When We Cannot Pray

"The best prayers often have more groans than words."
--John Bunyan

"In prayer, it is better to have heart without words, than words without heart."
--John Bunyan

“When I cannot read, when I cannot think, when I cannot even pray, I can trust.”
--Hudson Taylor

It was night and everything black.

I had turned off the light, before I was married-turned off the light in my room--

And all was bleak and black and my father had left and times were difficult--

Intensely, frighteningly difficult.

And all was black.

I had been praying.

Pleading, pleading with God over an unanswered prayer--not related to our family's difficult times, but more keenly felt because of them. 

That night, I came to the place where I could not pray.

My words dried up like a barren well--

Every circumstance closing in around me --only darkness and the heavens brass and foreboding to me. 

I had prayed. I had prayed and cried and pleaded and wept and fasted. 

No answer came. 

And I lay down--utterly defeated, utterly spent--utterly discouraged--there in the darkness--

And I wept and I wept and I wept--

The kind of weeping that wholly consumes a person in sorrow, the kind of weeping that eats into the bones and flogs the spirit that is already broken. Rocking and weeping, utterly, utterly spent--

I heard a voice.

Barely audible to me, but there--

And I saw light, shining at the end of the hallway that connected my room with another's. 

My sister was praying--quietly, fervently, just audibly--

I could not hear her words, but I knew that she was praying for me. 

There in the darkness, my body quieted from the tense, awful, wordless desperation that gnawed into my anguished spirit. 

My tears came more hushed. I listened to her soft voice and settled into sleep as she prayed for me . . . 

For me. 

Very shortly afterward, the Lord answered my prayer--

Marvelously, miraculously. 

Moved His great hand and His willing heart, for me--and answered my prayer.  

My sister's action reminded me of a great truth--

We have an Advocate with the Father--Jesus Christ the Righteous,

He is praying for us. 

There are times when we do not have the strength to pray.

Our resources are exhausted, completely spent.

We come to Jesus only with groaning and sighs and tears and sorrow.

And we have an Advocate with the Father.  

He "shows His wounded hands of love" and pleads before the throne of grace.

We receive mercy.

And the Spirit helps--the Spirit Who lives and breathes and moves inside of us--translates our groanings to the Father of grace.

We receive grace. 

He prays for us. 

He loves us.

And answers in mercy. 

I believe that there are seasons in a believer's life--after we have pleaded and fasted and prayed and almost lost heart--that He allows us not even the privilege of words--

So that we realize our utter dependence upon Him. 

Then the Spirit takes up our plea-- and Jesus advocates for us before the throne of grace. 

An answer of love--

In His perfect time.

Our faith is strengthened--the ripened fruit of persevering prayer drops into our yielded, quiet hands with joy. 

Our petitions and pleadings and fastings the reaping and hoeing and preparing the soil.

Our tears watering and nourishing the plant that will bring forth fruit.

And at the end--quiet, surrendered joy--feeling the sun of His love on our backs as we eat the bounty of His faithfulness. 

You might find me on these link-ups:

Strangers and Pilgrims on Earth, Inspire Me Monday, The Modest Mom, What Joy is Mine, SDG Gathering, A Mama's Story, Mom's the Word, Rich Faith Rising, Time Warp Wife, Cornerstone Confessions, Mom's Morning Coffee, Motivate and Rejuvenate Mondays, So Much at Home, Raising Homemakers, Hope in Every Season, A Wise Woman Builds Her Home, Woman to Woman Ministries, Whole-Hearted Home, Testimony Tuesday, Tell His Story, A Soft Gentle Voice, My Daily Walk in His Grace, Women With Intention Wednesdays, Messy Marriage, The Charm of Home, Graced Simplicity, Children Are A Blessing, Mittenstate Sheep and Wool, Imparting Grace, Preparedness Mama, A Look at the Book, Essential Thing Devotions, Thought Provoking Thursday, Every Day Jesus, Count My Blessings, Beauty Observed, Christian Mommy Blogger, Renewed Daily, Soul Survival, Good Morning Mondays, The Weekend Brew, Blessing Counters Link Party, The HomeAcre Hop, Mommy Moments Link Up, Grace and Truth Linkup, Faith Filled Friday, Saturday Soiree Blog Party, Tell It To Me Tuesdays, SHINE Blog Hop, Faith and  Fellowship Blog Hop, Motivate and Rejuvenate Monday Link-Up, A Little R&R Wednesdays. TGI Saturdays Blog Hop. Totally Terrific Tuesday

Here With You

Mama . . .  Mama . . . MAMA! 

