Mercy prayers and stories

Faith, family, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

 

Lord, have mercy...

Lord, have mercy…

What makes some of us anxious, even excited to share our days before coming to Christ while others keep their stories hidden? My grandmother, “Bama”, the daughter of a Methodist minister would start up conversations wherever she found opportunity.

A petite woman, dressed in crisp blouses and slacks, she found joy in engaging with others.  She always found a way to listen and make others believe she completely understood.

She was merciful.  She gave mercy.  Had received mercy.

She was an interested listener, so people shared. She didn’t have to be in church to talk about Jesus, about her faith and sometimes about us, struggles she was praying about or had made it through.

The favor she’d been shown, inherited, carried her through to a place of unashamed sharing her story of redemption and drawing out the stories of those she met.

Some said she shared too much information; was nosy and annoying but, she kept right on connecting in the beauty shop, the dime store or the fellowship hall. She was telling and listening to testimonies, stories of Jesus.

One morning last week, praying before the workday, I thanked God for my salvation through His Son, Jesus Christ.  And then, thoughts becoming prayers, I prayed “God, thank you for saving me long before I asked.”

Isn’t this the prayer of every person who has finally come to Jesus?

The story of every person who like Zacchaeus, wanting to know Jesus; but, believing too much wrongdoing and greed made him unworthy.  Or maybe like the Samaritan woman, shamed by wrong choices, yet welcomed by Jesus in the presence of those who scorned her.  Or the leper, discarded and avoided, yet embraced by the love of Jesus.  Wouldn’t it be amazing to have testimony Sunday and hear Zacchaeus telling, excitedly about Jesus wanting to dine with him, wanting to save him!  Imagine the Samaritan woman standing behind the pulpit in your church, and tearfully describing the welcoming salvation of Jesus despite her sins. I can hear her telling of the love she felt when Jesus defended her against the comments of onlookers who labeled her unclean and even reported to Jesus her record of sin.  What a touching and beautiful time it would be to see the horribly disfigured and cast aside leper standing in your sanctuary, healthy and radiantly smiling describing the healing hand of God, through Jesus!

Every one of them could proclaim, the Psalmist’s words

Praise God, who did not ignore my prayer and did not withdraw His unfailing love from me!  Psalm 66:20

Jesus was saving them before he even encountered them, for His best, waiting to offer redemption in simple, yet intentional encounters.

I learned about the struggles of two friends in our church recently. Both shared, through tears, and shaky voices glimpses into their lives before they were walking with God.  Both caught me by surprise. Powerful testimonies and disclosures of damaging choices and paths wrongly taken, spoken as examples of grace.  It would make sense to wonder, “Why are they sharing so much?”  or “How can they admit their mistakes in front of a church full of people who really did not need to know?”

Because, they know what it means to Tell the Story of Jesus, the story of His truth, “Truth Telling”, I like to call it.

I sometimes think I have a bit of my grandma in me.  I am drawn to the stories of others.  I love to share stories of His place in my heart, my life.

And just like the redeemed in the pews or in the parking lot or waiting in line at the checkout, I’m comparing notes, comparing encounters with Jesus who saved me.

Answered my prayer, seeking mercy.

I’m remembering a time of failure and devastation when the preacher from the tiny little white church stopped by to visit…he’d heard my story…everyone had.

And when I asked,  “How can I get through this?”

His kind and gentle voice answered firmly,

“Just pray for mercy.”

I did. I still do.

And now,  like my grandma. I love to listen and tell.

Stories of Jesus and His mercy.

What’s your story of Jesus, your redemption story, your truth?

Your  “Lord, have mercy” story ?

Come and listen, all you who fear God, and I will tell you what He did for me. Psalm 66:16 

 

Believing the unseen, the untold

Children, family, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability
Pine cones and blue feathers

Pine cones and blue feathers

I’m journaling still, the prayer of Jabez.

Seated next to my little vignette of things I love.

Intricacies of nature…a pine cone from a mountain trip and two bluebird feathers found on a heavy day.

Reflecting on the detail of God’s handiwork.

Of God’s hand.

Quiet mornings are my spiritual discipline.

My soul craves this abiding.

I rest in this refreshing, this refining.

I am on Day 17 of my yearning to pray like Jabez.

I have been blessed by the simplicity of belief.

Jabez, the son whose mother declared he was born in pain, the meaning of his name. Yet,  was found to be more honorable than his brothers. More honorable because he decided and declared to trust God to change the course of his life, asking God to bless him, put good people around him, stay near, and finally to make sure he caused no one pain.

I long to know when  exactlyJabez came to God with his request.

A request of show me your glory, God.

Show them your glory.

