A Freshly Cracked Clay Jar

A Freshly Cracked Clay JarA reflection on my recent experience of removing the implants I had inserted after breast cancer.

The absurd difficulty of deeply loving myself and offering self-compassion the way I freely offer it to others was laid bare as I recovered from yet another surgery. This time, the implants came out; I did not know this surgery had a special name, “explant” surgery. If I knew then, what I know now, I probably would have opted for a flat chest after a bi-lateral mastectomy for two kinds of breast cancer—Oh yes, I am an over-achiever.

I was not sure twelve years ago, that I would choose additional surgery so that at age forty-six I could continue to look like a “natural woman.” But my daughter was only in fourth grade. What will it be like for her to begin developing what I recently had cut off? Does she understand this? Would it help for her mom to look “normal” in a bathing suit, on family vacations, or when she catches a glimpse through a cracked bathroom door? I cannot make up for the fact that her mom was incapacitated for the better part of nine months of grueling treatment that plastered me to the bed in ways I could not have imagined. Breast implant surgery seemed like one way to re-claim a sense of normal for me, and maybe for everyone. We could not get the time back, but Mom looked closer to how she used to look.

But then, one day, my body decided it had enough of foreign objects inside, and on Palm Sunday, 2019, I woke up to a bright red, inflamed chest on the right side. I felt well enough, so off I went to lead worship at the church where I am the pastor, to wave our palm branches and read the Passion story. I called my oncologist the next day and that week began to schedule an MRI. It appeared as though the implant had ruptured, and the silicone was leaking, or that the scar tissue around the implant had begun to contract, causing it to bulge. I was immediately referred to a plastic surgeon for explant surgery, but it would be six and a half weeks before it happened.

It was not as bad as chemotherapy of course. I could still work, but the inflammation in my body traveled up my neck and caused a chronic headache that did not stop until I was in surgery recovery. I was so pleased and excited to relieve my body of this awful battle, I never even thought about having to grieve the loss of breasts a second time…until the bandages and tape came off. After that, I could not get out of the shower without crying.

My pectoral muscles—damaged by radiation and then stretched to hold an implant—“roller-shaded” up toward my shoulder, leaving nothing but a very thin layer of skin over my rib cage. The ribs do not protrude quite as noticeably on the left side where there was no radiation, but it is still a concave pocket. The grief over my new look surprised me since I was so relieved to feel better—in fact, once I recovered from surgery, I felt better than I had since the implants were inserted.

But as I peered at the new me in the mirror, all I could think was that I looked like Frankenstein and the Grinch in some horror-movie combination. Jagged scars across protruding bones looked as if this part of my body was suffering starvation; this image that was complemented by a concave scoop to my chest curving outward toward the round “mommy pouch” my first OB/GYN told me was my badge of honor for giving birth to three children. Dress me up in a Grinch costume and it would be a perfect fit for Halloween. Who could love this body? I did not. How was I going to get through this grief when I cannot even shower and dress for a new day without tears and a feeling of horror?

I brought my grief and pain to my spiritual director; I needed God to give me a way to cope. I told her my horror-movie Frankenstein-Grinch combo story. She looked at me and asked a question I never, ever would have thought to ask: “What do Frankenstein and the Grinch have to offer you? What gift do they bring?”

What a strange question! This was a negative image, not a positive one for me, so why would she ask that? I pondered her question despite my skepticism. A slow dawning floated up through heaviness of my mind, like bubbles rising in champagne. “They were both loved in the end—and it did not matter what they looked like—those who loved them did not care!”

A clip from the movie, “Young Frankenstein” with Madeline Kahn popped into my head. “You little zipper neck” she said, and "Oh, you men are all alike, seven or eight quick ones and you're off with the boys to boast and brag. You better keep your mouth shut…Oh, I think I love him."

And all the Who’s in Whoville never noticed and did not care that the Grinch had a concave chest and a pot belly—they loved him and let him carve the Christmas roast beast.