My little daughter panicked, frantically calling my name. 

I had rounded the corner to take something out of the closet in our room, and she couldn't see me, didn't hear me, didn't know where I had gone. 

So I popped my head out and she saw me and she ran into my arms, relieved. 

And I hugged her close and touched her tiny face and reassured her little soul, "Debbie; Mama isn't going to leave you . . . "

It was one of my worst fears as a child . . that I would get lost and not be able to find my Mom in a store. That I would be left alone and not know what to do. 

It happened in the library once. My Mom left me for the story-time for the first time--she was nearby, on the same floor, listening with one ear and looking at books. 

But I couldn't see her and I panicked. 

I didn't know that she was right around the corner. 

So I started to cry and they found her . . . 

And my Mama reassured me, "I'm not going to leave you; I was right here all the time." 

Sometimes I feel overwhelmed in this marathon of mothering. 

Where every moment is filled with little voices who need me now, who rarely let me sleep or have a minute "off." 

And this is God's will for me right now--to nurture these souls that the Lord in His mercy has entrusted to me for a season. 

But sometimes I get caught up in the chaos of it all, and I lose sight of the Lord, of His pillar before me and His cloud of fire by night. 

I get lost in the crowd and I just can't see Him. 

And I panic. 

I just don't have the time that I used to to spend in uninterrupted prayer--I often have to "pray as I go," pop in a sermon tape, pull out my Bible while my children nap, and make the most of the opportunities that I've been given. 

If I stay up too late at night, I have a hard time functioning the next day, especially with babies who still don't sleep through the wee hours. 

And sometimes through the tiredness, through the constant "going," and picking up babies and putting them down and feeding them and praying with them and disciplining them and loving them, 

I lose sight of Him.

And like my daughter, I don't know where He's gone. 

So in my moment of anxiety, I call His name --

I search for Him.

And I find that He was right there the whole time. 

Waiting for me to notice that I couldn't see Him for the moment, waiting for me to cry out for Him, to run into His arms in my need. 

Waiting to hold me-- 

And to touch my face with His peace and calm and quiet and trust and tell me, 

"I'm not going to leave you." 

Like My Daddy--A Word to Fathers

My Daddy left us. 

He took his things and he sauntered away with a chip on his shoulder and the world in his heart, the lust of the things of this life flowing through his deep red veins. 

And he took his things and he slammed the door on a past that he didn't want to bother with,  didn't have time for, didn't care about any more. 

Slammed the door on his family, on the God he claimed to know. 

My Daddy left. 

And I still hold on to strong memories from the time that my sisters and I were little girls, little girls who adored their Daddy, their Daddy with the strong, sinewy carpenter arms and the gruff truck-driver voice and the smell of sweat and cigarettes and coffee and cologne that was him. 

I remember--

The donut shop where I would order the chocolate sprinkled donut--the same kind that he ordered--to be like my Daddy.

Working in the yard and watching him labor there in the hot sun, even the strongest heat of the summer--he was a strong man. 

But not strong enough. 

And he could sweat and grow browner and browner and drink coffee in the sweltering afternoon and it didn't affect him. 

My Mama was always physically weak; but she always said that it was her weakness that humbled her and drew her to the Lord . . . 

So my Daddy was strong. And he could swing the hammer hard and I loved to work on projects with him and watch him pound the nails in deep and smell the delicious scent of sawdust and the motor of the saw. 

And I remember how he used to get up so early in the morning and make his thick, dark coffee and drink more than a cup or two. 

And he left for the cheap things in this life--the beer, the women, the glitzy thrills of a quick-night spent and a morning of regret.

He left the things of value.

Sold his inheritance for a bowl of soup and a pocketful of silver. 

The bread of life forfeited for a moldy, stale crust that is bitter to the taste. 

I loved my Daddy. 

I wish that things could've been different, but God gives a choice. 

