So....Life had the temerity to happen when I had such perfect (the best!) laid plans.  (I am feeling somewhat like the proverbial mouse.)  Taking my sweet Mama- in- law for tests today and tomorrow while balancing 3 very different schedules under one roof. Trusting Him, who is able to do IMMEASURABLY more than we could ask or imagine. (Even finding  some order to the Spann house when it's turned upside down even more so than usual.) His grace is sufficient, even under this roof.  

Prayers for Carolyn as He radically blesses and comforts her mind and body.

Talk soon.  Cross my heart. 

Ephesians 3:20 

Called out

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

Rejoice and Be Glad, In It.... ALL

Carpet cleaner guys are coming in a bit; Chapter 12 of my flood story. Truthfully, I'm dreading this minor inconvenience, and feeling a little guilty about that. Deep breath. Quiet. Praying for those on my heart this early hour who wish they had my day to face.
I will embrace it; this day He made. Speak to my heart Lord, change me this morning, and make me truly glad.

Good Eye

Another mom and I are talking together as he trots over into position. I subtly lean over to get a better look, nodding in conversation; my mind more on him, than her. She completely understands. You get better at this as the years go by; but only in perspective. There is something about your son coming to the plate that requires a mother's watchful eye and encouragement, as though he were braving the high dive or peddling without training wheels for the first time ever. He knows this too, in some primal way, even at 13, having swung the bat about a jillion times, (not counting the wobbly ones she lobbed in the backyard when Dad couldn't be there to do it.) He has to do this alone, without help from you or anyone else; at the mercy of another 13 year old wielding a baseball shaped rock with all the power he can muster. And he knows it's really tougher on mom than she would ever dare to admit.

There are stacks upon stacks of pictures recording his first swing at T ball until now; every year of his life, save the year he decided not to play, and then regretted it. It should clearly tell the story, this library of ours. But it doesn't, not really. You just never capture on film the really good stuff; the things that stop time for a minute, and hop off, leaving time to start again. Like the blizzard of 93. My oldest son and I braved that one together. For days, alone, no power, no heat; no real way to get out for food. Of course, I had known it was coming, and had prepared, I had thought. I remember the extreme cold; worrying about my husband; my other family members. Worrying my son would get sick or something and I couldn't get him to the hospital. We have spoken about this experience many times since then, J.P. and I. He never mentions the cold much, or being held captive with no way in or out. He doesn't remember any of it that way. "Hey, Mom...Remember when you cooked the soup over the fireplace and we roasted hot dogs like a camp out? That was cool..." He remembers me like a super hero.

About a month ago after showing up for practice early, I had taken it into my head to let Ryan "pitch" some balls to me so that I could see what all the fuss was about. After just one "I can't pitch it any lighter" Mom pitches, I wanted to run screaming into the night, terrified. I not only did not hit the ball, I had no desire to do anything with it, except to escape my precarious position at the plate, leaving us both doubled over in hysteria. It was my turn to think of my son as the super hero. I filed that one away in the time standing still moments of life; definitely one of our favorite "at bats." Priceless.

I confess I haven't learned much about the game itself, but I think you could write a sermon on the lingo. Keep your head down....don't go for the junk...make it be your pitch...Way to look...Good eye...Don't watch strike three...It's a lesson in life, encouraging your child at the plate. Whatever he chooses, I want him to choose it wisely; never reaching for what is not worth reaching for. I pray he will always turn to God for the wisdom to know what is, and then have the courage to swing with all of his might in whatever he's called to do. Because its almost always the hardest hits that count, whether they sail over the outstretched glove of the Center fielder, or land square in the small of your back after a wild pitch. Either way, you get on base, if you run hard enough, or really want it badly enough to fight through the pain.

And so he steps up to the box and assumes the position. I can see, already, what's in his head, almost exactly what he's telling himself. The way he stares it down; tunes everything out, but what he needs to think about in the moment. I can tell if he wants it; where his mind is. And I know, instinctively, whether he will slam it, or whiff it, just by the way he's standing. The pitcher, staring back, sizes him up. Pause, turn, release. It rockets through the air towards my son, who must decide its worth. Let it go, or swing with all that's in him.

I watch him there alone, knowing he will do this again many more times in his life. "Good eye!" I tell him, as the ball sails wide. Make it be your pitch. Don't go for the junk. And swing for the stars.

To Everything

My trowel works the rich pungent soil, turning, sowing. The sun ever watchful; a higher vantage point now; warmer, heavier as it ascends. I have been here since it was a light casting shadows....Since before it had turned my skin a copper brown like the earth under my knees, as in prayer.
I wait for the rain and the One Who brings it.
In due season, I will reap.

"To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven." ~ Ecclesiastes 3:1