It seemed so obvious once I realized this, but my own body made me blind to the images of power I had identified. Those who truly love me, do because of who I am, regardless of how I look—and my husband has even said so, “I will take you any way you come—you are alive!”

Can I take me anyway I come? Can I care for myself with compassion and body-love no matter how misshapen I may look or feel?

But we have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us. 8 We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; 9 persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; 10 always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be made visible in our bodies. ~2 Corinthians 4:7-10

Frankenstein and the Grinch have offered me a new view of God’s extraordinary power and love, along with the life of Jesus residing in my freshly cracked clay jar.

This essay is published in the new book, House of Compassion, a publication of Retreat House Spirituality Center in Richardson, Texas. House of Compassion is the third book in a series published this year: House of Love, February, 2019; House of Hope, May, 2019--I have essays in both of those books and hope to have on in the fourth book due out in December, 2019.

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A Lost Child and The Heart of God

A Lost Child and The Heart of GodA Message for Pentecost 14 on Luke 15:1-10 and 1 Timothy 1:12-17 given on September 15, 2019 at St. Luke's Lutheran Church in Richardson, Texas

It was one of those rare perfect Saturdays. Dan had no church duties and there were no emergencies at the children’s hospital where I was an on-call chaplain on the weekends. A fresh blanket of snow coated Kansas City with that winter-wonderland feeling. Our oldest son, Daniel, who was 3 at the time, had received his first sled for Christmas the month before, so it seemed like the ideal day to break it in and take him and Jacob, who was 16 months old, for their first day of sledding.

We headed off to the park and took pictures of their exuberant faces, full of pure joy, as they experienced the wonder of snow, sled, speed and sun that combined for a shining moment of glory as they slid down the hill. We built a snow family and sledded some more. When we were tired and cold, we headed home for lunch and naps. The boys shared a room, but for naps, we put Daniel in our bed so they would actually sleep, which they did quickly.

Dan and I took advantage of their nap time to work on our painting project in the playroom—we were stenciling a train full of circus animals at chair rail height around the room. It was right at the bottom of the stairs, so if Daniel got up and came downstairs, we would easily hear him.

Over an hour passed and we had not heard a peep from upstairs, so I went up to check on them. Jacob was still sound asleep, but when I went to check on Daniel, the covers were pushed back, and the bed was empty. I shouted down to Dan that Daniel was not in the bed and searched the rest of the upstairs—bathroom, closets, under the beds. Nothing. I could not imagine how he could have come downstairs without us hearing him. I had mom-hearing—I heard a cough, a footstep, a wimper, from a dead sleep. How could I not hear a 3-year old on the stairs in the middle of the day?

We looked downstairs and then in the kitchen, where we saw the back door ajar. I ran outside while Dan searched the basement. The gate was closed, but Daniel was not in our fenced-in yard, and we lived on a busy corner. I ran through the gate, looked up and down the side street calling his name, I rushed to the corner where cars were going up and down the city street at 35 miles/hour, shouting his name in every direction but saw and heard nothing, but traffic.

I went back inside to ask Dan if it was time to call 911. The only thing that was preventing me from having a complete meltdown, was that Jacob was still in the crib upstairs and would wake up any minute. Dan finished tying his shoes and said he would look for Daniel, and for me to wait before I called for help. As if on cue, Jacob started crying, and Dan went outside to search for our lost child.

"Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it? ….Or what woman having ten silver coins, if she loses one of them, does not light a lamp, sweep the house, and search carefully until she finds it?"

God is a shepherd searching for the one sheep who left the other ninety-nine. God is a woman searching for the one coin that is lost from the other nine. God is a parent searching for the one child who left without a sound.

Can you imagine the heart of God, the creator of the cosmos—whose image is imprinted on every human being, whose recycled stardust exists in every person ever made,whose Holy Spirit dwells inside every person you have ever met—can you imagine the immensity of God’s heart and God’s love?

