodgrass, Creative Commons, Cc license)

...Linking with Emily at Imperfect Prose.

Dandelions, Thistles, and How Do You Grow Faith?

I bike to my new yard, a yellow child trailer bouncing along behind me. This is it! The new home. 

Earlier, a friend, in black “blinged” flip flops, and I, in brown bejeweled sandals, walk in measured paces across the knee-high grass. Counting feet and meandering mildly-haphazardly through the dandelions, we guess at the dimensions for a privacy fence. I dream gardens and landscaping, and skip excitedly. 

“I could put the garden there, and plant ferns here.” We sidestep thistles, and scratch itchy ankles. 

“Mom, I think I’ll wait in the van,” my friend’s daughter finally surmises, as my friend graciously walks and plans with me. We plan summer outings and moving days, and then she drives away, sharing my joy and excitement.

At the local hardware super store, I amble the aisles and ponder two by fours. 

I keep being drawn now to the yellow and green trim house, eager to move in, and ecstatic with our Abba for blessing us with this lovely home. My daughter and I peer over internet real estate photos of our new home, wondering about furniture placement and divvying up bedrooms.

Boxes accumulate in our current home, moving plans are made, and the closing dates loom three weeks away. Ensconced in our boxes and memories, we say farewell to our neighbors of fourteen years, finish up school, and marvel at our God who provided this new home for us. 

Thank you, friends, for praying for our current home to sell and for a new home for us. It’s been a ten month journey, and a great time to practice waiting and trusting. 

Thank you, Abba, for extravagant answers to prayer. I stand awed, humbled, and convicted that I had doubted. 

In tiny pencil on narrow margins, I had etched my worries last week.  In lead script beside ancient Old Testament type, I had joined the prophet Daniel’s prayers with my own words. Beside his lofty prayers for wisdom in discerning an impulsive king’s dreams, I scratched in my own request. Daniel urged his friends to “plead for mercy from the God of heaven concerning this mystery” and I scrawled out, “A house, Lord? 5/18/12.” 

On the next page, when the young biblical prophet Daniel is given the dream’s meaning and bursts out into jubilant praise to the God who “reveals deep and hidden things” and who had “made known what was asked of him,” my pencil scratched again. “A house, Lord? 5/18/12.” 

Days later, our realtor called. Amid dancing and squeals, and hurried phone calls to family members, I opened my Bible again, and added a new date to those etched pencil-marked margins. 

“Yes! 5/22/12.” Thankful praise penciled into two pages, and across two spots in my heart, reminding me that yes, his heart is for us, and yes, he hears and answers prayers – over and abundantly. 

Oh me of little faith. I’m taught again, and so I return, by foot, by bike or by car to the jumbled grassy lawn. Walking through the tangled dandelions and thistles, I grin, amazed at my Abba, and humbly thankful.

Talking to Your Kids About God (School-age Edition)

Walking past her doorway, we could hear booming actors talking inside about a woman desperately looking for her tenth coin, or about blind men chasing down a carpenter renowned for his miracles. Other days, a loud orator would discuss breaking seals and pouring out bowls, and Revelation soon became her favorite book of the Bible. Elementary-aged Morgan would emerge from her room and ask deep questions about end times. Reading was harder for her at times in her younger elementary years, but listening to the Bible on tape/cd was perfect. She loved hearing the dramatic renditions of the Bible and amazed us with her near-memory recall of some familiar passages.  Now, as a middle schooler, she grabs her Bible and a highlighter, disappearing onto her top bunk. “Mom, can you grab Daniel please? I want some time alone with my Bible.” 

Most of us want to talk to our kids about God, our faith, and what’s important to us. Many parents wonder where to start, though, and what to say. Other parents have expressed fear of not knowing how to answer the theological questions that may arise. With stories of prostitutes, murder, and dysfunctional families interspersed throughout the Bible next to more familiar stories, parents can wonder how to address these topics.

While I don’t have all the answers, several ways have worked for our family as we raise our sixteen-, thirteen- and almost four-year old. Our seventeen years of church and family ministry have been helpful as well. (Did you see the Talking to Your Preschooler About God post?)

