They Prayed for Me

It started like any other Sunday morning. Well, except for having three Little People to get ready to get out the door, but that’s for another post.

During worship this week there was an opportunity for those who were feeling a special need for prayer to raise our hands so those around us could gather to pray. As I lifted my hand in response, I felt my pre-teen granddaughter’s arm slide around my waist. Then one by one little ones started gathering: Bekah, Lydia, Jimmy, Wyatt, JJ, Elsie, Annie, Brianna, Joey.

A friend captured this pic.  I’m grateful.

The tears that had been brimming during the current song we were singing spilled over into stream after stream down my face. As one tear after another fell onto little Elsie’s hair I heard a couple of sniffles. The tears of some of Redeemer Church’s youngest reminded me that I was loved by 6 and 8 and 11-year-olds who felt compassion for Granma/Mrs Phillips because she needed prayer. I felt understood. Hopeful. Humbled. Snuggled. Noticed. Whether they actually prayed for me or just wanted to hug me, God’s love for me was on display in a way I hope to never forget.

I’ve learned to gently ask myself, “Why am I crying?” because the answer isn’t usually what I think. I thought I needed prayer because I’ve been feeling weary — but God knew I needed something else; something I didn’t even know would be so helpful.

I needed to know that the brokenness and struggles through which I have walked have a purpose beyond myself. Since before I had children I’ve longed to be one of those who would “tell to the coming generation the glorious deeds of the LORD, and his might, and the wonders that he has done” (Ps 78:4). Aging is teaching me that telling younger generations “the glorious deeds of the LORD” isn’t just recounting the story of how God healed me from infertility; rehearsing the miracle of His provision to our former church that Sunday morning in the 80’s when a one-time offering of nearly $400K from a group of singles and young families found old and young dancing and singing for joy; or sharing about a high school revival that saw dozens of tail-end-of-the-hippie movement teens saved in a matter of months, including their now Dad, Papa, friend and/or pastor.

Recounting God’s faithfulness and power also means seeing this old lady raise her hand on Sunday to ask for prayer because she’s been going through some tough times and has learned that God is faithful to help, comfort and bring hope to the struggling day after sometimes dark, exhausting day.

Sunday morning reminded me that help doesn’t always come in expected ways. Help came not from the articulate prayers of seasoned saints or a comforting word of encouragement from someone operating in the gift of prophecy. Rather, I was helped by the caring hands of children who noticed a lady they love silently saying, “I need help.” With childlike faith they came and with outstretched hands they touched and comforted me. Their compassion was a demonstration of the love of God and evidence that the next generation is also reaching to Him; the One whose might and power is gloriously made known to a crying lady on a Sunday morning in a little church meeting in a middle school in Orlando.

Actually, that day was like any other Sunday morning. God showed up and met with His people — including little ones who will someday take their place as pillars in His church here or elsewhere. Oh, I hope to be there to cry through worship they lead and take notes during messages they preach and snuggle with babies they’ve birthed…and likely have them surround a more wrinkled, littler old lady they look down to who raises her hand for prayer again. But if I’m not here I will be among the cloud of witnesses cheering them on and worshiping at the feet of the Savior they now serve.

Lord, please give me the strength to tell them about Your power and glory and might — both with testimonies of miraculous things You’ve done in the past and by showing them that I get scared and weary and need help just like them.

Redeemer Church was planted to bring hope. This pastor’s wife and grandmother and teacher of some awesome kids in children’s ministry sure is hopeful for a generation who is willing to put down their stuffed animals or stop whispering to their buddy to come and pray for a needy grandmother.

Thank you, Lord, for loving me through the least of these.

The Rusty Table

Today is tax day. And I’m thinking of owing people stuff.

http://www.vintageweave.com

Several years ago Benny and I borrowed a folding table from some friends. We really did mean to return it. Our friends asked about it several times and we said, “So sorry! We’ll get it back to you!”

Honestly, at one point when they asked I thought, “You live five minutes away. Can’t you just come by and pick it up?” But I didn’t say it. I just told them we would bring it back.

But we didn’t. We hunted around for it one day and couldn’t find it anywhere. Frankly, we assumed we had returned it and they must have loaned it to someone else. They said we hadn’t returned it…but they stopped asking.

A few years later we were packing to move. We found the table in a storage shed rusty and covered with junk. Our friends had moved out west and we couldn’t give it back. Besides, it was ruined.

I talked to my friend on the phone and apologized. Her words pierced my heart: “Oh, Sheree, it’s fine. When we loaned it to you we knew we may never get it back.” In response to my questions she explained that they had come to realize over the years that allowing people to borrow things required being willing to never get them back. “After repeatedly becoming resentful that borrowed things got lost or were never returned we realized we had two options: to stop loaning things to friends or be willing to let go of our stuff.”