I can hardly bear to re-tell this story about Daniel and it was twenty-two years ago, and I am just one mom—a sinful human being who lost one child.

Can you imagine the heart of God breaking when people are lost to faith, when others walk away, when still others choose evil, when others step away in silence, when still more refuse to even consider a relationship with the living God, and when even in our own hearts, we turn away and make so many other things more important than the ground of our being, the foundation of the universe, the source of our life, and the very heart of love?

Can you imagine the heart of God breaking when, like the Pharisees wondering why Jesus is hanging out with tax collectors and sinners, we judge others, and in so doing, reveal that we are more lost than those we judge?

Can you imagine the God that Jesus knows—the one who is always searching to find the lost, yearning for the hard-hearted to soften, and hoping for those who have walked away to return?

This is the God the Apostle Paul knew when he was found on the Damascus road with a blinding light and the voice of Jesus calling him to faith. Paul offers his testimony:

I am grateful to Christ Jesus our Lord...because he appointed me to his service even though I was formerly a blasphemer, a persecutor, and a man of violence. But I received mercy because I had acted ignorantly in unbelief, and the grace of our Lord overflowed for me with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus. The saying is sure and worthy of full acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the foremost. But for that very reason I received mercy, so that in me, as the foremost, Jesus Christ might display the utmost patience, making me an example to those who would come to believe in him for eternal life. 

Paul was found by the God who sent Jesus to search for the lost, to search for us--a shepherd looking for a lost sheep, a woman searching for a lost coin, a parent in a panic for their lost child.

I still have an image of Dan sitting in the living room tying his tennis shoes with a fierce determination to find Daniel. Then he went out the door and I went upstairs to get Jacob up from his nap. It took all the presence of mind I could muster to talk myself through changing a diaper, so I would not scare this sweet boy by totally falling apart. The terror I felt was unlike anything I have ever felt before. I worked at a Children’s Hospital—I knew what happened to toddlers when they walked out of the house unawares.

As I came downstairs with Jacob in my arms, Dan walked in the front door with Daniel’s hand in his. I put Jacob down and I dropped to the floor in a puddle of tears and I hugged Daniel like my life depended on it. I have never known relief so sweet, so deep, so agonizing as I did in that moment. And gratitude. And joy.

A neighbor from three doors down, Gerald, whom we had never met, was walking Daniel up to the house when Dan had gone out looking for him. Our pediatrician concluded that Daniel went sleepwalking that afternoon, so he did not make any noise coming down the stairs. Something about the exhaustion of sledding and the deep sleep that came afterward combined for this isolated incident. He climbed over the gate and walked in his stocking feet down the side of the house and around the corner.

Gerald was a bass player and as he was loading his string bass into the car for work that night, he saw this little boy walking alone down the sidewalk, without a coat, crying, with his shoes in his hand. He seemed in a bit of a fog, but Gerald managed to engage him in conversation, during which Daniel woke up. Gerald asked him if he knew where he lived. Daniel said, “6101 Rockhill Road” and Gerald realized that was just a few houses up.

He took Daniel inside his house to help him put his shoes on. That was about the same time I ran to the corner and saw nothing. When Dan went out to look a second time, he met them on the sidewalk. “I’m so glad you’re not a child molester,” I said to Gerald through tears. It is still the strangest compliment I have ever given.

We have a God who sent Jesus to search for the lost, to search for us—a shepherd looking for a lost sheep, a woman searching for a lost coin, a parent in a panic for their lost child.

We have a Savior who calls the church to join him in searching for the lost—a church that ties its tennis shoes in fierce determination each week to find the lost—to let people know how much God loves them, to share that forgiveness is free and grace is unearned, to let them know they can come home because the table is set, the party is planned, and we are ready to celebrate—"for there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents."

There is joy, oh is there joy at the feast of forgiveness and the festival of being found. So, come to the table with joy. For today, you are found, and you are forgiven, and we will all rejoice with the angels.

