Prayer: What My Kids and Husband Have Taught Me.

This is going to be a long post, but I think you'll enjoy it. This is an shortened version of a devotion I wrote for my Mom's group: "What my kids and husband have taught me about prayer." Enjoy!

Moms are supposed to teach their kids how to pray. It's part of the job. But one thing I've learned over the years is that my family teaches me much more than I teach them.

The first thing they taught me is to pray with confidence. Maybe it's during the rough trip into adulthood that we learn not to expect too much lest we be disappointed. Kids don't get that. They expect the moon, and I'm learning slowly that when they ask God for things, He listens.

When my son was little, a new family moved in across the street from us. The family had two daughters that were close in age to my two kids. Over the next year, our two families became nearly inseperable. My son told me several times that he couldn't wait to grow up so he could marry his best friend.

But, changes happen and both their family and ours ended up moving in order to follow jobs. We landed in completely different parts of the county. Sure, we wrote letters and phoned, but as usual, life went on.

Life doesn't always “move on” for young kids. A month or two before his fifth birthday, my son started adding on a special request during his bedtime prayers. “Dear God, thank you for today and help me not have any nightmares tonight, oh, and God? Please let Eden be able to come to my birthday. Amen.”

My heart sank. I didn't want to see my child disappointed and I worried over his fragile childlike faith when God didn't produce his friend for the party. I sat with him. “You know dear, sometimes God has to say, 'no' to things we ask from Him.”He shook his little head at me. “Don't worry Mom. She'll be there. I prayed for it.”

Every night, like the “persistent widow” from Luke 18, he prayed the same prayer. Every day I reminded him that Eden was probably NOT coming, but we would still have fun anyway. He never doubted that God would come through. We addressed the invitations, but I hid the one for Eden and never mailed it.

We looked through cake decorating books so he could pick something special for the party. He flipped past pages of trains and trucks until he found a purple butterfly cake. “I want this one,” he stated. “Eden loves butterflies. I want her to like it.” Tears sprang to my eyes, “Oh, honey, but she's not...” He stopped me. “She'll be there, Mom, and I want the purple butterfly cake.”

Perhaps you've already sensed where this story is leading? It was two days before his birthday when the phone rang. It was our friends from Nebraska. A friend of hers in Oregon was in trouble and she wanted to bring the girls and come help her. Could they stop by and see us, maybe on Saturday?

Matthew 21:21-22 Jesus replied, "I tell you the truth, if you have faith and do not doubt, not only can you do what was done to the fig tree, but also you can say to this mountain, 'Go, throw yourself into the sea,' and it will be done. If you believe, you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer."

They had never seen the invitation. They had not planned the visit. But a child had prayed and his heavenly Father listened.

I didn't tell my son that his friend was coming. Being the smart mom that I am, I figured that I would let him enjoy the surprise and the delight when she walked through the door. I had forgotten his faith. He wasn't the least bit surprised when she arrived. He knew she would be there. There was never a shred of doubt in him. The doubt was all mine.

There have been many instances of answered prayers in my life before that day and since. But I seem to keep forgetting how God understands the way his children feel and that He always listens. He does sometimes say "no," but He always listens. My husband has a stronger faith in this department. He has taught me to “pray about everything.” Whenever we are faced with a life decision his answer is “Let's pray about it for a few days.”

I'm impatient by nature and usually get annoyed when he says that. “He's just putting off making a decision,” I sometimes think. Or “that's just His way of saying no.” I don't know how many times God will answer in my favor before I realize that “let's pray about it” is the best answer I could get from my husband.

Last summer, he asked me about a writing project I've been working on for quite awhile, but hadn't mentioned lately. “Are you still working on that or have you gone on to something else?” I answered, “Well, I've sort of put it on hold for now. I realized it would probably need a lot of research and that would involve making a trip to San Francisco and that just doesn't seem smart right now.”He gave me the normal answer, “Well, let's pray about it for a few days and see what God says.”

I sighed and probably rolled my eyes. “Sure.” Okay, I'll pray about it, but I don't think God would really care one way or the other.

God must have felt otherwise because the answers started rolling in, immediately. When I had worked on the project before I had felt a strong connection to the old hymn, “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.” The next day I heard the song on the radio. Hmmm, that's a little odd. I suppose it is a Christian radio station, though.The next day, Sunday, the worship team sang “Come Thou Fount.” Okay, that had never happened in the four years we've been there. Our worship team usually does contemporary songs, not hymns. I heard the song at least a dozen more times in the next week.“Okay God, I get it. I get it!” [This project became SHAKEN.]

