A wonderful thing was brought to mind this morning after reading the words of a fellow blogger, Candy. (I have been given two blogger friends named Candy, which I find both fitting and glorious.):-)
One of them touched me today with a story she tells of God speaking to her (audibly) in the middle of the night while she lay awake, troubled and worried. He reassured and reminded her of His great love for her, lovingly questioning her doubts. (I can so relate to that, praise you Lord.:-) She writes that God "called her out." when he spoke to her...CALLED to her, there in her bed. A Divine appointment.
Several years ago, in the dark of my room, He called me out, too, before the first thought or plea had a chance to enter my mind or heart. I had found myself waking up for several nights in a row, at almost exactly 3 am; eyes wide open; as if startled awake by a dream. This had begun to irritate, and then to disturb me a little, to be honest. After about the third night, I found myself using this uncomfortable time to pray; going down the list of things that I had pushed back during the daylight hours; things that worried me, causing my stomach to turn sour and hurt. Doubt. Wrong thinking. Depression, maybe. I had never been sure, having struggled with that bear all my life. But whatever it was, it had taken on a life of its own, every night, at 3 AM lying there next to my husband, infuriatingly peaceful and dreaming. But the last few nights my prayer had been a simple one. Please Lord, I'm so tired. Just please let me go back to the numbing escape of sleep.
And then, one night, at the usual hour, I seemed to find myself in motion, feet on the ground... almost before hearing the words He spoke. Get up. Pray for those men. Now. Get up now, and pray.
That morning had been an exceptionally busy one; the kind that empties your strength early, causing you to quit about halfway through your list of to dos, or at least, wanting to. I remember detouring through the den on the way to the laundry room in order to turn off the television which had been left on; the sofa and chairs its only audience. Irritated by this, I remember grabbing the remote and struggling to balance my laundry basket in one hand while turning it off with the other. Wanting nothing more than to silence the noise, and get on with my endless chores, I pointed the remote at the television and fumbled for the button. What I saw on the screen stopped me, mid motion, as I found myself staring into the haunting and hopeless eyes of three young Asian men. Early 20's, the words below their images told us. Negotiations had failed, repeatedly. They were to be beheaded within hours. Their fate was sealed. I can still see their eyes to this day; sadness more than fear; despair, surrender, like lambs to slaughter. I remember the disbelief at what I was seeing, and then praying a short but loud prayer for mercy. Please, God, please, help them. Wherever, whoever, they are, please save them, Lord, God. Please. And then I left the room, removing these young men from my sight and mind with the button of a remote switch. I did not think about them again that day, even once.
I love the way God speaks to us; there is no mistaking His will or what He wants to tell us, urge or warn us. Correct us. But only He can speak to us in this way and there can be such an amazing love and gentleness in the most powerful and important of His words. It was this loving urgency that put me on my knees in the powder room just down the hall from our bedroom that quiet hour of 3 am. This had been my prayer closet lately; the throne room, literally. I had laughed to myself a little at the choice; had even apologized to God for its less than regal surroundings. But I had the assurance of being alone, uninterrupted, focused, while I poured out these prayers, which seemed to go unheard and unanswered lately. And yet, I would go there, sometimes several times a day, and lay them at His feet.
I don't think I was there long, although I have no real guess as to the passage of time. Prayers, coming with each beat of my heart, fervent, pleading; seamless, effortless. I remember having the complete knowledge and assurance that He was hearing me, this housewife whose faith measured less than a mustard seed; who prayed for the wrong things and with the wrong heart, unbelieving, bitter. This was not my voice, or my prayer, but coming from Him, through me. I remember feeling the countless others..hundreds? He had called to pray for these young men somewhere on the other side of the world; all of us, in unison, together. Interceding.
I felt His power coming through me, my entire body, like the moment I was saved as a child. Draining me of my human strength, and replacing it with His mighty and amazing power and grace.
I was never to wake up again at 3 in the morning, even the next night, after hearing these young men had been spared, thinking I would never again be able to close my eyes for the excitement of it all. A miracle, they had called it. Last minute reprieve. Set free, and soon to be reunited with their families.
I have prayed differently since then; pushing through the doubts I feel almost every single day, knowing now to pray first for faith. Knowing now He hears me, every time, every prayer, even though my feelings sometimes tell me differently. I have called out to Him so many times, not believing, unsure. What an amazing thing to know, my Lord and Savior is also calling me...
"I knew that You always hear Me, but I said this for the benefit of the people standing here, that they may believe that You send Me." ~ John 11:42
Saturday, July 2, 2011 at 03:41PM 