Image: This is not my favorite picture from that fateful day--that one is in a frame in a box yet unpacked from our last move, but this is close! The other picture is on the sled with Daniel's arms protectively around Jacob.

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Carrying Our Cross with Philemon

Blog picA Message for Pentecost 13 on Philemon 1:1-21 and Luke 14:25-33 on September 8, 2019 at St. Luke's Lutheran Church in Richardson, Texas

Anyone who’s been a parent, or loved a child into adulthood, knows the anguish and the anxiety of releasing a child into the world—of sending them across the state or across the country to move into the next phase of their life, be it college or their first job.

I received a letter with this kind of concern from a parent—well, actually, it was a message on Facebook, but in today’s world, that constitutes a letter! A friend wrote and shared that her daughter was driving to Austin for an internship and she could stay at our house on the way. We were delighted, especially since we rely on similar hospitality from other parents for two of our college-age children in Missouri.

It’s a letter that most of us have both written and received—seeking the blessing of someone else’s love for our child and sharing our love for someone else’s family member.

The book of Philemon is also such a letter—a letter written by the Apostle Paul to Philemon. Paul writes as Onesimus’ Father—not his blood relative—but instead, as his father in the body of Christ, his father in faith who brought the Gospel message to Onesimus. Rather than being sent by mail ahead of time, Onesimus carries this letter in his pocket as he travels from Paul, who was imprisoned in a different town.

The circumstances of this letter are different from the one my friend sent, because Onesimus is Philemon’s slave. But at its core, this really was the same letter for it carried in the anxiety and anguish of a parent sending his child into the world. Paul is sending Onesimus back to a difficult situation because Onesimus, who is owned by Philemon, has left him. We are not sure why or how—but Onesimus fled from Philemon to Paul who is the founder of the Christian community that gathers in Philemon’s house.

More than a simple night of lodging, this letter carries in it, life and death for Onesimus. In the first century, a slave who left his master and owner without permission, would have been severely punished or even put to death for his transgression. This is part of our own country’s history country, so we understand all too well, the implications of Onesimus’ situation.

Imagine the fear and trembling with which Onesimus traveled—wondering if this short letter in his pocket is sufficient to persuade Philemon to spare his life and not give him the punishment allowed by law.

In the letter in Onesimus’ pocket, Paul reveals to Philemon that Onesimus has become a believer in Jesus Christ, and because of this, he appeals to Philemon to end the owner-slave relationship. Paul encourages Philemon to forego his legal rights as a slave-owner, and instead, to transform their relationship to one of brothers—as equals—in the body of Christ.

This is the hard, spiritual work of walking the walk instead of just talking the talk. Paul beckons Philemon to leave behind social stratifications and class privileges and instead to live by Galatians 3:28, “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.”

“I am sending you my own child,” says, Paul, “my very heart”—a precious one whom Jesus loves and forgives and saves—he is Jesus’ possession, not yours, Philemon, so change how think about Onesimus, so you can be freed to behave differently toward him—not as one who commands his behavior as an owner, but as one who loves him as a brother in Christ Jesus.”

In the words of Jesus, Paul is asking Philemon to “carry his cross”—to choose suffering for the sake of the sake of the Gospel, to choose sacrifice for the sake of another, to choose loss for the sake of Jesus’s purpose, and God’s claim on all of who we are and all that we “think” we possess. Grace is free but to live in that freedom for Onesimus comes at a cost for Philemon—so “count the cost” of discipleship. To make Onesimus his brother in Christ could mean financial loss, loss of social status, it could make others in the community, including his own family, angry.

Paul says clearly: “Philemon, it’s not enough that you believe in Jesus’ love, forgiveness and power, Jesus asks you to behave with his love, forgiveness and power. Let go of your rights and the anger that goes with them, and change your behavior, transform your relationship with, and reform your treatment of Onesimus.”

This is the best part, Paul adds, “I could command you to do it—for I am in authority over you, but I want you to choose it through the power of Christ who dwells in you. Can you receive this son of mine, my own child, my own heart, into your home and care for him as your own child, your own brother, rather than a slave?”