And I speak these things from the hurt of a little girl, but also from the wisdom of the grace of healing and years and tears and surrender. 

The Lord gave me grace to experience His loving and continual healing in my life over my father's conscious and deliberate choice.

And that is the mystery of His will to me--

That He could give my Daddy a choice and "empty" me of the blessing of an earthly father who loved me--

And then fill that emptiness with Himself, the Father of my heart, the One who chose me from the foundation of the world--

The One who loved my Daddy, but gave him a choice. 

And my Daddy chose the world--over the woman who loved him more deeply than he knew how to love and the three little girls who belonged to him. 

Did he forget . . . ? That they belonged to him? That he was given a charge to be their earthly protector, provider, and example of Jesus to them? 

Did he forget? 

And the things of this world appear so lovely, all-polished and shiny and pleasant to the eye. 

But in the end, they bring forth sorrow and death and devastation and hurt. 

The hurt cut deep. 

And I pray that the pain that I experienced would be a lesson, a warning to other fathers, to other men. 

The pleasures of this world are fleeting--

Lay hold of Jesus, and embrace those things in Him that have lasting value. 

Be still before your God and turn your eyes away from looking at worthless things. 

And see the woman that you covenanted with and the children that she gave you as a beautiful gift, as a charge to keep, a charge committed to your trust. 

See the gift as precious; see Him as precious. 

So that you don't leave sorrow and pain in your wake, but grace and strength.

The strength of a man who loves his God and whose eyes "look straight ahead," straight ahead to Jesus, to glory, to peace. 

The strength of a man who loves his family and his children and who truly wants the best for them. 

Learn from the lesson of my father--

And embrace the high calling of the Great Father of our hearts. 


1. Carpenter
Photo credit: ajschroetlin / Foter / Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC 2.0)

2. coffee
Photo credit:shoothead / Foter / Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)

Hummingbird Grace

Some people say that the hummingbird is a sign that a loved one is near . . . 

But I see the hummingbird as a reminder of God's grace. 

It was a tumultuous week, a week where everything changed and things were turned upside down. 

I felt overwhelmed. 

I was overwhelmed. 

A difficult labor and the healing process to follow, a newborn to take care of, a spirited toddler waiting for me when I arrived home, clamoring for attention and order and love. 

And my body was raw. My emotions were raw. I felt like I was slipping in and out of reality and just trying to hold on, ready to plunge over the cliff of chaos. 

Just hold on. Hold on to Jesus. 

I was sitting in the backyard. Near the hummingbird vines that my Mama planted. 

She likes to see the spritely little visitors alight on the warm pink flowers and drink their sweet nectar. 

And I held new life in my arms while my little daughter played in the grass and I felt like I couldn't do it. I felt weak and I felt weary and I was in physical pain and I felt utterly exhausted and inadequate.

And I watched as a tiny hummingbird alighted on a waiting flower. 

This thought came to me--only a little grace. Even a hummingbird-sized amount of God's grace would be enough. He is rich in grace. Even a small amount of His grace covers my inadequacy, my weakness, my fears. His grace is enough. And He is a great Store of grace. 

I took heart. I rallied my emotions, my shortcomings, my perplexity. And I handed them to the Father of all grace, who is rich in mercy. 

I am not enough--but in Him I have all the grace that I need. 

My sister's words come to me like fire and a spark of hope--"If we were never overwhelmed, how would we learn to rely upon Him?"

I want to rely upon Him. I want the fullness of His grace, rich, warm, life-giving in my heart. 

So I cling to Him. I take one step at a time. I learn the lesson of the hummingbird, the tiny, fiery creature who drinks the sweet fullness of every flower. 

The sweetness, the strength of His grace filled me and He carried me through as I held on to Him--

The God of all grace. 



---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Photo Attribution: 
1.prorallypix / Foter / Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)  

2.Bill Gracey / Foter / Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)

Her Soul is Safe . . .

And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. But rather fear Him who is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.  Are not two sparrows sold for a copper coin? And not one of them falls to the ground apart from your Father’s will.

Matthew 10:28-29

She lies still, asleep.

Her breathing even and slow, her face washed over with peace and contentment.

His presence is near and the Guardian of her soul is ever-watching.

