Sitting and rocking a very ill little boy as his body reacted violently to a gluten ingestion began it all. Already restless in spirit, the stillness on Sunday morning came as a welcomed friend. Rarely do I stop. Truly stop.
And be still.
No book in hand, no journal, no laptop.
Just. Still.
Looking out the window the realization came that the color to describe this time of year is gold. The leaves are gold, the sun is gold, the light is gold. Perhaps I'm catching a reflection of that which awaits for me in eternity when I observe this gold. Veiled by a fallen earth, yet a bit shines through. The reminder that this is fragility and perfection awaits.
The heart grows homesick that that which is perfect and glorious.
Stillness rebuilds and clarifies. Gives insight and gives seed to reaffirmations of that which we hold to. Holds up goals to be examined and re-examined and prayed over. It is the review process of what is right and what needs to be changed.
The files turned as I sat there, between my little boy's sick sessions: parenting, the physical care of this temple, relationships, home school, marriage, writing goals, the pursuit of God. . . They came up, were explored, were clarified, and I came away more centered. Peaceful. I once again knew where I was and where I long to go.
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The day following and mulling over recent circumstances that we have found ourselves in and I remembered what I once said to a church member of the church we once held a position at.
"If people would pray about as much as they talked about, imagine what could happen!"
If I prayed instead of rehashed with my husband---what would happen?
If those who clustered in groups, speaking in quiet tones, prayed together instead---what would happen?
If the phone lines lit up with prayer rather than exchanging of opinions---what would happen?
Oh Holy Spirit, work in me so that I am a woman who prays about rather than talks about!
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But I do not know how to pray. I pray my opinions and thoughts of what should happen and shouldn't have happened and who people are and what they've done.
I pray myself, not His kingdom purposes.
Until the pages of Romans are turned and the words tell me the Spirit helps me pray. When I die to flesh and allow His Spirit to take over, prayer becomes brand new. For I no longer pray this heart of flesh, I pray the heart of the Father.
Being quiet and allowing Him to direct my prayers and surprise finds me.
"Really Father? You want me to pray that way?!"
Yes.
That is His way, not mine. His way so much better and wiser than mine.
Praying as He directs, my own heart and mind are molded and transformed. Opinions and judgements become heart burdens with tears. No longer feeling my own emotions, the burden of others' hearts weighs on mine and prayer is raised with tender compassion and aching for God's best. What I believe should happen recedes as I sense His heart and what He desires for His children, for His name.
It His heart weeping, having overcome mine.
It releases me from that which weighs me down. For now I bear His burden and that comes with a yoke which He shoulders with me.
Thy Kingdom come,
Thy will be done
On earth as it is in heaven. . .