As in so many other passages, Scripture does not give us the satisfaction of telling us the end of the story. What happened? Did Philemon forgive Onesimus and love him as a brother in Christ? Did the church gathered in his house, join Philemon in receiving Onesimus as a brother, carrying the cross of true Christian community and equality in Christ?

The only answer we have is the one we ourselves choose. Paul’s letter asks us if we will forego our rights and privileges accorded us by race, income, education or other measures to love others as equal brothers and sisters in the body of Christ our Lord, loving them as we do our very own family. Paul’s letter asks us to extend the radical love of Christ himself in our relationships, communities and churches.

Last Thursday, I was at a meeting at the Richardson School District with their Community Relations office and the non-profit, Unite the Church which is working to build community relationships between faith communities and schools. They are working together to pair every school in the district paired with a house of worship to build relationships, help with needs, support teachers and families, and do whatever is possible to be a connected community that works together to educate our children.

Our new Justice and Advocacy Team is exploring a relationship with the High School since we are right next door—we would look for other church partners as well since it is a big school.

At this meeting, I also learned that the Richardson School District just received 500 new children who were recently released from detention at the border—most of whom are from Honduras. The Dallas School District received 1,000 students.

Our schools need our support in helping these families because each one of these children, like Onesimus, has a letter in their pocket. A letter from Jesus himself that carries life and death and says, “this is my precious child, my heart. Please receive her and love her as you would your own child.”

Today is God’s Work, Our Hands Service Sunday. Right after church, you can help the Hunger Helpers pack lunches so that everyone of us has a few meals in our car that we can give with a smile and a prayer to someone who is begging on the corner—because every homeless person has a letter in their pocket from Jesus himself, that carries life and death and says, “this is my precious child, my heart. Please receive him and love him as you would your own child.”

Some of us will do God’s Work, Our Hands service at the Richardson Civic Center after church packing meals for Feeding Children Everywhere, and some of those meals will stay right here in our area. That’s because nearly 60% of children in this school district are receiving free and reduced lunches. Richardson High School and other schools are opening food pantries on site. Network of Community Ministries now has a mobile refrigerated food pantry truck going to some of our schools. Every one of those hungry children at school have a letter in their pocket from Jesus himself that carries life and death and says, “this is my precious child, my heart. Please receive her and love her as you would your own child.”

Paul makes one final promise in his letter for Onesimus: If Onesimus owes you anything, any money for labor lost, charge it to me. And when I come back to you, I will pay the price of whatever he owes.

Paul himself is walking the walk instead of just talking the talk. I will pay the price myself. Paul is not just counting the cost, he is paying the price. He is the living example of the love of Christ in action—carrying his cross—in his willingness to suffer for the sake of life for others.

We hear in Paul’s own transformed heart, the promise of Jesus Christ to all of us. Paul calls us to join him and Philemon in relinquishing our rights whether of citizenship or church membership, whether of race, education or class, and instead, allow Jesus to transform our lives around his love, which has paid the price for us.

We are the Pauls and the Philemons of the church today, carrying the cross, and embracing everyone as our sister and brother in Christ, for don’t we each have a letter in our pocket from Jesus himself, that carries life and death and says, “this is my precious child, my heart. Please receive him and love her as you would your own child.”


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High Maintenance and the Holy Spirit

High Maintenance and the Holy SpiritA sermon for the 7th Sunday After Pentecost on Luke 11:1-13 on July 28, 2019 at St. Luke's Lutheran Church, Richardson, Texas

This year marks the 30th anniversary if the iconic movie, When Harry Met Sally—the first date movie that my husband, Dan and I saw together, and has been part of our relational dialog ever since.

Perhaps you remember the scene when Harry and Sally are watching the movie Casablanca, each in their own apartment while talking over the phone. Harry identifies two kinds of women, high maintenance and low maintenance with Ingrid Bergman being low maintenance. Of course, Sally asks which kind of woman she is.