My husband understand Philippians 4:6-7 much better than I: Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

In conclusion, I want to tell you my six year old daughter's newest prayer. I had found a giant teddy bear stuffed in the back of her closet. It had been there, gathering dust for years. It's one of those massive things that some well meaning relative with no kids gives to a toddler not realizing how much space it will take up in her bedroom and how little she will actually play with it. I put it in the Goodwill pile. She frowned, but seemed to understand when I logically explained it to her.

That night, she prayed, “Thank you God for this day and help me get a good night's sleep. Oh, and God? Please make Mom let me keep the big teddy bear. Amen.

Donaldina Cameron, Hero of San Francisco

Shaken is set in 1906 San Francisco. While working on research for the story, I stumbled over one of the most amazing characters in San Francisco history. I had no choice but to find a way to for her to cross paths with my character.

Donaldina Cameron was a Presbyterian missionary working out of the Occidental Mission Home on Sacramento Avenue, just blocks away from Chinatown. During this time, though slavery had long been outlawed in the United States, it was still commonplace in Chinatown. Because of resentment regarding the ever-growing Chinese population, restrictions on immigration had been placed on the Chinese. It had been tightened down so far that very few Chinese women were legally able to immigrate into the United States. This left a large population of young men with no wives.

The prostitution rings became lucrative business within this community. Young Chinese girls were purchased, deceived or stolen and smuggled into the United States as "daughters" of merchants. Then they were delivered into slavery. The youngest ended up as domestic servants who endured heavy labor and cruel punishments. The teens ended up in brothels. Most of the girls forced into this life survived less than five years from the time they entered the country.

When I toured Chinatown last year, I had to keep from snickering when the guide (reporting on the history of Chinatown) kept using and emphasizing the phrase "female boardinghouses." She never once used the term brothel. I wondered if there was an agreement with the local shopowners that she would not use that term.

Donaldina Cameron and her predecessor Margaret Culbertson, were brave women who worked to rescue these girls and do what they could to change the system. Many times they stole into Chinatown under the dark of night, accompanied by one or two police officers. They would use axes to batter down the doors of the brothels and whisk girls away to new lives at the mission. The girls' owners, desperate to recover their "property," were a constant threat to the mission and its residents.

I cannot do their stories justice here, but I encourage you to read them for yourselves. They are an inspiration to me to not just let injustice prevail, but to do what I can to make changes, no matter the personal cost.

Read more about Donaldina Cameron and the Occidental Christian Mission at these websites.

http://sfhistoryencyclopedia.com/articles/c/cameronDonaldina.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Donaldina_Cameron
http://www.cameronhouse.org/history.htm
http://www.sfmuseum.net/1906/ew15.html

Donaldina Cameron and her girls escaped the San Francisco fires, though the original mission house was destroyed. I feel it is a privelege to have Wanda (my main character) meet up with them on her own pilgrimmage through the burning city. Hopefully their words will inspire my readers just as their stories inspired me.

The "Cameron House" as it is now called, still exists at 920 Sacramento. It now serves various needs within the local Asian community.

Chains

It's funny how the image of chains keeps coming up to me lately as I'm working on my book. My character is not a prisoner, nor has she ever been in any literal chains. But I suppose she is in a type of bondage -- that of grief. Grief can wrap chains around our hearts until we collapse under the weight. Wanda, the fourteen year old character of Shaken is suffering from those types of chains. The death of her sister has left her so angry and sad that her heart is being crushed.

Chris Tomlin sings "Amazing Grace," inserting a new chorus: "My chains are gone, I've been set free. My God, my Savior has ransomed me." At a retreat last year, a friend of mine spoke about chains and how God's amazing grace could set us free from whatever was holding us captive. Grief, addiction, sin, depression, or whatever is keeping us from Him, God has the power (and the will) to free us from those chains.

The old hymn, "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing" plays an important role in my story. Recently a line jumped out at me in a way it never has before. "Let Thy goodness, like a fetter, bing my wandering heart to Thee." The writer of this hymn was pleading with God to chain his heart so he wouldn't be tempted to wander off again. The hymn writer, Robert Robinson, knew that this was his struggle. He would draw close to God and then drift away, repeatedly. History (or legend) suggests that Robinson lost this battle and wandered away from the faith later in life. One tale (legend or truth, I don't know) tells of him being wracked with sadness as a woman quoted the words of the hymn to him, not knowing he was the author. The story says that he broke down and told the woman that he would give everything he had just to feel the way he did when he wrote the hymn.