Even while she sleeps.

And I watch, too, her tiny frame so small in her crib, so small in our room, in the great world around her.

Sometimes I worry,

sometimes grow panicked with worry--

  --worry is not from Him . . .

Will she be safe?

Maybe it's from reading a lot of missionary biographies, reading a lot about the persecutions endured and suffered by other believers--

But I worry about this a lot -- even before she was born.

Will she suffer persecution as a believer of Christ? Extreme persecution -- the hot, fiery arrows of Satan -- because the world grows darker . . .

And I often wonder if the great darkness before the dawn will fall as a cloud upon us soon.

The world has forsaken Him . . . it will reject us (we are promised this in the Scriptures).

He who endures to the end will be saved. 

Standing over her crib the other night, as she fell asleep -- my mind raced with these thoughts--

Lord, will she be safe? Will the Enemy of our souls seek to crush her spirit, to wrack her body with pain -- with persecutions and agony and suffering? Will she suffer as a believer of Christ?

And then a thought came -- not my own -- but from His Spirit speaking to my heart--

That her soul is safe . . . that alone matters . . .

It came to me then, like a great river of peace into my thirsty, heavy soul--

And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. But rather fear Him who is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.  Are not two sparrows sold for a copper coin? And not one of them falls to the ground apart from your Father’s will.

Not even a sparrow -- my Mama's nickname for little Debbie -- "Row-row" -- little sparrow bird -- not even a tiny, insignificant sparrow.

He soul is safe. If her soul is safe, then there is nothing left to fear, to dread.

Even the grave has no victory.

And there may be pain, and there may be agony and suffering and grief -- but ultimately -- glory -- and peace and rest . . . and eternity with Jesus.

Do not fear those who can kill the body . . 

Do not fear. 

There is no fear -- when the soul is safe in Him.

A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing;

Our helper He, amid the flood of mortal ills prevailing:

For still our ancient foe doth seek to work us woe;

His craft and power are great, and, armed with cruel hate,

On earth is not his equal.

A.W. Tozer, The Ministry of Hymns, and Why We Chose the Name Elisha . . .

I run my fingers over the weathered old keys and poise my hands to play. They strike the notes, not as fluidly, gracefully as I'd like them to, but the music comes steadily, an outpouring of myself through the worn instrument. I'd never been good at the technical part, just at "feeling" the music and digging deep into the hush of the meaning - so my fingers stumble, but my spirit plays free. 

The old hymns. I begin with these, before the scales or the drills or the classics. The Watts and the Wesley and the Bliss and the Crosby. These are the melodies that my heart loves, longs for. 

This was why I wanted to learn how to play. So that I could play the music and press the words to my soul, the words saturated in the truths of Scripture, the words that dance and spin and stick and humble and bless. 

I love the old hymns. 

And some of the modern music that's been written lately is good, too--especially when its lyrics are embedded with those heavy ancient truths of the Word - but it's harder to find and so few and far between that I just pick up my hymnal and spiritually press it to my heart and feel its flames envelope me. 

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me; let me hide myself in Thee . . ." 

"'Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus, just to take Him at His Word. . . "

"Depth of mercy can there be, mercy still reserved for me ? .  . ." 

And the Words bubble up inside of me and fill my flesh with a longing to be closer to the One with Whom I am one through the Holy Spirit of God. 

One of the greatest gifts that God had given to me has been the ministry of the hymns of His sons and daughters. 

In times of sorrow, in times of joy, in times of pain, in times of longing for my heavenly home - to be free from this world of pain, the old hymns have been some of my dearest friends and teachers. 

"Blessed Redeemer, Jesus is mine, 
Oh what a foretaste of glory divine
Heir of salvation 
Purchase of God
Born of His Spirit 
Washed in His blood . . ."

So grateful . . . 

Lately, I've been enriched through reading the biography of A.W. Tozer. I discovered as I read, that this faithful saint loved to sing and to read hymns and that they were a great encouragement to his ministry. His biographer, James Snyder, said of him, 

"Each writer has his or her own way to get the creative juices flowing. For Tozer, he would get his Bible and hymnbook from his desk, walk over to the sofa in one corner of his office, kneel there and begin worshiping God. He would read from the Bible and read or softly sing a few hymns. He especially liked the hymns of Isaac Watts and Charles Wesley. By his own confession, he sang - on his knees - one of A.B. Simpson's songs almost every day.

