O, For Grace to Trust Him More

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. . .