Even after all these years of church services, Sunday School classes, retreats and even Prayer Meetings, I can honestly say that I really don't understand prayer and the way it works. From childhood, I've been part of services, where the Saints spent time praying on their knees, no less, for "the sick" and "the lost." They asked for wisdom, for patience, for clarity and understanding.
My own prayers have never been so brave. Truthfully, I've always been a little afraid about what I would do if I prayed and God didn't answer. It just doesn't make sense to me that the person with the longest prayer chain is going to be healed. What about the mother who is alone as her child is dying? Does God care less for her? Does it mean that if I don't pray or forget to pray that someone may stay sick or "lost" because of me? I know, right. Lots of questions that are easily answered by most folks, or at least that's how it seems.
Last evening, as I walked, which is my own form of prayer, I offered up my usual prayers of confession and gratitude. This was less than 24 hours after my mental illness had threatened to rear it's ugly head. I confessed that I had chosen to check out at times, and I was thankful for the presence of the ones I love so dearly. As I kept walking I couldn't help but be amazed at prayers that had been answered that day that had not even been on anyone's list.
The sun was brilliant and warm at my parents' farm, and I had not even thought to ask God for it. We saw a buck run across the open field with the most beautiful dog in the world chasing behind him. I walked the woods with the man I love (a man I didn't even ask God for, come to think of it) and a daughter I adore, who both gifted me with their presence and love.
I ate with two healthy parents. I shot at targets with a pellet gun with my two beautiful sons. Sons that were getting along with each other on a holiday and even loving on their mom -- a true Thanksgiving miracle that guess who didn't pray for. Even the kite I like to fly at the farm went higher than it had ever been -- seriously. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
I kind of doubt that ten years ago I would have prayed for God to let me be a nearly 50 year old divorced mom, living in a house my parents own, driving a practically new 98 Chevy Van, continuing to pop Prozac and indulge in therapy while teaching 3rd grade where there are as many bedbugs as kids, but they are exactly the blessings that I am most thankful for. . .
My new prayer: O, For Grace to Trust Him More. . . God knows what is best for me. . .
Friday, November 23, 2012
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Election Day 2012
I watched the election returns this year with Walter. Unfortunately, I was already home by the time it was announced that Obama had been reelected. W. sent me a text filling me in on the news. I did a little victory dance in my head because I was too lazy to get out of bed for a real one.
I know, right. A little anticlimactic considering the importance of this election, but what's a teacher that has to get up at 5:30 am post election day going to do?
Post-Election Day 2008 I woke up at Ten Broeck Mental Hospital to ask the lab tech taking my blood if Obama had actually won. That was probably the only sane question I had asked in awhile or would be asking in the few months that followed.
As I've written many times before, that day ultimately led me to a 40 day stay at Renfrew, a residential treatment center for women with eating disorders.
This year election day the news was from my dad's family, reporting that one of our beloved "great-grandsons" (my cousin), Joseph, had suffered a heart attack while at college. (Joseph's only 20.) A fellow student performed CPR and then the EMT's were able to restart his heart with electric shocks. As with any large family that loves one another, the phone calls, emails and facebook updates don't always leave consistent information, but as of today, he remains in critical condition, with pneumonia while he is in a medically induced coma. Luckily, his EEG report is normal and we are more than hopeful for his recovery.
Joseph and his family have laid heavily on my heart and mind these last few days, and it has caused me to wonder what's the purpose of working so hard to find peace and contentedness when shitty things will always happen, no matter how "recovered" I might be.
Four years ago I was in the hospital from a brain that was starving, sleep-deprived and over-medicated. Today, I am well-fed with a clear mind, but Joseph is in a hospital with a heart that has failed him. So, what's the purpose of the 1000 plus days of my recovery in between these two election days?
Honestly, I'm not quite sure. Four or five years ago, I wouldn't have thought of Joseph every hour during the night. I would not have asked God to encourage and be a presence for his mom and dad, his grandparents. I would have spent my time counting calories, cutting and weighing myself -- there wouldn't have been time for anything else. The numbness in my heart and mind would have guarded me against any feelings for Joseph.
So while today seriously sucks and the days ahead could continue to be painful for my family, I continue to choose life and love because the ache in my heart serves to remind me that I have loved and been loved, that I have taken a risk to share in the joy and pain of the world around me. My feet are on the ground as I continue this life I've been given -- experiencing the moments as they come.
God bless Joseph.
I know, right. A little anticlimactic considering the importance of this election, but what's a teacher that has to get up at 5:30 am post election day going to do?
Post-Election Day 2008 I woke up at Ten Broeck Mental Hospital to ask the lab tech taking my blood if Obama had actually won. That was probably the only sane question I had asked in awhile or would be asking in the few months that followed.
As I've written many times before, that day ultimately led me to a 40 day stay at Renfrew, a residential treatment center for women with eating disorders.
This year election day the news was from my dad's family, reporting that one of our beloved "great-grandsons" (my cousin), Joseph, had suffered a heart attack while at college. (Joseph's only 20.) A fellow student performed CPR and then the EMT's were able to restart his heart with electric shocks. As with any large family that loves one another, the phone calls, emails and facebook updates don't always leave consistent information, but as of today, he remains in critical condition, with pneumonia while he is in a medically induced coma. Luckily, his EEG report is normal and we are more than hopeful for his recovery.
Joseph and his family have laid heavily on my heart and mind these last few days, and it has caused me to wonder what's the purpose of working so hard to find peace and contentedness when shitty things will always happen, no matter how "recovered" I might be.
Four years ago I was in the hospital from a brain that was starving, sleep-deprived and over-medicated. Today, I am well-fed with a clear mind, but Joseph is in a hospital with a heart that has failed him. So, what's the purpose of the 1000 plus days of my recovery in between these two election days?
Honestly, I'm not quite sure. Four or five years ago, I wouldn't have thought of Joseph every hour during the night. I would not have asked God to encourage and be a presence for his mom and dad, his grandparents. I would have spent my time counting calories, cutting and weighing myself -- there wouldn't have been time for anything else. The numbness in my heart and mind would have guarded me against any feelings for Joseph.
So while today seriously sucks and the days ahead could continue to be painful for my family, I continue to choose life and love because the ache in my heart serves to remind me that I have loved and been loved, that I have taken a risk to share in the joy and pain of the world around me. My feet are on the ground as I continue this life I've been given -- experiencing the moments as they come.
God bless Joseph.
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