Prayer Bracelet

 

Take-away.

Time in the prayer room last week was sacred. Sacred and yet, kind of mundane. Unremarkable. No angel appeared out of the ether to me. No audible voice cut through the silence. Yet, there was an unseen presence, inviting me to sit back and just ‘be’.

And so I relaxed in the comfy seat and picked up a bit of wire. Invited to string beads as I prayed, I found myself randomly choosing a bead for each member of my family as I prayed for them, then extending those beads and those prayers to friends. I could have gone on and on. There are so many wonderful people in my life: I am so grateful to God for the privilege of praying for them.

This morning as I prayed for my grandchildren, I held this ‘rosary’ of people precious to me. Each bead is unique. A variety of colours, some are round, apparently flawless. Some have sharp edges. Some are tapered; some are straight. All are held together by the thin copper wire on which they are threaded.

Sometimes in families, straight edges chafe against round ones. Sometimes in families, those with a smaller footprint – be it their voice, their place in the family, whatever – feel overshadowed and marginalised by the more colourful, louder ones. I’ve heard it said that it’s in the rubbing that we lose our hard edges; it’s in the settling that we find harmony through Jesus, the wire that holds us all together.

I love the disparity of this stringing of beads. I love that they don’t follow a pattern; they don’t adhere to a colour scheme; they don’t lie straight and slot together perfectly. This is the way the Lord has made our world, vibrant with wild colours and subdued, interesting with geometric shapes and whimsical splashes; all held together in Him.

May we be part of a rising chorus of those celebrating our differences rather than those separating us into categories. May the riot of colour and custom and character rise as a jubilant praise to our amazing creator God.

Holding Hands

 

Hers was the first hand I held. She would have held mine to keep me safe, to show me things, to play a game, to demonstrate her love. Holding hands connects hearts.

Last February when I visited Mom, I managed to take a picture of my hand now holding hers. I sat for hours just holding that precious hand, playing music for her on my phone, talking about things from her past, caressing and sometimes kissing that ancient hand.

From my favourite psalm, 63, there are two lines about hands: ‘I cling to you’, and ‘your right hand upholds me’.

Something very comforting about hands. It is a huge blessing to be reassured that God’s right hand upholds me. Thank you, Jesus.

Nothing Sanitised about His Cross

 

The rugged cross. One of our worship songs this morning talked of the rugged cross. As I sang, I was focused on a sanitised version of that rugged cross: geometrically aligned, proportionality perfect, lines straight and true.

We had been thinking about faith being not just cerebral, but an action as well. I had been focused on Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, fully man as well as fully divine, sweating blood as he prayed for there to be another way than the cross. But when he heard from his Dad, he aligned with the will of God and committed wholeheartedly to the action required to save us, and to demonstrate his faith.

He had to hang on a cross, an old rugged cross, probably more like a mis-shapen dead tree than a properly engineered cross. Rough, hurting his eviscerated back. Maybe thorny. Knobbly, perhaps with protrusions at various points which would have magnified the discomfort and pain. Maybe there were still some errant twigs poking out at various points, piercing him again if he shifted his weight.

A rugged cross.

There was nothing sanitised about the death of our Saviour. As I think of his sacrifice, I marvel again at what he surrendered to willingly, with love and compassion (‘forgive them, for they don’t know what they are doing’), with faith in the Father who never left him nor forsook him nor let him down.

Tonight I ask again for more of the empowering Holy Spirit, so that I, too, can live in faith, faith in the truth of God my Saviour, which impels me to take steps, to open my mouth, to write words …

Super protected

 

Annalise greeted me with a quiet smile. She blinked her eyes, and I was aware of the heavy layer of long lashes she had affixed to her eyelids. She wrote my name into the visitor’s book, and I marvelled at the length of her false fingernails and the complexity of the designs on each.

It was the same with the bank teller. With some of the store clerks. Startling, really.

So many women I’ve met over the last month have exaggerated their eyelashes and their fingernails. They obviously believe these enhancements improve their looks; all I could think of was the amount of time it must take to achieve such results, and the way the nails, anyway, impede practicality. I wonder if the false eyelashes might cause the eyelids to droop over time – a droop which mine are achieving without the aid of any weights on them!

I’m aware that what I am saying might sound rich, coming from an older woman who still colours her hair. We all have our vanities. Or, at least I know that I do.

Often, when I wait on the Lord, my mind’s eye perceives his loving gaze. Just his eyes. No false eyelashes there. Love, pure and simple.