"Tozer was an ardent lover of hymns and had in his library a collection of old hymnals. Often on his way to an appointment, he would meditate on one of the old hymns. 'Get a hymnbook,' he frequently advised as he counseled people. 'But don't get one that is less than a hundred years old!'"

"After the Bible . . . the next most valuable book is a good hymnal. Let any new Christian spend a year prayerfully meditating on the hymns of Watts and Wesley alone, and he or she will become a fine theologian. Afterward, let that person read a balanced diet of the Puritans and the Christian mystics. The results will be more wonderful than he could have dreamed," said Tozer. 

Right now, I sit in my room and I listen to hymns, hymn after hymn quietly playing, and I write - and the words encourage and nourish and feed my soul and my little Debbie sleeps peacefully to the sound of hymns. Not to whales in the deep or to a fan blowing or to the sound of manufactured rain, but to the beautiful, tender hymns with their strong-as-steel doctrine and their prayerful comfort that feeds the heart like a shepherd does his flock. 

I want my Debbie to know that her Shepherd will supply her need, that peace like a river will attend her way as she trusts in the Lord through her trials, that there is no sorrow that Jesus cannot bear. 

I must tell Jesus!
I must tell Jesus! 
I cannot bear these burdens alone--
I must tell Jesus
I must tell Jesus
Jesus can help me--Jesus alone. 

And this hymn is the reason behind our new baby's name . . . 

Years ago, I went through a series of heavy trials, trials that felt "unbearable" to me. I had been misunderstood and crushed, my reputation attacked by some who thought me vulnerable and a frustration to them. 

I cried out to the Lord and He brought me over and over to this hymn - "I Must Tell Jesus" - written by a man named Elisha Hoffman. 

I must tell Jesus all of my trials;
I cannot bear these burdens alone;
In my distress He kindly will help me;
He ever loves and cares for His own.

Refrain

I must tell Jesus! I must tell Jesus!
I cannot bear my burdens alone;
I must tell Jesus! I must tell Jesus!
Jesus can help me, Jesus alone.

I must tell Jesus all of my troubles;
He is a kind, compassionate friend;
If I but ask Him, He will deliver,
Make of my troubles quickly an end.

Refrain

Tempted and tried, I need a great Savior;
One Who can help my burdens to bear;
I must tell Jesus, I must tell Jesus;
He all my cares and sorrows will share
.

Refrain

O how the world to evil allures me!
O how my heart is tempted to sin!
I must tell Jesus, and He will help me
Over the world the victory to win.

Refrain

Over and over, "I must tell Jesus;" He alone knew my sorrow; He alone could help me and defend me and cause my heart to leap and to sing for joy. 

Shortly after these events, the Lord miraculously brought one of the greatest joys into my life - my marriage to my dear husband and friend after a long (5-year) engagement. 

My Lord and Savior faithfully protected me and allowed me to stand in the midst of my trials through His grace. Then, He lovingly restored me, and lifted up my face, just as He did with His servant Job after a time of severe suffering and anguish.

He is faithful. 

And so we chose the name "Elisha" for our son, after the name of that hymn writer, to the glory of the Father . . .

And for the sake of remembrance of the Lord's mercies.

Because His mercies endure forever, His faithfulness through generations. 

The words of the old hymns remind me.

And I am glad. 

To the Weary, Rest

How sweet the Name of Jesus sounds
In a believer’s ear!
It soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds,
And drives away his fear.

It makes the wounded spirit whole,
And calms the troubled breast;
’Tis manna to the hungry soul,
And to the weary, rest.

Dear Name, the Rock on which I build,
My Shield and Hiding Place,
My never failing treasury, filled
With boundless stores of grace!
-John Newton

Soothing words, comforting words, gracious words, words of life and peace. Words of rest . . . it was one of those days, those days of “struggling” through, of waiting until quarter to nine to put the baby to sleep, and breathing a sigh of relief when I finally laid her in her crib. Sometimes the soul craves rest more than other times. Sometimes it reaches out for peace and that sense of security that only comes from the throne of grace, and sometimes it feels like you’re groping in the dark. Sometimes I have to struggle for peace and sometimes my attitudes of worry and frustration and fear only go, as Oswald Chambers says, by “kicking.” Peace can’t live next to agitation; the clods of the soul need to be broken and raked over, and the soil tilled. Only then can the sweet seeds of peace be sown.