I read further, hoping to hear the story of a little boy unwanted by family, yet cherished by God.

I hoped to open my Bible to I Chronicles and discover verses descriptive of a confident, glorious transformation.

Taking my Jabez prayer journey a little deeper, maybe more like my little girl story, who late in life has come to believe she is worthy.

But, just three sentences. A prayer is all.

And I’m left wondering about Jabez, the child who had to believe what he did not see…what he was not told.

That he was called by name, by God and that God was with him. Isaiah 43:1  That nothing about him was unknown to God.

There’s a little girl in me who longs to know the difference a name could make.

A little girl, I remember on her sixth birthday, wearing stiff, white collared dress and patent leather shoes, lace edged socks on gently swinging feet.

Little girl, surrounded in a circle of lounge chair seated cousins, under the lavender dripping wisteria vines.

Bobbed hair, smiling sweetly, shyly.

The little girl whose mama wanted to name her Libby.

But, daddy said ” No, that’s a can of peaches.”

The only birthday I remember

That day, I felt like Libby.

That sweet child was Libby.

Little girl Lisa Anne, a different child.

Staying hidden, quiet and hyper observant,

The one to cause no pain, no problems.

Quiet, non-existent. Wanting to be noticed. But, not be noticed.

A long, long, doubtful journey to now.

Lisa, now prayerfully thanking God for good and seeking good.

No more days of a God and a love I could never measure up to.

A Lisa who walks with an understanding of what wasn’t seen, wasn’t spoken…an understanding of a God with me, strong hand upon me all of my life….guiding me, reminding me, leading me to Lisa here.

Fearing not.

Doubting not.

Shaming myself not.

Because, I have and have had everything I need, fearing no evil, no unknowns…Surely goodness and love will follow me for all the days of my life. Psalm 23

Blessings all along, I’ve finally opened hands to receive.

With me and for me all the while

 

 

 

 

humble believer – the one believed to fail

Faith, family, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized

10151571383356203_kindlephoto-15892524

Pretty soon, I’m taking a trip down country roads.

A neighboring county where the roads become pretty hills and valleys, oak trees and old barns, daffodils blooming freestyle.

I’ll be looking for an old country cemetery that might have one headstone marked with the name belonging to an ancestor on my daddy’s side.

An ancient military man named Jabez Hendrix.

My brother, connecting and seeking, a habit of his.

A longing, perhaps to understand more, to fill in missing pieces and endings to stories that might be clearer, happier and hopeful.

Just so happens Jabez Hendrix is buried close by.

In the meantime, I am fascinated by Jabez of the Bible.

Just a few sentences about one son in a family of several sons.

Likened to the runt of a large breed of pups.

The one that caused mama dog pain, scrawny and most likely not the pick of the litter. The son whose name meant “bore in pain”.

Yet, he believed and trusted God for more.

Was bold enough to grasp the possibility of a God who created all.

Was confident enough to request more than just enough

Was humble enough to ask for God to stay close by, to ask for God to keep his hand ever present.

Yet, he knew of frailty and falling  asking God, “keep me from evil.”

Jabez, born to fail, believed in more.

Asked for more and received.

I’m praying like Jabez going on four days now.

Thinking of the blessings God has for me.

The blessings I never thought to ask for

The people he wants to place on my path

The broadening of my territory, my influence and influencers.

His hand, at my humble request kept securely close

Keeping me from evil.

Oh, that You would bless me indeed, and enlarge my territory, that Your hand would be with me, and that You would keep me from evil…So God granted him what he requested. I Chronicles 4: 9-10

The one who was most shy, most awkward, most likely to hide away.

The one searching for identity and getting lost in life, disconnected, disowned, discarded

I am the one who believes, finally in God.

His hand upon me.

His placing and planning of my territory.

His keeping me from evil.

Loved by God, the one with less than hopeful beginning and rebellious crazy, scary middle.

Fascinated and acquainted with God’s Jabez

The humble believer.

A courageous soldier, ancient uncle, laid to rest in a country cemetery a country ride away.

 

 

happy slumber

Children, family, Motherhood, rest, Uncategorized, Vulnerability, wonder
Slumbering

Slumbering

Last year this time, I headed home down ice abused streets.

Glancing towards windows as I drove.

Hoping for homes illuminated by the magic of electricity.

Ice ravaged our trees, our streets, tested our Southern spirits.

Walking into my den, I’m greeted by a den floor covered in mattresses.

Every blanket, quilt, afghan, cover or spread.

Beautifully, tidy and pretty.

My daughter has made our beds…and I am greeted with love and happy colors.

Everyone’s recalling the storm of 2014.

And I, this morning, in the quiet of early am cherishing this…

The time we slumbered together next to the fire.