Gulp.

Recently these friends came to mind as I mused over expecting love in return from someone. I had been loving and patient…and I expected those things to be returned to me. When they weren’t, I realized I hadn’t given anything away — but had only loaned my kindness.

Please understand I don’t feel badly for expecting to be loved back. The problem was I expected to be love in the exact way I had shown love. What if they person was being loving to me — just in different ways than I had shown love? Or should I say, loaned love?

Our friends asked for their table back a couple of times. But when we irresponsibly didn’t take it back they chose not to resent us. Rather, they focused on the ways our friendship was a blessing to them. An unreturned table didn’t mean as much to them as not getting frustrated and angry with us. By the time I called them many years later they had actually forgotten about it. What good friends.

Remembering the rusty table has been good for me recently. It’s helped me to realize that loaning love isn’t the way to live. It not only tempts me to withhold more love until what I loaned gets returned, but could also blind me to ways love is being shown to me in ways unlike how I show love. I want to be the kind of person who doesn’t insist that love to be returned to me in kind, and chooses not to punish the person with silence or resentment or angry attempts to wrestle “my kind of love” from them when maybe their way of showing love is just different.

Or perhaps they simply can’t find the love I’ve loaned them because they think they already gave it back.

Do you find yourself, like me, loaning love to people? A rusty table is reminding me that love is best given, not loaned.

Mrs. Smith’s Writing Class

A pattern is developing. People I want to acknowledge as having a significant influence in my life don’t have names! Yesterday I talked about “Anne” — and today I want to introduce you to “Mrs. Smith.”

But before I do, let’s pause for a moment. God used two people at pivotal times in my life and I can’t even remember their names! What does that say about the potential impact you are having on others lives — and you don’t even know it?

http://www.writeawriting.com

Mrs. Smith taught English when I was a Groveton High School junior. I remember her long, brown hair. (Hmmm…I just recalled that I regularly thought it could use a trim.) She was friendly and engaging, and allowed our class to experiment with creative writing rather than making us diagram sentences (some of you are too young to even know what that means) and do book reports.

Nearly thirty years after that year with her, a pending move necessitated that I sort through some old files. I was surprised to find several papers I wrote for her — along with her comments in red. During those moments of reviewing creative writing assignments I wrote at age 16, it hit me: Mrs. Smith was the first person to encourage me to keep writing.

I didn’t remember that. In fact, I had forgotten about her. She was “back there”; one of the numerous high school teachers I had sometimes wearily endured. Years later, when my husband encouraged me to do some writing and publishers were surprisingly willing to hire me to do so, I never made the connection to Mrs. Smith. It took moving from my home of twenty years to remember her.

Doing this blog series is affecting me in a way I didn’t anticipate. Having two women leave their signature on my life in such poignant ways, yet not being able to remember their names, is producing a sense of awe at God’s faithfulness. You see, to most people you and I are nameless. For the most part, we move through our lives anonymously. In stores, schools, parks, malls, offices and even churches, we are “that lady” who spoke kindly to her fussy toddlers…held hands with her husband, even though we’re no longer young…was patient in line when everyone else was irritated and frazzled. We are “that co-worker” who offered to stay late so a workmate could attend their child’s school play or “that guy” who treated women with chivalrous respect.

Anne and Mrs. Smith taught me to have a vision for motherhood and see the value of putting my thoughts onto paper so others could know someone empathizes with their struggles and understands their joys.

But here’s the thing: their example and influence in my life wasn’t “noticed” for years. The seeds God used them to plant in my heart took many years to produce tangible fruit. And even more years for me to realize how God had used them.

Believe me — you are probably Anne or Mrs. Smith to someone. The way you live your life; trust God through hardship; patiently train your kids when you’re exhausted; serve your church; respect your weak and flawed husband (who has a weak and flawed wife); show up on time and work diligently in the workplace; and speak of God’s goodness and faithfulness — rather than regularly complain about your life — is probably impacting people around you without you even knowing.

Just think. One day years from now it may “hit” someone that they’ve been affected by your life in a tangible, life-altering way. Perhaps they’ll never write a blog post about you. But maybe they will love their kids or persevere through suffering or excel on the job or have a more devoted relationship with God because of you.

And it’s okay if they forget your name.

Randy and the Laughing Box

Today I’m starting a series on people whose lives have most inspired me. I’m excited to share their stories with you.