Talking to Your School-Ager about God

1. The Bible honestly tells it as it is. God shows us a person’s bad choices as well as their good choices. Just because an action is done in the Bible doesn’t mean it’s condoned or a good choice, or God’s way of doing things. The Bible shows when people mess up badly. Ask your kids: what should this person have done instead? What were the consequences here of their bad choice? We can witness the fall-out of generational cycles of deception, favoritism, and pride, for instance, in Genesis. In Judges, we see families and a nation spiral out of control when they forget what God’s word says about life and only do “what seems right in their own eyes.” Wow, can that get ghastly fast. That’s one whole point of the book of Judges, in fact, and by the end, there is no clear good guy or right choice in each story. What a dark, sad chronicle. God is an honest God.
2. God is a master Restorer! He can take broken people, families and pasts and use them for his glory. He can take murderers, cheaters, liars, stuttering, fearful and broken people and work through them to talk to powerful world leaders and change history! He can use YOU.
3. God loves YOU and wants to spend time with YOU. He is seeking you out, calling you by name, and has great adventures in store for you. Spend time with him, listening, talking with him, and reading his letters.
4. It’s not Kid-sized! Students, you have a full-size Holy Spirit in you. The same Holy Spirit that was in the apostle Paul, that’s in Billy Graham and Brother Yun is in you. You don’t have to wait until you are grown up to do big things for God. He can do them in you today. Are you listening to Him, and tuned in? Practice hearing his voice, which will never contradict his spoken word.
5. Recognize, parents, that you are not choosing a faith for your child. That is between them and God. But as a parent you definitely have something of value to pass on to them. Pray for them, love them, and enjoy times of sharing something that is of extreme value with them. 

The school-age years in our kids’ lives are pivotal and life-changing years! Jump into these exciting times. Ask questions, spend a lot of time listening, and savor these years. 

What about you? What was instrumental in your journey with God during the elementary and middle school years?

Talking to Your Kids About God (Preschool Edition)

“But I want to SEE Jesus!" he insisted. "Where is he? Can he come play at my house?”

“Well, you can’t see him right now.” 

“Why? Is he hiding?” My preschooler craned his neck to peer into the bathroom closet. 

“No, you just can’t see him right now,” I explained. “He’s here; but we can’t see him. He’s invisible!”

Most of us want to talk to our kids about God, our faith, and what’s important to us. Many parents wonder where to start, though, and what to say. Other parents have expressed fear of not knowing how to answer the theological questions that may arise. 

While I certainly don’t have all the answers, several ways have worked for our family as we raise our sixteen-, thirteen- and almost four-year old. Our seventeen years of church and family ministry have been helpful as well. 

Talking to Your Preschooler about God

1. As You Go. As you walk, talk, eat, drive, breathe, play, and prepare to sleep, share joyfully and naturally about Jesus. Walks in the woods can explore God’s creation, and marvel at his artistry. “Look at these cool raccoon tracks! Did you know…?” My kids and I have made up worship songs as we walked in the woods and across prairie grasslands. “Thank you for the trees, thank you for the birds…” There is nothing sweeter than hearing a lilting preschooler lisp songs to God.    
2. Practice and Encourage Natural Prayers. While liturgical prayers can be meaningful and helpful, don’t underestimate the power of encouraging children to speak their heart as well. In simple plain terms, talk to Jesus aloud with your child. Thank him for the sunshine; pray for safety for passing siren-waling emergency vehicles; thank him for the peanut butter and jelly sandwich and the orange slices for lunch. Invite your kids to take turns praying too. “Who’d like to pray?” 
3. Intentionally Share Jesus Stories. Preschoolers are drawn to stories with adventure,  superheroes, and excitement. The Bible is full of wild and exciting true accounts. With sincere excitement, cuddle up with your child and start the narration. “One day when Jesus and his friends were out walking…” Or “Did you know? There was one day when Jesus was on a boat…” “Jesus helped people! He …” The tales are endless and as the true picture of who Jesus was and is surfaces, our children will be entranced by how delightful and strong Jesus is. 
4. Keep it short and simple. A toddler’s attention span is brief. Enjoy conversations with them, and grin when they race off to their next train of thought or toy. 
5. Recognize that you are not choosing a faith for them. That is between them and God someday. But you definitely have something of value to pass on to them. Pray for them, love them, and enjoy times of sharing something that is of extreme value with them. 

Preschoolers are delightful, full of curiosity, and always learning. Enjoy talking to them about God in this time too.

What about you? How have people talked about their faith with you over the years? What has been meaningful to you? What do you want to carryover into your own life and pass on to others?