When Heather made the beds.

Remembering now, my eyes moisten from the sweetness.

The happy place in the storm.

The happy slumber.

 

 

The catalyst, Colt

courage, Faith, family, Trust, Vulnerability
Photo credit - my beautiful school teacher daughter aka the Dog Whisperer

Photo credit – my beautiful school teacher daughter aka the Dog Whisperer

Most situations, crises, questions to be answered, issues resolved have a turning point…a turning of stubborn will or surrender and acceptance.

A tipping point, catalyst, straw- breaking camel’s back revelation.

Colt, a chocolate lab was I thought, the catalyst for us.

He almost went back to the shelter.

Me, in “I’ll show you.” mode.

My stubborn, I’ll show you ways almost made a point.

More than surrendering a shelter dog.

So much more about to be thrown back, given up on.

I am prone to making points and then quietly walking away.

Points that solve very little but make big statements.

Statements that say, “No more!  I am standing up for me!”.

Statements that are quick and decisive, for the sake of the upper hand.

Years of trauma make acceptance and waiting hard.

We kept Colt.

The catalyst, not a breaking point.

He’s settled in. So have I.

Into a bending.

A beautiful bending, a “Keeping”

Colt, the catalyst, the big change.

Yet the Lord longs to be gracious to you; He rises to show you compassion. For the Lord is a God of justice. Blessed are all who wait for Him. Isaiah 30:18

of great significance and value

courage, Faith, family, Prayer, Teaching, Trust, Uncategorized, wonder

 

Press on - knees down, heads up

Press on – knees down, heads up

I’m not superstitious and don’t believe in luck or ritual.

Yet, when I glance down to find a penny on heads, I feel favor.

A shiny, but weathered coin, yet stoic forward facing.

Lincoln’s profile reminds of my father.

Strong jaw, contemplative eyes.

Favoring and reminding me of his heart, good and honest, although worn, battered and beaten by life.

A penny on heads early this morning in the chaos of the laundry room, I pick it up and smile, slipping it into the pocket of my robe.

Of great significance to me

A house is built by wisdom and becomes strong through good sense.  Through knowledge its rooms are filled with all sorts of precious riches and valuables. Proverbs 24:3-4

Common sense, a strong and honest heart, my father’s legacy.

Life beckons me to move courageously.

Quietly and confidently

With great significance

I am worthy and valued.

My fathers, both of them have told me so.

2014 in review – learning by doing what you believe you can

courage, Faith, family, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability
Walking in the clouds

Walking in the clouds

Last night, my friend Ray Visotski read about my waning confidence and advised simply,  “Just keep writing.”  A second comment came from David Kanigan, a resounding  three letters,  “Yes.” And so, I will.

This morning, I am thinking of my most recent Children’s sermon in which I challenged a handful of boys and girls to tell me something they were afraid to do.  One little boy described his zip line experiences …staring across a cable from a little perch, wanting to let go, but afraid.  He was happy to share how good it felt to take a chance, to be confident, his sweet face beaming as he recalled the challenge.

He believed he could accomplish what the guide told him he could.

I asked the children if they realized how afraid Mary was when she was told she would be Jesus’ mother.  I shared with them her doubts, fears, disbelief.

I told them of her encounter with Elizabeth who shared with her the one powerful truth that grounded her and led her on.

Blessed is the one who believes what the Lord has said will be accomplished. Luke 1:25

I am thinking this morning of this truth. Having just returned from a trip to the mountains on which my sister’s family and ours challenged ourselves on a hike, walked through waterfalls, ate good food, laughed and loved…All under the planning of my brother-in-law who was insistent and intentional in our 3 days being memorable.

He has the personality of a believer, a thinker, a risk-taker. He jokes about my deep thinking writing, yet instructs me to explore opportunities with my blog. He believes I can be a successful writer and artist. He believes I can accomplish more than hobby.

If I have the chance, I plan to ask him if what I believe of his journey towards his current success as a businessman and ingenious CEO was motivated by the one thing I am convinced of:

(S) He believed he could, so He did.

Here’s my summary of progress thus far in this journey of believing.

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,800 times in 2014. If it were a cable car, it would take about 47 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

Peace – a quiet outpouring

Children, Faith, family, Prayer, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability
He is our peace.

He is our peace.

I heard, last night about the tragic death of an eight year old boy.

This past week, I met the parents of a 26 year old who decided life and it’s struggles compounded by his own unique obstacles was too hard.

His mama, daddy and sister are grieving and profoundly sad at Christmas.

A grown man, for the most part a stranger has accepted my small gesture of being available to listen, and has retold his story through tears a few times now.