I find the contradiction of these two songs puzzling. One begs for chains, the other rejoices at them being loosed. It's clear that God didn't grant Robinson's desire for heavenly chains. He grants us free will, but is always calling us to stay close to him.

The original writer of Amazing Grace, John Newton, was a slave trader. God worked a remarkable change in Newton's life to change him from within and deliver him into a life of ministry. So when he wrote the words, "to save a wretch like me," he clearly knew the enormity of what God had forgiven.

God is obviously not in the slave trade. He didn't come to buy slaves and lead us away into heaven in new chains, like Robinson desired. Jesus came to set us free from chains. But accepting that gift and dropping our chains? I guess that's up to us. Wanda has to struggle with releasing the chains of anger that are keeping her from experiencing God's love. He understands her grief and wants to share in it with her. But she has to let Him in, first.

Writer's humor

I borrowed these from Rachelle Gardner's site, but she borrowed them from the internet. In other words, I'm passing the buck of plagarism! ("But she did it first!!!" -- me to the judge). Enjoy!

There was once a young man who, in his youth, professed his desire to become a great writer. When asked to define great, he said, "I want to write stuff that the whole world will read, stuff that people will react to on a truly emotional level, stuff that will make them scream, cry, howl in pain and anger!" He now works for Microsoft writing error messages.

***

A screenwriter comes home to a burned down house. His sobbing and slightly-singed wife is standing outside. “What happened, honey?” the man asks. “Oh, John, it was terrible,” she weeps. “I was cooking, the phone rang. It was your agent. Because I was on the phone, I didn’t notice the stove was on fire. It went up in second. Everything is gone. I nearly didn’t make it out of the house. Poor Fluffy is--”

“Wait, wait. Back up a minute,” The man says. “My agent called?”

***

Analogies you probably won't find in great literature

The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.

McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty Bag filled with vegetable soup.

From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and "Jeopardy" comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.

Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.

Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the center.

Bob was as perplexed as a hacker who means to access T:flw.quid55328.com\aaakk/ch@ung but gets T:\flw.quidaaakk/ch@ung by mistake.

Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.

The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

Her date was pleasant enough, but she knew that if her life was a movie this guy would be buried in the credits as something like "Second Tall Man."

Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the period after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.

They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.

John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

The thunder was ominous sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play.

His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.

The red brick wall was the color of a brick-red Crayola crayon.

Saying "Hello!"

It's time to say, "Hello!" as this is my first official post on my new blog. But in saying "Hello," I also wanted to share a thought about that gesture or word that I learned today.

I just read a great article by Joe Kita called "What If You Said Hello To Everyone In Your Path For Thirty Days?"
It describes the difficulty is saying hello to everyone and what he learned from this experiment.

The article made me think back to my first week at college. I grew up in the Northwest, where I thought people were pretty open and friendly. But then I flew across the country to Indiana. My first week there was quite a shock. As I walked down the sidewalks at the university, every person I passed greeted me with a warm smile and a "Hello!" It was unnerving at first -- do I know this person? But after a few months, I grew accustomed to this nicety and began to take it for granted.

Every time I would come home for a vacation, I had to remind myself not to say "Hi" to every stranger on the street. People would look at you strangely!

Years later, and back in the Northwest, I'm somewhere at a happy medium. I try to say "hi" when I make eye contact with someone, but I don't go out of my way to do that with people I don't know.

I did have one experience a year or two ago that opened my eyes to the power of a simple "hello." I was walking through a store in a mall when I happened to pass a man in a wheelchair. He was looking downward, but as I passed him, he glanced up at me. My years in the midwest took over and I flashed him a smile and a cheery, "Hello!"

The man looked shocked and concerned. His eyes went back to the floor and then up to my face once more. His concern melted away and a hesitant smile grew and then spread until it lit up his entire face. His joy was evident as I went on my way.

I've thought about that moment many times since then. Was he accustomed to being ignored because of his disability? Was he having a bad day and just was pleased to see someone smile? I don't know his situation, so I can't really speak of his thoughts. But there was a definite change in his countenance in that moment.

After reading Kita's article, I think I'm going to make more of an effort to say "hello" to people. Does it matter if some people think I'm strange? Does it matter if sometimes it feels fake or forced? Will it change someone's day? Will it change MY day?

I don't know the answers to these questions. But maybe I will find out.

So, for my first post to this blog, I want to say a big, hearty, "Hello!"