My last blog entry-- "The Smoke That Thunders"-- and this one were never meant to be blog entries at all. They were simply Memories that began as quickly scrawled notes in my prayer journal. I wrote them as something to cling to a few months from now, when I know I will need them most. After much contemplation, I decided maybe I should share them. The following heading starts that section of my journal...Memories
Tiny little moments of hope and promise—moments when I am reminded that this is a journey worth taking, that missions is an invitation to perpetual heartbreak, that to love is to be vulnerable, and that no other option is left to us.
Tiny little moments of hope and promise—moments when I am reminded that this is a journey worth taking, that missions is an invitation to perpetual heartbreak, that to love is to be vulnerable, and that no other option is left to us.
Daddy
When Jesus taught his disciples to pray, I wonder if his heart rejoiced in his
foreknowledge of a first grader named Elias—an unlikely disciple from the
Zambian bush.
As often as scheduling allows, I escape down to the kindergartener’s bedroom to read a bedtime story at night. Amy just brought back a new children’s Bible called the Jesus Storybook Bible—I highly recommend it. We’ve been reading a story or two every day during Circle Time, and sometimes the kids ask to hear another one at night. That evening, we read the story of the Lord’s prayer and Jesus teaching his disciples to pray. Then, like always, we all folded our hands and bowed our heads for bedtime prayer. Elias was first.
“Dear Daddy, thank you for being our Daddy and for saving us, and for taking the chains off of our hearts so we don’t have to be afraid. I love you so much, Daddy.” Has any prayer ever rung more beautifully in the heart of my King? Certainly none that I have uttered possibly could.
And in that moment, as Elias whispered “daddy,” and Queenie prayed for the health of Grace and Naomi and Ana, and Henry prayed for help to obey his Aunties (because believe me, that kid needs all the help he can get), heaven reached down and breathed into the room.
Some of those prayers were echoes of questions asked weeks ago during Bible story time. We read the story of the Fall and talked about how sinful man can never free himself from sin, the “wages of sin is death,” and nothing sinful can ever enter heaven. Johnny’s eyes seemed to fill with all the sorrow of world. “But Auntie Meghan, how will God save us? How will He take the chains off our hearts?” I closed my eyes and listened for the sound of Aslan’s paws treading down the corridor. Elias patted Johnny’s shoulder sympathetically. “Johnny,” he said, “just wait. The story isn’t over yet.” Then we kept reading—from that first Passover where Punishment turned away from the doors painted with blood because a lamb had been slain in their stead; to an unlikely Savior King who touched lepers, welcomed village kids, loved the least of these, and gave himself as the final Sacrificial Lamb. Six little faces whose eyes generally wander this way and that and under the table and onto other people’s papers during school time were suddenly trained motionlessly in my direction. And as I read the story of hope to those six precious souls, I knew in my heart of hearts that Aslan was on the move.
As often as scheduling allows, I escape down to the kindergartener’s bedroom to read a bedtime story at night. Amy just brought back a new children’s Bible called the Jesus Storybook Bible—I highly recommend it. We’ve been reading a story or two every day during Circle Time, and sometimes the kids ask to hear another one at night. That evening, we read the story of the Lord’s prayer and Jesus teaching his disciples to pray. Then, like always, we all folded our hands and bowed our heads for bedtime prayer. Elias was first.
“Dear Daddy, thank you for being our Daddy and for saving us, and for taking the chains off of our hearts so we don’t have to be afraid. I love you so much, Daddy.” Has any prayer ever rung more beautifully in the heart of my King? Certainly none that I have uttered possibly could.
And in that moment, as Elias whispered “daddy,” and Queenie prayed for the health of Grace and Naomi and Ana, and Henry prayed for help to obey his Aunties (because believe me, that kid needs all the help he can get), heaven reached down and breathed into the room.
Some of those prayers were echoes of questions asked weeks ago during Bible story time. We read the story of the Fall and talked about how sinful man can never free himself from sin, the “wages of sin is death,” and nothing sinful can ever enter heaven. Johnny’s eyes seemed to fill with all the sorrow of world. “But Auntie Meghan, how will God save us? How will He take the chains off our hearts?” I closed my eyes and listened for the sound of Aslan’s paws treading down the corridor. Elias patted Johnny’s shoulder sympathetically. “Johnny,” he said, “just wait. The story isn’t over yet.” Then we kept reading—from that first Passover where Punishment turned away from the doors painted with blood because a lamb had been slain in their stead; to an unlikely Savior King who touched lepers, welcomed village kids, loved the least of these, and gave himself as the final Sacrificial Lamb. Six little faces whose eyes generally wander this way and that and under the table and onto other people’s papers during school time were suddenly trained motionlessly in my direction. And as I read the story of hope to those six precious souls, I knew in my heart of hearts that Aslan was on the move.
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