Today I prayed for pregnant mice. Okay, I prayed for a friend who wants to do research project on pregnant mice. That has not been my oddest prayer. My oddest prayers are the ones that come when I'm half asleep. Like the other day I was nodding off and praying for a friend. I prayed, "Please bless X and the state of Arizona." I woke up just enough to wonder why I was praying for my friend AND the state of Arizona. Then the other night I prayed, "Please help me to understand my limitations, please make me a better friend, and please help me to buy more comfortable shoes." Again, the last part was an accidental addendum to the prayer.(Maybe my feet were sending a message to my subconscious, and my subconcious made sure to slip that thought into my prayers.)
I'm thankful for odd prayers and a God (I hope) who laughs at them.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Your Heart Will Be Free
I was sharing with a friend recently a small struggle that I have been having. I said, "You know even though I struggle, I surrender everything to God." My friend looked at me and said quite emphatically, "God is doing something special for you and if you keep surrendering this area of your life, you'll find that your heart will be free." I loved that line "your heart will be free." The words were a promise. My friends words stayed with me all day yesterday and even into the night. This morning I struggled to get up not only because I was sleepy but because my sleep had been so peaceful. It was as if God had come and stayed near me through the night. I wanted to linger in bed in His precense.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Sounds
I love house noises: the dryer and the dishwasher running are small comforts of sound. I don't own a TV, I infrequently listen to music, and I don't have a cat to keep me company.
Sometimes coming home is difficult (for some reason it is always most difficult after a social event), but it is not always lonely. I take a certain pleasure in puttering around, in doing my laundry and washing the dishes, in putting things away, and in reading my books.
One great pleasure is weaving prayer into all these things. I have a list of names that I keep handy so that this "time alone" is given to prayer. My house is made somehow less empty by prayer.
Sometimes coming home is difficult (for some reason it is always most difficult after a social event), but it is not always lonely. I take a certain pleasure in puttering around, in doing my laundry and washing the dishes, in putting things away, and in reading my books.
One great pleasure is weaving prayer into all these things. I have a list of names that I keep handy so that this "time alone" is given to prayer. My house is made somehow less empty by prayer.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Catch and Release
I recently finished reading a memoir on friendship called Same Kind of Different as Me. The passage below moved me so much I had to read it twice.
"I been thinking a lot about what you asked me."
I had no idea what he was talking about. "What did I ask you?"
"Bout bein your friend."
My jaw dropped an inch. I'd forgotten that when I told him at the Cactus Flower Cafe that all I wanted from him was his friendship, he'd said he'd think about it. Now, I was shocked that anyone would spend a week pondering such a question. While the whole conversation had slipped my mind, Denver had clearly spent serious time preparing his answer.
He looked up from his coffee, fixing me with one eye, the other squinted like Clint Eastwood. "There's somethin I heard 'bout white folks that bothers me, and it has to do with fishin."
He was serious and I didn't dare laugh, but I did try to lighten the mood a bit. "I don't know if I'll be able to help," I said smiling. "I don't even own a tackle box."
Denver scowled, not amused. "I think you can."
He spoke slowly and deliberately, keeping me pinned with that eyeball, ignoring the Starbucks groupies coming and going on the patio around us.
"I heard that when white folks go fishin they do something called 'catch and release.'"
Catch and release? I nodded solemnly, suddenly nervous and curious at the same time.
"That really bothers me," Denver went on. "I just can't figure it out. 'Cause when colored folks go fishin, we really proud of what we catch, and catch. . . in other words, we use it to sustain us. So it really bothers me that white folks would go through all that trouble to catch a fish, then they done caught it, just throw it back in the water."
He paused again, and the silence between us stretched a full minute.
Then: "Did you hear what I said?"
I nodded, afraid to speak, afraid to offend.
Denver looked away, searching the blue autum sky, then locked onto me again with that drill-bit stare. "So, Mr. Ron, it occured to me: If you is fishin for a friend you just gon' catch and release, then I ain't got no desire to be your friend."
The world seem to halt in midstride and fall silent around us like one of those freeze-frame scenes on TV. I could hear my heart pounding and imagined Denver could see it popping my breast pocket up and down. I returned Denver's gaze with what I hoped was a receptive expression and hung on.
Suddenly his eyes gentled and he spoke more softly than before: "But if you is lookin for a real friend, then I'll be one. Forever."
from Same Kind of Different as Me p. 106, 107
"I been thinking a lot about what you asked me."
I had no idea what he was talking about. "What did I ask you?"
"Bout bein your friend."
My jaw dropped an inch. I'd forgotten that when I told him at the Cactus Flower Cafe that all I wanted from him was his friendship, he'd said he'd think about it. Now, I was shocked that anyone would spend a week pondering such a question. While the whole conversation had slipped my mind, Denver had clearly spent serious time preparing his answer.
He looked up from his coffee, fixing me with one eye, the other squinted like Clint Eastwood. "There's somethin I heard 'bout white folks that bothers me, and it has to do with fishin."
He was serious and I didn't dare laugh, but I did try to lighten the mood a bit. "I don't know if I'll be able to help," I said smiling. "I don't even own a tackle box."
Denver scowled, not amused. "I think you can."
He spoke slowly and deliberately, keeping me pinned with that eyeball, ignoring the Starbucks groupies coming and going on the patio around us.
"I heard that when white folks go fishin they do something called 'catch and release.'"
Catch and release? I nodded solemnly, suddenly nervous and curious at the same time.
"That really bothers me," Denver went on. "I just can't figure it out. 'Cause when colored folks go fishin, we really proud of what we catch, and catch. . . in other words, we use it to sustain us. So it really bothers me that white folks would go through all that trouble to catch a fish, then they done caught it, just throw it back in the water."
He paused again, and the silence between us stretched a full minute.
Then: "Did you hear what I said?"
I nodded, afraid to speak, afraid to offend.
Denver looked away, searching the blue autum sky, then locked onto me again with that drill-bit stare. "So, Mr. Ron, it occured to me: If you is fishin for a friend you just gon' catch and release, then I ain't got no desire to be your friend."
The world seem to halt in midstride and fall silent around us like one of those freeze-frame scenes on TV. I could hear my heart pounding and imagined Denver could see it popping my breast pocket up and down. I returned Denver's gaze with what I hoped was a receptive expression and hung on.
Suddenly his eyes gentled and he spoke more softly than before: "But if you is lookin for a real friend, then I'll be one. Forever."
from Same Kind of Different as Me p. 106, 107
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