“You’re the worst kind,” Harry says, coolly. “You’re high-maintenance, but you think you’re low-maintenance.”
Sally says, “I don’t see that.”
“You don’t see that? Harry replies: “Waiter, I’ll begin with the house salad, but I don’t want the regular dressing, I’ll have the balsamic vinegar and oil, but on the side, and then the salmon with the mustard sauce, but I want the mustard sauce on the side. ON the side is very big with you.
“Well, I just want it the way I want it,” said Sally
“High maintenance,” confirmed Harry.

Dan knew on day one that I was high maintenance. But you know what? So is he.

Of course, the truth is that all of us are high maintenance. We all want it the way we want it. We all want life—not just our food and our salad dressing—but the big stuff too—career, relationships, children, health, finances and all of it---to work out the way we want it, the way we plan for it, the way we imagine it, the way we like it.

Which makes for an interesting conversation when it comes to prayer—the topic of our Gospel reading today.

We all know that prayer is not simply about telling God what we want God to do for us, complete with dressing on the side, as if prayer were about getting our life made to order.
But how do we pray when much of life is not what we had hoped or planned, what then? What happens when our “we just want it the way we want it” selves bump up against Jesus’ instructions on prayer?

That’s a good description of this past week for me when I have felt particularly high maintenance—probably both Dan and God would agree. I want life to be the way I want it and it just is not andI kept bumping up against this text.

• For starters, I had the stomach flu—which is so bizarre in the middle of the summer. I certainly did not want something else wrong after just recovering from surgery from last month, so that was not a part of my plan this week.
• My dad has recovered so well from his broken hip, but now has some new upcoming medical tests
• Everyone in my family is on the move, all within five days: our son, Jacob is driving by himself from St Louis to New Mexico this weekend to visit his girlfriend. He’s not the best at responding to text or saying “hey, I arrived safely—so I still do not know where he ended up last night. So I pray and rely on no news is good news.
• Our daughter, Leah, who’s been working in Prosper ISD (Independent School District) over the summer drives back to Missouri, also by herself this week, and then back to college on her own. I love being in Texas, but I hate that I cannot make these trips back and forth to college with her.
• And Daniel is moving from New York to California this Tuesday to join my brother working at his tree company in San Jose. He and his fiancé, Jasmine decided to go to the Courthouse in New York last Friday to get married before he leaves because she is staying behind to finish her master’s degree. They’ll have a bigger celebration later with family, so it was just the two of them, her sister and a friend. I am so glad they did what works for them and their life, but I am sorry I was not there.
• At the end of this week, I am so blessed to have the chance to go to Colombia, South America to attend Spanish immersion school. I am so grateful to the Council for even thinking I can do this, but I am also worried I am not going to remember it. What if my brain is too old or had too much chemo to learn a language? What if I learn it, but have trouble maintaining it? I do not want to be a disappointment. My husband, Dan—Mr. photographic-memory—is there already—he left yesterday. Gratefully, he let me know he arrived safely.

All of you have a complex of issues that weigh on your hearts as well—the stuff of life that you cannot control, that are not of your choosing and perhaps not to your liking. So how does Jesus teaching on prayer come to our aid today?

First, we have a brief version of the Lord’s Prayer, the most important aspect of which is to ground prayer in our relationship with God, our Father. This is less about God as a man with a white beard, or only a male image of God, and more an image of an intimate parent—Abba—daddy, or Imma—mommy. Jesus offers a God of love and trust and closeness—someone a child can run to for provision and protection, which the prayer then underscores by asking for daily bread and being saved from a time of trial.

Then Jesus tells a somewhat an odd parable about a man receiving guests at midnight and not having any food to offer. We have talked before of the social expectation and necessity of showing hospitality to travelers in the first century. This man would be dishonored if he failed to offer hospitality to a guest. The parable makes it sound like the sleeping neighbor—an odd image for God—gets up and gives his friend bread, not because he wants to, but because of his loud persistence.