I have a new favorite verse:  “So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 6:14).

http://www.googleimages.com

As I approach age sixty, I’m finding that things are falling apart. The most recent issue is foot pain that has required lots of physician attention with little progress. But the good news is that a recent visit to Disney World resulted in Benny pushing me around in a wheel chair. I’ve never come home after a long day at a theme park with so much energy! (Poor Benny; I can’t say the same for him.)

As the day progressed, however, I found myself feeling self-conscious. People were extra nice. We were bumped to the front of some lines while others waited patiently for much longer. And we were able to effortlessly move to the front of the parade line where we had a front row view. I felt undeserving of the special attention because others deserved to be in a wheelchair. I just have a bad foot! Throughout the day I thought about Randy. My older brother of six years traded a chopped Harley Davidson and a peppy Camaro in for a wheelchair at age 21. He broke his neck in a tragic swimming accident on the same day in the same general area as did Joni Eareckson Tada. The similarities were stunning, but the difference is Randy died just six years later while Joni continues to live. (Her book “When God Weeps” is one of those that has most taught me a biblical perspective on suffering — I highly recommend it!)Randy’s years in the wheelchair were full of sorrow and suffering. There were times he wished he had died the day he dove into that quarry near the Chesapeake Bay in Maryland. But after long and trying months of healing and therapy in three hospitals, he came home. Home was a handicap-accessible house in Burke, Virginia to which God sovereignly led he and my parents; a home that Benny and I raised our children in before our move to Orlando in 2000.

Randy with us at our wedding in March 1973.

Once Randy was home I laughed and cried more than I had in my previous 17 years combined. One morning I heard his voice over the intercom:  “Sheree, you home?”  Mom had left early that morning for an appointment so his normal morning routine had been delayed. “Yeah, I’m here; what ‘cha need?” “I need some help, sis. Can’t seem to get one foot in front of the other this mornin’,” he responded. I chuckled and told him I would be right there. Then I sat on my bed and cried. My big brother couldn’t even get out of bed alone…Then there was the day he asked me to take him to the mall. Me, the little sister who had only been driving a year, was now transporting him around in a large converted van with a wheelchair loading ramp. We made it to Springfield Mall and I rolled Randy onto the ramp, then into the mall. Not long after we started looking for the stores Randy wanted to visit, laughter broke out and it was coming from HIM! With his head leaned back and his mouth wide open, guffaws were flowing. But the laugh wasn’t his. It hit me. Randy had brought the laughing box!In a successful attempt to embarrass his baby sister, Randy had asked Mom to tuck a small box he found in a toy store into his jacket pocket. Because he could move his arms (but not his hands) Mom positioned it perfectly to allow him to hit it with his elbow at just the  right time.People stared enough back then when a teenaged girl pushed a paralyzed guy not much older than herself around in public. (This was before handicapped access and parking spots allowed wheelchairs to move freely in public places.) But then the laughing started. Loud laughing. Hilarious laughing. Laughing that went on and on. Needless to say, the stares increased. But before long, onlookers were chuckling. I don’t know if they were more humored by Randy, or by the clear embarrassment of the girl pushing him. But I cherish that memory to this day.

That day my laughter once again turned to tears. I went home and cried again. You see, Randy had pleaded with God to heal him. He even made a costly out-of-state trip with Mom to have a well-known evangelist pray for him. But his healing was not to be on this earth.

Rather than become bitter and angry at God’s apparent unresponsiveness to his suffering, Randy chose another road. He applied for a training school and became one of the first quadriplegic computer programmers hired by the Navy. He invited a fellow “quad” he met in the training school to come home with him to share his room in our basement.  Eddie became a beloved part of our family and is one of my Facebook friends today. Randy learned to “do wheelies” on the sidewalk in front of our house; contributed generously from his hard earned money to help Benny with church youth group projects; hosted lots of parties in our basement; and mentored and became a hero to our younger brother, Jon.

The day he died was one of the saddest of my life. I lost a brother and friend; someone who knew how to make me (and everyone!) laugh through suffering and perplexity. But I didn’t lose his godly example, which remains with me till this day. Randy was far from perfect. During his young adult years he did things he regretted that left Mom facing many sleepless nights. And there was the time when I was about eleven that he demanded I iron his pants — then nearly thrust my head into our aquarium when I refused. I did end up ironing those pants.

His suffering ended on September 27, 1975. I’m grateful that my brother had a relationship with Jesus Christ that was tested and proven during the six long years he spent in a wheelchair having to rely on others to do everything for him.

But laugh.

I was surprised to find THE laughing box on google images. Brings back great memories.

Today I ordered something online. Shhh. Don’t tell anyone in my family. Who knows when and where it’s gonna show up?

It’s in honor of Randy. The first person to teach me that “suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope (Romans 5: 3-4).