Prayer

We live in an instant-gratification culture. We send a text and get cross when we don’t receive a response within minutes. We order items online and two days later they show up on our doorstep. We turn on our televisions and watch a movie or a show on demand. We are spoiled.

No surprise, then, that our patience with God is occasionally tried. If our culture is so accommodating, why isn’t our Lord?

Isn’t it funny how the idea of sitting quietly changes as we grow up? When we’re young, the thought of having to spend time in silence is more of a punishment than a pleasure. We don’t want to sit there doing nothing. How boring! But as we get older, silence becomes golden.

My mom, too, was faithful in prayer. All my life I knew that Mom awoke early each morning to study the Bible and to pray. She always kept a prayer journal. But one night in the midst of their struggles, I walked past my parents’ open bedroom door and there was Mom as I’d never seen her. She was kneeling beside the bed like a little child, hands folded, elbows resting on the bed-top, praying out loud.

How often have you written or spoken those words to someone grieving, battling an illness, or struggling with a challenge? If you’re like I am, we have spoken them many times—and sincerely meant them. You thought of your friend or family member. You prayed for them. Both are important. Necessary. Helpful. Prayer proves powerful and effective, and telling others you are thinking of them brings comfort.

Summer holds the promise of carefree days, of vacations and time spent with family and friends, of barbecues and baseball games and concerts in the park.

Here in Minnesota, we pack as many activities into the warm weather months of June, July and August as we can, realizing that autumn and then the long cold and snowy months of winter will return all too soon. Nothing—not even endless road construction projects and mosquitoes the size of loons—keeps us from celebrating summer.

I appreciate those dedicated to the seeding, tending and harvesting of plants. The very act of turning the earth, of sowing seeds, of nurturing crops exhibits faith in a fruitful outcome whether you are a large-scale farmer or a home gardener.

Already into late fall in Minnesota, minimal time remained to plant spring flower bulbs. Frost wasn’t far off, rain was on the way and if I didn’t plant that weekend, I’d never get the job done.

My youngest daughter, Lucy, wanted to help. She inherited her grandmother’s gardening gene. I don’t possess that gene, but I do love the results of a good garden. Every once in a while, I get inspired. We grabbed our gloves, four bags of bulbs, a watering can, a trowel and a small hand-held bulb-planting tool I’d bought a few years before but never used.

The Final Four is a big deal with athletes and fans focusing on the game and businesses on the financial benefits. Minnesota tourism offices showcase the best of our state. I appreciate the enthusiasm, the energy and the excitement that accompany these basketball games.

It was to be our first Easter in the church my husband and I decided to call home, our first year in the town we had settled in after graduation. I liked the church and was getting to know the people. Already we helped with the youth group, attended Sunday school, and sang in the choir.

But I was nervous about this thing I’d never done. This thing everyone seemed to find so normal. Ash Wednesday.

Even inside my home, I felt chilled as I looked outside the picture window to a gray sky drizzling rain. Such a disappointment. Temps the day before reached near 70 with sunny skies. The unseasonable warmth during a week in February spoiled us a bit. Turning off the heat, opening the windows and hearing the peeps and tweets from nearby birds tricked our minds into thinking it was spring.