But a better translation instead of “persistence” would be, “shamelessness.” The man with guests and no bread is waking up the neighborhood to make sure he can honor his guest with appropriate hospitality. Because he is willing to be so shameless in his appeal, the sleeping neighbor restores his honor, and peace to the neighborhood by sharing his bread.

Rather than an image of God who’s door we have to pound with persistence to wake up and hear us with persuasive and loud requests, Jesus’ offers an invitation for us to come into the intimacy of God –our Abba or Imma—daddy or mommy—with bold, audacious, shameless, petitions, at all hours of the night—and the God who hears our cries, honors us with a response, restoring peace and dignity.

God’s response may not always be the response we want, it may not always be in the time we want, it most definitely will not always fit our high maintenance desires or plans, but God has promised an abiding relationship with us. And this God loves us shamelessly like a parent who wants to give us an abiding presence in the Holy Spirit and wants a relationship with us at all times, and not just at the midnight crises—so seek, ask, knock at all times.

This past Thursday morning, I took a walk with all of the concerns I mentioned weighing on my heart—everyone traveling, my dad’s health, learning Spanish, missing out with Leah’s college transition, not able to attend Daniel’s wedding. I would normally go to the fitness center, but having just gotten over the flu, a short walk was all I was going to muster. I was having a conversation with God in my mind about it all—for that is what prayer is for me throughout most of the day—this on-going conversation with God— but I was not really getting any answers. I was just putting it all out there.

I turned around at the corner and headed back toward the house. I just happened to look up, and there in front and above me was an enormous white egret, flying low and coasting gracefully right across my path: “how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!” It almost took my breath away.

That was the answer to my prayers and worries. It could not have been clearer: God will give me the Holy Spirit, and I would receive what I needed—not all I want, perhaps not most of what I want. But yes, I would receive the Holy Spirit.

The next day, Friday, Leah came down to Richardson and we had a late lunch at I Love You a Latte coffee shop up on Campbell Rd.

As we were talking, the emotional impact of all these family transitions started to hit me. The day before they were thoughts and ponderings, but as we sat talking, I started to feel so sad that she was leaving to go back to school. Then our phones beeped, and we received the first picture of Daniel and Jasmine on the courthouse steps after they got married. It was so beautiful, and they looked so happy.

Then, Leah looked at me like, “oh, no, mom’s going to start crying in the coffee shop!” Yup, I did—I was quiet about it—but it was still a shoulder-shaking, messy cry. Leah got up and she stood behind me and put her hands on my shoulders until I was done.

And then she sat down and said, “Don’t worry mom, I’ll have a big wedding and spend and all your money!” And we just cracked up. She told me to clean off my face and then we got up and went to off to our next task, but not before I thought about that white egret.

God promised the Holy Spirit and she showed up in my daughter.

• I needed a moment to feel sad and love to embrace me in it;
• I needed laughter to pull me back into the big picture of life,
• and I needed a push forward—

I received all of what I needed. It wasn’t when or where or how I expected, but it was there—“how much more will the heavenly father give the Holy Spirit to those ask him.”

Prayer is not a formula or a set of magic words, it’s a relationship that an intimate God wants with your high maintenance, messy self in the middle of your complicated life, and God is waiting and hoping you will bring your needs and desires with shameless abandon, all of the time in daily conversation.

You are not always going to get what you want, but no real relationship offers that anyway. You will receive the blessing of God’s constant and abiding presence in the Holy Spirit, which means that you will receive an egret, a butterfly, a pink sunset, or another sign; and you will receive love, laughter, strength, comfort or whatever you need from someone, somehow, somewhere, when you need most.

More than that, the abiding presence of the Holy Spirit means that you are a “Leah” and will be a “Leah” for someone else.

So, if you do not know what to pray for, you can always pray for the Holy Spirit and know that you are covered in all you need! 

Image from copyrighted by Alex Zorach

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