The Power Behind Praying Hands

I have seriously been needing a break.

"Yeah, yeah, tell me about it." I can hear the response of most anyone who might be reading this. It seems to me the stresses and strains of life build up in degrees of intensity, straining for the release a respite can bring.

1) Firstly, there is that general longing that is universally shared most days.

2) Continue on and you get to a more forceful ache that can ebb and flow but never quite leaves.

3) A bit further down the chain lies what could be described as a strong desire.

4) We then move into a constancy of need, relentless and at times teetering on the edge of a very steep precipice.

5) Finally there's the pressure cooker effect that has built up to the point of volatile explosion. (Or maybe that's just me.)

Prior to this weekend, I was at about a 4. Thankfully, I was blessed to be able to get away for a Women's Retreat in Asheville with ladies from my church. I hate to say it, but my stresses had built up so much that I was really on auto-pilot for most of the time, unable to truly connect and plug in, although I did try. Before leaving home, I had decided to stay in that beautiful area for another night, and another lovely lady from church agreed to share room and board and time with me. It wasn't what I'd had in mind originally, but it was what I needed. We were able to relax, drink some wine, get to know a new friend a little better, and simply unwind. The next morning, we had a delicious and leisurely breakfast with the other patrons of the Wright Inn and Carriage House (prepared by others' hands - aaah, what a gift), and made our way to Grace Centre church to hear a wonderful message.

I got a very special treat Sunday morning. This church hosts the work of local artists on a rotating basis in their entry foyer. The exhibit being displayed there currently are works that truly moved me to stillness. I stood in front of each piece, looking and looking... and experiencing. The artist is Elizabeth Polfus. On her website you can look at the Unveiled Series to see some of the works she has on display - some are there at the church but not available to view online, I'm sorry to say. Each and every portrayal is amazing, not only to see, but to contemplate. I have carried them home in my memory and continue to reflect upon them and let them rest on my mind's eyes. The one I chose for this post is titled Conduit, as in a channel, course, or carrier. I loved it because I see the hands of a prayer warrior, pressing the light of His truth into the darkness. It is such an active, giving, life-affecting painting. It inspires me.

I placed it on my computer background so that I can look at it each time I come here. This afternoon, I find I am looking back over how this time of weekend away refreshed me. That little break has helped me return to love my family better, penetrating calming peace into my heart in a way that is evident in my relationships with others and myself.

I consider those hands of prayer, and I realize that while at times they are my hands, tending to and strengthening, interceding for and aiding others; first and foremost they are the powerful hands of His Spirit. I am blessed to place my hands in His, to come alongside Him in prayer for my own needs and those of others.

And I see that His hands were ministering to me in prayer all along.

*The Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us.

*Romans 8.26

Anne Frank With A Rake

Last night I watched Masterpiece's Diary of Anne Frank. I have to admit, I've never actually read the much acclaimed work. I wondered how much liberties were being taken, or how much the story was altered to reflect a more true story, given the recent exposure of previously censored sections. I read a very good review on this BBC production here. Actually, it was rather comforting to have my evaluation of Anne confirmed elsewhere. I thought she was really quite self-absorbed, and wondered if I wasn't judging her too harshly based on living with two 12-14 year old daughters of my own.

Some might say, 'what do you expect from an adolescent cooped up in a small space for two years?' But I think that far too much "out" is given to young people behaving in selfish and foolish ways, quietly condoned with a resigned shrug of the shoulders. Why is that? There were seven other people living behind the bookcase. They all had varying levels of patience, intolerance, thresholds of forbearance, compassion, acceptance, and generosity. Their weaknesses and virtues were tested alike within their stifling confinement, trusting in the care of others to keep them secret, and fearing the hostile threat of a world gone mad outside.

What I saw, speaking strictly of Anne here, was a delineation between what a difference a life based on personally-motivate decisions looks like versus one for who's heart is the Lord's. Initially Anne speaks of gladly being willing to sacrifice in some way for others, of the importance of remaining cheerful. But as time goes by, she increasingly blames just about all of her problems on her parents, lashing out at her mother in a demeaning fashion, writing a very hurtful letter to her dear father. She encourages other younger friends to do so as well. She is manipulative and exceedingly selfish and sees these indulgences as necessary to being true to herself. Her family seemed at a loss, even, for how to handle this headstrong woman-child and I was deeply moved for them. I saw almost everyone else there as being made of deeper stuff than this narcissistic girl. I felt the story was honest, but I did not see Anne as a true heroine for young people and that saddened me.

(I do think I need to read the book myself before making a full and fair judgement.)