Sometimes I need to ask myself--Is Jesus really my peace or am I looking for comfort in anything and everything but Him? And am I content in the day-to-day situations that He places me in, or is there always an undercurrent of frustration?

Having a child changes everything. You no longer have “free time,” time to spend alone in solitude (at least not for very long), time to journal as often, time to pray without interruption. I used to write in a journal almost every day; now I look months back to see where my last entry has been.

Everyone needs an outlet, or so “they” say . . . the proverbial “they.” You need time to yourself with no interuptions, “free” time, time to kick back and relax and let someone else take care of things for you.

My “outlet” used to be cleaning or weeding the garden. I feel relaxed when I clean and like it when things are being put back in “order”.

Now, I Iook around my room and there is a pair of pink-Debbie-socks on the floor, a pile of laundry waiting to be put away, dust in places that I never imagined possible, and various other miscellaneous items.

Never before would my uptight person have stood for this, but now, there are weightier things to contend with and the mess can be gradually dealt with on a day-to-day basis. If I need to fold the laundry perfectly, then I might not be able to read as many books to my daughter. So I do what is most important, and then leave the rest to grace, picking things up along the way and sometimes just laughing when I can’t keep up and then doing it later.

Sometimes you need to give up your “outlet.” Sometimes you can’t hand the child to someone else when you are overwhelmed and you just need to cry out to God for His grace in your present need. Many times, for me, frustration is a means to escape, a chance to let someone else deal with what has been given to me. I complain to evoke a response and then I go away and sulk while someone else picks up the pieces. “Children are a treasure from the Lord” . . . until their teeth are coming in, or they are fussy and cranky, until they are sick and whiny and tired.

So we look for comfort . . . we feel frustrated, we feel overwhelmed, so we look for an outlet, in whatever form it may take. Maybe a glass of wine (if you are someone who drinks), maybe a shopping trip or a spending “indulgence,” maybe a plate of cookies, maybe turning on the TV or watching a favorite movie.

And there is nothing wrong with any of those things, per se, but if I am looking for comfort in any of them or seeking to escape from my problems through them, rather than depending upon the God of all Comfort, then I am worshiping a different god, a strange god, a god who “heals the wound” slightly and makes me feel better only for the moment.

When the movie is over, when the cookies are gone, when the husband is frustrated that he’s been handed the baby for too long, when the credit card bill comes in, then the emptiness comes back, with a dull ache that wasn’t there before. Because now we must face whatever we were running from, without our little god to hide behind. And nothing about our circumstances has changed; the same frustration and angst are there and they won’t easily be sent away.

Now I am not saying that there is never a time that we can take a break from the "daily grind," or step away from a situation to find respite and peace and refreshment. What I am saying is that we shouldn't be dependent upon these outward escapes for our sense of well-being; our dependence should be upon the Lord, who at times, will refresh us through whatever means He allows in our lives. Otherwise, we come to need/depend upon these other avenues of satisfaction rather than Him alone Who gives all good and refreshing things.

Having a child sometimes “forces” one to realize that there are times when you cannot run away from a situation. Sometimes you have to take care of the kids when you feel so sick that you can’t stand up or so tired that you don’t think that you can keep your eyes open or have the energy to cook dinner. Another life is dependent upon you and you can’t drop the ball and take a nap.

Having children is an opportunity to build “tensile strength,” as Elisabeth Elliot calls it, an opportunity to learn discipline and perseverance and sacrifice in ways that you never may have imagined.

And it is worth it . . . raising a child in the love and the fear and the reverence of the Lord Jesus is worth it, and there are no regrets. It is worth the forfeited trip, the lack of showers, the dirty laundry, the fragmented times of prayer that somehow the Father picks up and hears and answers. And He “giveth more grace” when the burden is heavier . . .