Listening, nodding.  Being like-minded in the value of God’s peace are all I am capable of, even competent to provide as a support, a resource.

Because, the unfathomable has occurred.

The horrors that only leave a resounding “Why” and the aching pain in the chests, ribs and souls of those who grieve.

And now at home, the eve of Christmas Eve, discord at home rears it’s hateful head.

A whirlwind of exchange of anger, frustration, hurt and rivalry has been an occasional upheaval within our walls.

Siblings at different stages of life passages are simply incompatible.

Love and forgiveness, a bending of opinions, unique wills has to reign.

Mamas fight with all of their being to mediate.

To see both sides, to beg for bending, understanding, apologetic acts.

Yet, we’re torn when division grows broader, deeper.

When discord remains for more than a verbal match or a slammed door.

Moments passed, the house became quiet and I sat, positioned facing our tree, rain falling, shimmery lights and my homemade paper ornaments swaying slightly as reminders of my Christmas goals for this year:

Joy

Peace

Hope

Love

And I sat a little while, thinking I need to calm down. I need to pray.

Nevertheless, I just sat.

Absorbing, experiencing the dull ache of anxiety.

Half-heartedly allowing thoughts to fake their way from my mind, masquerading as prayers.

Lord, help this stop. Lord, this has to stop….

Finally, I walk determinedly towards my bedside and I kneel.

Resting, face on carpet, I pour out my heart to God.

The ritual becomes a peaceful ease, a flow without restraint, an outpouring.

I pray for the horrific loss of a little boy at Christmas. I pray for the profound loss of the mom and dad who will recall on Christmas Day the tragic suicide of a son just 3 weeks ago.

And I pray, surrendered to God through His Son Jesus, that I will follow Him through storms of change, aiming to create discord.

Follow His design for me as a mother to my children, a wife as a Child of God, the one whose goal is a family that loves God.

Mostly, that I will know and believe more strongly that

Discord is not of God.

That God is not responsible for the stealing of my Joy, of my Peace. Of my Hope.  Of my family.

That I am strongest on my knees in prayerful surrender; not in a place of “Why me” random requests spilling from anxious, angry or dissatisfied frustration.

Because, when I pray with open heart, mind and hands, He himself is my Peace.

Jesus was born into a world of discord, of plans for evil, not good.

He was, after all turned away to be born in a stable. He was finally, despised, rejected and crucified for us, to be our salvation and our solace through the powerful Holy Spirit our gift of Grace connection to God.

And so He himself is our peace…The only peace in a world where Sin has entered in and has torn our hearts and souls for a longing, an imploring to abide in Him…in solemn and sincere opening of heart for Peace on Earth.

Peace I leave with you; my Peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.  John 14:27

His peace, written in red for us, we are His disciples.

Peace, joy, love, hope are ours when we abide in Him through prayer this Christmas.

Adore

Children, Faith, family, Motherhood, Uncategorized, wonder

IMG_20140709_080051_kindlephoto-26148347

I love pretty words.

The last time I used the word “adore” was to describe a photo of my daughter.

I cannot recall the occasion, maybe birthday.

She sat on the couch, looked over and smiled

Beauty, grace and love captured in a snap.

Her beautiful blue eyes.

Her confident, determined ease.

I refreshed my memory on the definition of “adore” and so understand the writer’s exhortation now as we are prompted

” Oh, come let us adore Him.”

Asking, the onlookers, ancient and amazed…to adore Christ the Lord!

And so, let us adore Him, let us overflow with joy, excitement and love as we humbly and blessedly imagine the beauty of the newborn king, our glorious Savior.

Five-Minute-Friday-4

Mommy not Mama

Children, family, Motherhood, rest, Teaching, Vulnerability

2014-12-03 14.17.31

Last night, my daughter was exhausted and cold.

Wrapped tightly in a quilt and settled in on the couch, she asked me to wake her before going to bed.

“Okay” I said, thinking  “It’s really late.”

She needed to finish something so it was important I wake her up, she said.

The “something” I discovered was two loads of laundry…her 4K students’ covers for nap time.

Princess covers, gingham checks, Batman, Tranformers and fluffy, daisy colors

 There had been a “bug” going around, she said.  “My babies need clean covers.”

I let her sleep while I folded.

Warm and sweet-smelling from the dryer, then with  sentimental bittersweetness, took my time stacking fleecy fabric into the container next to her door for early morning ease.

I lightly roused her from sleep. Told her, “Good night, I love you.”

Then I fell asleep, thinking “There’s no better feeling than waking a sleeping child and being met by a tender smile and wobbly legs finding their way towards bed.”

That’s Mommy, not mama.

Mommy moments like this have no expiration date or age limit…timeless love.