A gaze penetrating from a heart and soul of pure love. Eyes protected by a fan of eyelashes just perfect for their purpose. To keep dust, bugs and other foreign objects from entering this vulnerable opening to the soul.

If your eyes are healthy, your whole body will be full of light, Jesus says. Perhaps he is thinking of the physical protection afforded by the fan of lashes he created to ring these delicate parts of our bodies. I am thinking also, though, of other barriers which are helpful to protecting that light within us: will power to resist reading or watching things which pollute us, for instance.

Feeling a bit jet-lagged still, a bit rambling, but these are my thoughts this morning, for what they’re worth. May we all have clear eyes to perceive what the Lord is up to in our lives and our world today.

 

Pressed down

 

‘Are you at home?’ came the text. Yes, I replied.

Within an hour, my dear friend popped in with a lasagna. She knows what it is to be jet-lagged, worn out with the activities that follow the death of a dear loved one, and still slogging through some of the admin.

As I sat in my prayer window this morning for the first time in several weeks, I did my usual routine and then just waited. The Lord reminded me of Elisha under the broom tree, so exhausted, so spent. The angel came and fed him, twice, so that he was re-energised (and then he ran for forty days!)

I don’t intend such a marathon, but I am so encouraged to know that as I feel rather depleted, the Lord sees me under my broom tree and is sending his angels to feed and refresh me in many ways.

Bible study friends will arrive soon. More refreshment. Thank you, Lord. Pressed down and overflowing is your grace and mercy to me. I love you.

Tears of Joy

 

With some understandable trepidation, I set the satnav for LAX. It’s an easy drive up the coast, until you get there. ‘Stay left,’ she instructed, ‘stay on Airport Way’ – only there weren’t any signs for Airport Way (if that was the name – I can’t remember now!). I stayed left, as far left as I could, which turned out to be too far left.

‘Make a u-turn,’ she said.

What?

I did it and soon was headed in a new direction of concrete flyovers and traffic speeding. I prayed like mad. I had no idea where I was going. Finally I was in the horseshoe: terminals on the right, parking on the left. ‘Turn left,’ she said. I did, but too soon it turned out. Soon I was again headed into unknown territory. Help!

Somehow I found myself back in the horseshoe, this time on the Departures level. Determined to park and walk. Which I did, and it turned out I was very close to the international arrivals, just up two floors. Easy.

I stood with others eagerly awaiting the arrival of their loved ones. I wiped away tears as I heard the sobs of joy as grandparents clasped their grandchildren. I waited. For nearly an hour, a sea of humanity rolled by me, from every corner of the globe.

Finally I saw that familiar, much-loved face. Don is here. I could breathe again.

So many people pouring into LA. And God knows every one. Every one has a story, a joy, a sorrow, a need, an ambition. I continue to be blown away by God’s love and provision. In the midst of a tsunami of need, needs much bigger than any I may have, he continues to hear my cries for help, and guide and protect me.

Gratitude. With my arms held high, I will worship the God who is always there, always available, whatever the need. The God who weeps tears of joy when he sees his children approaching, who weeps tears of sorrow when he sees his children’s heartbreak.

Gearing up for a return trip to LAX this afternoon. This time for Doug from Brisbane. Haven’t seen him for nearly two years. Expecting tears.

Waiting at the Screen Door

 

Bella sprawls in front of the screen door, her nose twitching as she picks up smells, her ears in motion as she strains for intriguing noises. She is ready, willing something to happen, someone to arrive, a passing dog to bark at.

I approach from behind, to exit through the door, and she is up, alive, wiggling a greeting, nosing my toes, barely restraining herself from jumping all over me. I know I am loved.

A year old now, Bella is my cousin’s dog. She is definitely ‘in your face’ when you approach.

Not everyone likes dogs, but there is something so attractive about that unconditional love of a dog. You could be out all day, and still get a warm greeting when you arrive home. No cold shoulder.

All a dog wants is something to eat, some exercise, and some playful interaction with their human. A little bit of time.

God is not in my face. He is much more restrained and polite, ready to respond to my overtures, and probably disappointed but not surprised when I miss his.

May I be attentive today to every whisper of my Saviour, to every whiff of divine fragrance in my day. May I linger in his presence for no reason other than to enjoy his company. May I appreciate the awesomeness of the fact that the omnipotent God bends down and waits, as it were, at the screen door, hoping for a little attention.

I scarce can take it in.