It is getting late, and I hear the sweet sound of the crickets and feel the dark, lovely night wind and I know that He is here. His presence soothes and I am safe, without any outlet but Him. “Because He lives, I can face tomorrow,” and His gentle love anoints my head with grace.


Photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/peewubblewoo/4080380000/">Peewubblewoo</a> / <a href="http://foter.com">Foter</a> / <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)</a>

A Father to Us

Three little girls and their Mama, their Mama always dressed in plaid. Long plaid skirts down to her calf and those old-penny loafer shoes. So we still like plaid, still wear it whenever we can get our hands on it, because it was a familiar comfort to us, spoke of home, spoke of warmth and her constant presence of love. She baked banana bread in the kitchen, the big kitchen that she wanted because it reminded her of Carolyn Ingalls and Little House on the Prairie. She asked for the hewn boards on the walls, but he said that they were too expensive, so she had to settle for wallpaper. And he bought cigarettes, but she couldn’t have her walls. 

There were walls . . . and the comfort of my Mama, her firm comfort, that never beat around a bush and always said things like they were, in a loving way. There were no half-truths with my Mama, no excuses for behavior, like “I’m too tired,” or “I’m too hungry.” There was grace, but honest grace. Grace without truth is just frosting with no cake, and who wants frosting all the time?

He wanted frosting. He wanted the half-truths and the no-questions-asked, and the license to go, to do what he wanted to and no one to answer to. And he was warm when things went his way and he was steel-cold when they didn’t and when he left he left hurt and he left pain and he twisted the knife so that it cut deep. And when he left . . . so many times. And we scrimped and we saved and we made sacrifices because my Mama was determined to pay the tuition to the Christian school that we attended. And then he came back and it was a little better until the next time.

Until the final blow when all hell broke loose and he didn’t scream and he didn’t storm and there was just silence, icy silence that chilled the bone and left a hollow cavity in the air of unrest. And the knife stuck, stuck and twisted deep and the pain nearly broke us, tore us limb for limb and groping for the agony of the wound. So he left . . . And we would have lost heart, tumbled deep, tumbled far, but the Lord was a light to us, a sure and certain light and the agony of the wound was hushed, not erased, but hushed and there was grace.

He was a Father to us . . . O Lord, my Rock and my Deliverer . . . a strength in times of trouble, the One who held us up and did not leave us destitute. “I have never seen the righteous forsaken, not his children begging for bread . . .” (Psalm 37:25) He was a Father to us, a Father to the fatherless, a defender of widows.

Years ago, before my heart was opened to the understanding, I felt cheated, hurt and forsaken by my father’s lack of caring, lack of involvement in our lives, lack of sacrificial love for my Mama, absence of love for his God. I felt hurt and I felt cheated and I let the wound fester inside my heart, let the grief run into tears of bitter woe. There were times like the day that I wanted him to teach me how to drive, and I knew that he didn’t want to. When I asked him he was reluctant; he wanted to watch the football game, and that was more important to him, more important than teaching his daughter how to drive, than spending time with me. And his reluctance bit into my soul and crushed my spirit. And so many times I felt cheated and crushed. And I looked at the other girls with their daddys who adored them and spent time with them and loved them . . . and felt a hollow ache that couldn’t be filled.

Until the Lord broke through to me, my Baal Perizim, my enlightening, and the lifting of my heart’s heavy load.

The love of the Father, poured into my heart, filling the empty places, flooding the dark places with the light of heaven. I knew, I felt His love and compassion. He filled the empty place and my heart sang for joy. The Lord in His wisdom had allowed me not to “have” an earthly father, so that I would cling to my heavenly One. The pain was softened. The load was lightened and I could reach out my hands to the unseen Father and feel His pleasure and joy. I could sing with all my heart:

Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art
Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.

Be Thou my Wisdom, and Thou my true Word
I ever with Thee and Thou with me, Lord
Thou my great Father, I Thy true son
Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee one.

My Heavenly Father had filled the void with His sweet presence, with His deep, deep, Father-love and I could cry out to Him in my need and He would never be indifferent or too busy or absent from me. He allowed me not to have something that I ached for so that He could give me something better . . . His peace, His joy, Himself—a Father to the fatherless . . . the love of my heart.