Stream of Consciousness During Prayer

I'm sitting in tears trying to pray - trying to untangle my thoughts which are, as usual, twisted and knotted and unruly. Like the disciples, I don't know how to pray - it seems I always end up here, not even knowing how to begin. The metaphor of tangled threads shapes my request - I am tired of confusion and lack of direction - I want things to be clear, simple, straight - untangled. So I ask God to untangle my thoughts, to sort them out, to separate them. But then a nagging thought occurs - perhaps that is not the right way to pray . Perhaps I should ask God to weave them into a beautiful tapestry instead, perhaps that is what He wants to do. . . like that old metaphor popular during my Bible college days. Which is the right way to pray?

And then I reflect that I am thinking, praying in metaphor anyway. My thoughts are not actual threads, are they? Does it matter how I talk about them? And should I pray in figurative language at all? But can I even begin to speak to God or anyone else about my present difficulties without any figures of speech? All this runs through my mind within sixty seconds of my first whispered request. By now my prayers have been completely derailed - another metaphor. Should I just start over and forget the metaphor altogether?

I step back mentally and try to think what I know of God's "speech" as He has accomodated Himself to man. He appears to love figurative language; He repeatedly chose poets to write His message. The canon we have accepted is full of symbolism, metaphor, anthropomorphism. Is there, I wonder, a single literary device discovered by man that cannot be richly illustrated from the Bible? And what about visions? God often "talks" in pictures, even - to Abraham, to Ezekiel, to the minor prophets, to John the Apostle, to Peter. The Scriptures are full of stars and sand and wheels and dry bones, of watered gardens and stony ground, of tarpaulins full of animals and of weird, frightening beasts. He certainly has no hesitation about using metaphor in His own communication to us.

But, returning to my original prayer, my problem is that I don't know how to think about things anyway - what if I choose the wrong metaphor. What if I ask Him to untangle when I should ask Him to weave, or to dissolve, or to secure the knots more tightly - or . . . the possibilities are endless. Now I am really not sure what I want to ask for, anyway. I cast about for anything in the Scripture that might inform or instruct me.


I recall the admonition in Ecclesiastes 5 to "Be not rash with thy mouth.. . .let thy words be few" and wonder if it is a rebuke. But I am also encouraged by the behind-the-scenes glimpse into the mechanics of prayer that the Apostle Paul provides in Romans 8:26, Likewise the Spirit also helpeth our infirmities: for we know not what we should pray for as we ought: but the Spirit itself maketh intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered. Can I trust the Spirit to translate my prayers, however dim or ill-chosen the words, or even the thoughts?


I remember the word picture David used once to describe his posture before the Lord, "Surely I have behaved and quieted myself, as a child that is weaned of his mother: my soul is even as a weaned child." and I think that perhaps what I need to do this morning is just to sit quietly and wait for the Lord to make sense of what I cannot make sense of - to be like Hagar who found herself in the desert, found by "Him who sees me." Maybe the right words don't matter so much. Maybe they don't matter at all this morning.

Thanksgiving

There are only two eye- witness accounts of the the first Thanksgiving feast in Plymouth, 1621. Both are brief, and both are, appropriately, grateful. Edward Winslow ends his account this wish:
And although it be not always so plentiful, as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God we are so far from want, that we often wish you partakers of our plenty.


Like the Pilgrims, my small company of sojourners has also just passed a first year in a new land. As I head downstairs to my large, air-conditioned kitchen in order to prepare our frozen turkey for dinner today I am aware of how little I have in common with our New England forbears. . . except, perhaps, the conclusion of a first year in a distant land, and the gratitude in my heart for the way God has led us and sustained us through the last twelve months. By the goodness of God we are so far from want, that we often wish you partakers of our plenty.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Now thank we all our God,

with heart and hands and voices,

who wondrous things has done,

in whom this world rejoices;

who from our mothers' arms has blessed us on our way

with countless gifts of love,

and still is ours today.

O may this bounteous God

through all our life be near us,

with ever joyful hearts

and blessed peace to cheer us;

and keep us still in grace,

and guide us when perplexed;

and free us from all ills,

in this world and the next.

All praise and thanks to God

the Father now be given;

the Son, and him who reigns

with them in highest heaven;

the one eternal God,

whom earth and heaven adore;

for thus it was, is now,

and shall be evermore.

Dear Santa

I ve heard it said that no two children ever have the same parents. I know that is true when I have conversations with my adult siblings; sometimes when I discuss my mother with my brother I come away thinking we were talking about two completely different people. He and I are next to each other in age - only 14 months apart - both middle children in a family of four, but we know our mother in completely different ways. This must be true for my own children, as well.

Even more obvious in a large family is the truth that no two children have the same childhood. I look at my six year old now, and remember life in our home when my eldest, or second or third was six, and realize how different my children's experiences are! My fifteen year old is acutely aware of this, remembering far more spankings than he sees administered; I am acutely aware of it when I realize that regular bedtimes, rigorously monitored movie watching, long, messy craft projects at the kitchen table and hours of reading aloud every day are things of the past. My youngest daughter's life is full of teenagers and ipods and almost-adult conversation at the dinner table. She lives in a large, Asian city instead of an old New England farmhouse with a brook and climbing trees; she does not get to listen to Winnie the Pooh audio CDs on long car rides, but endures hours of U2, Bob Marley and Counting Crows.

The shape of her childhood - youngest of seven - is clearly reflected in her carefully written Christmas list which appeared on the refrigerator two days ago. I'll reproduce it here, and let it speak for itself.

1. Floaty Canoe

2. Roller skates

3. A Blanket

4. Slippers

5. Candy

6. Squirt Gun

7. A Surfer Suit

8. Iguana

9. Violin Lessons

10. Hair Spray - the DVD

11. Henna

12. Sling Shot

13. Surf Board

14. Cell Phone

15. Stationery

16. Laptop

17. Rabbit

18. Littlest Pet Shops

19. Littlest Pet Shop House

20. Baseball Hat

21. Dress Ups

22. Night Light

23. Frisby

24. Incense

25. Wallet

26. Marbles

27. Sleeping bag

28. Hot Weels cars