Today was hard in our home. My own dear daughters are undergoing their own personal battles for self over sacrifice. We all experience this lifelong struggle, being dragged or willingly entering the ring to grapple with our deepest darkest selves. Mouthiness, arguing, bickering, willfulness, sullenness. These are the foes that I see are at war for dominance in their beings. I cannot let them skulk by unmolested, allowed to rule over my dear ones' hearts. They are called out and challenged, and I put a rake in one girl's hands, a pencil and His word in the other's. I draw them into the ring, giving them time to maneuver and engage with their shadowy sides. And I pray for victory, not just this day, not just for my daughters' character, but for His name sake and the touch of His hand upon their hearts and minds.

*It was not by their sword that they won the land, nor did their arm bring them victory; it was Your right hand, Your arm, and the light of Your face, for You loved them.

Oftentimes, when I am faced with dealing with my girls' emotional, hormonal growing pains I remember my own willful, rebellious heart as a young girl. In particular I recall a photograph taken with my back to the camera, arms crossed, profile set in stubbornness, all resistance. And that picture just so happens to also include my Mother, hands upon my shoulders, turning me towards the camera, making me do what I would not. Although it is a very embarrassing reminder of the self-indulgent struggles I put my own parents through - what a serendipitous moment for the camera to capture. ;D

*Psalm 44:3

Seasonal Thoughts of a 46 Year Old Mermaid

Well, the changing out of winter's wardrobe for that of warmer seasons will certainly make you face up to some things if nothing else will. Here in North Carolina the spring brings with it fickle and fluctuating temperatures. This past weekend we saw 90 degrees, tomorrow it will be in the mid-60s. So it's a bit like dipping your toe into the water - and out again, and in again, until you've had some time to get adjusted to simple hot and humid - Summer. I love the things I've always loved about summer, but there are the things I really don't.

With summer comes the trying on of last summer's clothes, which always seem to have gotten snugger during their period of hibernation in a box. That all goes with the territory of being a woman I guess and is predictably forseeable, as is it's accompanying partner - dread. But within the past few years, there has been a new certain something that has shadowed the perimeter of these rites of transition, lurking with sharp edged teeth. I see it in my reflection and it colors my thoughts with questions and unbecoming self-evaluations.

Isn't that shirt a bit too young for you now? When did those lines get to be so permanent? And why do they have to be etched downward? I'd so prefer them to slant upwards. Are ruffles too much? Does my hair color look natural? How much is really grey now, anyway? What would be the best pant length for legs shaped "like mine"? Why do all bathing suits assume we want to show cleavage? I need to find a good cover-up this year... Why can't we see a resurgence in the bathing trends of, well... I'm not exactly sure how far back the style trend eras go for acceptable swimwear - but at least something more naturally becoming? I could just keep my cover-up on. I know someone else who does. What is an acceptable hairstyle and cut for a woman my age anyway?

And there - I've said it - a woman my age. I've just classified myself in an unflattering way simply because of the candles on the cake. For at least five years I have made it a point to steer clear of sidling alongside anyone who references themselves as old. I avoid statements of joking self-deprecation that are anywhere near geriatric in humor. I have quoted Chuck Swindoll on numerous occasions, "Once you start calling yourself old - you are." No thank you! A poem flies to my thoughts - Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night. I am wrestling in an attempt to understand my own struggle.

I do not wish to cling to days' past like the faded Miss Havisham. The melancholy that overtakes my sentimental husband when looking at photos of our children as little ones does not overtake me in the same way. That was then, precious and dear but of an intangibility called memory. This is now, a gift much more easily grasped and handled and if I don't pay attention I will miss it - even if it is wrinkled and creaking. Given my practical nature, I did not expect to really find aging to be any sort of upset. After all, given time it really is rather predictable.

I just thought I would do it so much more gracefully.

As I turned from my bathroom mirror to hurry to my computer to write this post, a sharp pang shot without warning through my foot. I limped gingerly to the dark screen and keyboard. Like most difficulties in life, suddenness is often part and parcel of the package. And regardless of our preconceived notions of how we will handle such and such, reality is much more intense and bracing.

Eventually, I suppose I will get used to the waters in which I find myself swimming. Regardless of the suit I wear, it is the soul that glides through the blue. And a toe at a time, I will become accustomed to the changes. Still... may I do so with grace, Lord? It seems I need your help with this as well.

* Even to your old age and gray hairs
I am He, I am He who will sustain you.
I have made you and I will carry you;
I will sustain you and I will rescue you.

*Isaiah 46:4