Stephanie Rische

Blogger and Writer: Capturing Stories of God's Grace

Do One Thing

wbez4Last weekend Daniel and I volunteered to help man the booth for His Wheels International at WBEZ’s sixth annual Global Activism Expo.

Seizing a few moments of downtime, I walked around the huge convention room and scoped out almost 100 organizations that are committed to assisting developing countries around the world—from Congo to Haiti to Afghanistan.

As I wove my way through the booths, I heard story after heartbreaking story of poverty and malnourishment, of mothers who died from simple birthing complications, of children whose lives were cut short because they lacked clean water, of people who hiked for days to reach the nearest hospital, with no guarantee that once they got there they’d get the care they needed.

I was barely halfway around the room before I found myself going into overload mode. So many needs. So many good causes. So many worthy organizations. Where to begin?

After lunch, as I made my way through the room a second time, I was struck by something I hadn’t noticed the first time around. The handmade wares that were being sold, crafted by individuals from various poverty-stricken areas, all had a common thread: resourcefulness.

I saw…

  • purses made by Cambodian women out of leftover fish nets
  • medical supplies donated by hospitals that otherwise would dump them into landfills
  • solar-powered ovens fueled by the sun and “paper charcoal” (basically bricks of recycled newspaper)
  • scarves made from material scraps, woven together in beautiful rainbows of color

These people didn’t have much, but they were creative with what they had in excess.

It struck me that although I’m just an average person in an average community, these artisans would think I’m sitting on a goldmine. How many resources do I have right under my nose that I don’t even consider resources, if I notice them at all?

When I look through the eyes of resourcefulness, though, I can see that I’ve been given much by a much-giving God. And he charges me to share the much I have.

When someone has been given much, much will be required in return; and when someone has been entrusted with much, even more will be required.

—Luke 12:48

That sounded good, but as I looked around the room, I felt kind of panicky. Where, oh where, to begin? Then this thought hit me with all the force of a dodgeball to the gut: I don’t have to do everything, but I can do one thing.

So perhaps the place for me to begin is the same place as these whose handiwork I was admiring: What do I have in excess?

And now I pose the same question to you: What has God given generously to you? An excess of time? Creative ideas? Business savvy? Technical skills? Money? Extra rooms in your house? Love?

Don’t try to do everything. But do one thing.

***

{Not sure where to start? Here are some organizations my husband and I support that you might want to check out.}

Casa Viva

Medical Teams International

ServantWorks

Women at Risk

World Vision

His Wheels International

What Do You Want?

It’s the kind of question I might expect at the McDonald’s drive-through, but not from God himself:

What do you want?

According to Scripture, however, God is quoted as saying exactly that—once in the Old Testament and in one scene in the New Testament.

When Solomon became king, the Lord appeared to him in a dream and asked him a single question:

“What do you want?”

—1 Kings 3:5

When Jesus met a blind man begging along on the road, he posed the same question, verbatim:

“What do you want?”

—Mark 10:51

It’s intriguing that an omniscient God would ask the question at all—surely he knows the hearts of all people and doesn’t need to ask. And in the blind man’s case, wasn’t the need pretty obvious?

Our deepest longing—that one thing we desire above all else—exposes who we really are. And that kind of soul-nakedness is downright scary.

But perhaps that’s the very reason God wants us to name it, to ask for it. There’s something about saying the request out loud that makes it realer in our hearts. There’s something about forming our desire into words and tasting it on our tongues that brings it to life.

In other words, maybe the request isn’t for God’s sake but for our own.

What about you? If God appeared to you and you could ask him for one thing—just one thing—what would you ask him for? Wisdom? Vision? Healing? Wholeness? Would you ask him to fill a void in your life? Or to restore something that was lost?

What is it that you want more than anything else?

There’s no guarantee God will give you that thing you ask for. But I can promise you this: God delights in hearing your deepest, nakedest requests. For it’s often in that vulnerable space that we get something more than we bargained for: we get God himself.

God, of thy goodness, give me Thyself;
for Thou art enough for me,
and I can ask for nothing less
that can be full honor to Thee.
And if I ask anything that is less,
ever shall I be in want,
for only in Thee have I all.
―Julian of Norwich

 

Mishearing God

Have you ever felt like you heard something so clearly, but the message must have gotten garbled somehow along the way?

I have voice recognition software at work that translates phone messages into text, but let’s just say the technology still has a ways to go. Case in point: yesterday it translated “Stephanie” as “Brian” and interpreted “just going to” as “jazz orchestra.”

It’s rather entertaining when communication breakdowns are of the lighthearted, technical variety. But when it comes to spiritual messages, the stakes are a bit higher.

A while ago I felt prompted to buy a Bible, and not just any Bible—one of those big, classic, leather-bound numbers. I didn’t know why or who it was for, but the message was undeniable: Buy this Bible. And so, despite feeling rather foolish, I made the purchase, wondering when I’d get my next set of instructions.

Not long after, my husband and I were packing for a nine-hour train ride to visit his family. We were carrying everything on with us, and our bags were stuffed. Just as I was wrestling with the zipper on my bloated carry-on, another prompting came out of nowhere: Take the Bible with you.

I was pretty sure I’d misunderstood, and I haggled with God over it. Surely he didn’t mean I’d have to take it with me on the train! Couldn’t I compromise and take a smaller Bible, one that wouldn’t cause permanent spinal damage? Or once I met the person I was supposed to give the Bible to, couldn’t I just write down their address and mail it to them? But the directions felt unambiguous, so I obliged.

All through the trip my eyes were peeled, searching for the person in need of a Bible. Maybe it would be someone sitting in the aisle across from us or a fellow passenger we met in the dining car. Maybe it would be one of Daniel’s relatives or his parents’ neighbors. Perhaps it would be a stranger we encountered at some point on the trip. As silly as I felt, I was eager to see what God would do, to have a testimony about how I’d carried that Bible around and then God had led me to just the right person at the precise moment.

It never happened.

I lugged that big Bible home again—all nine hours—and never got another nudge about what to do with it. Did I miss the person I was supposed to give it to? I wondered as our train pulled into the station. Or did I miss the instructions in the first place?

I’ve been pondering this mystery ever since—not just the Bible carry-on, but other times I’ve apparently misheard God over the course of my faith journey, times that have left more significant damage than a sore back. What am I supposed to make of those times I’ve stepped out in faith and everything dead-ended unceremoniously…or blew up in my face?

Then I came across this story, taken from Elisabeth Elliot’s book These Strange Ashes:

One day Jesus said to his disciples: “I’d like you to carry a stone for me.” He didn’t give any explanation.

So the disciples looked around for a stone to carry, and Peter, being the practical sort, sought out the smallest stone he could possibly find. After all, Jesus didn’t give any regulation for weight and size! So he put it in his pocket.

Jesus then said: “Follow Me.” He led them on a journey.

About noontime Jesus had everyone sit down. He waved his hands and all the stones turned to bread. He said, “Now it’s time for lunch.”

In a few seconds, Peter’s lunch was over. When lunch was done Jesus told them to stand up.

He said again, “I’d like you to carry a stone for me.”

This time Peter said, “Aha! Now I get it!” So he looked around and saw a small boulder. He hoisted it on his back and it was painful, it made him stagger. But he said, “I can’t wait for supper.”

Jesus then said: “Follow Me.” He led them on a journey, with Peter barely being able to keep up.

Around supper time Jesus led them to the side of a river. He said, “Now everyone throw your stones into the water.” They did.

Then he said, “Follow Me,” and began to walk.

Peter and the others looked at him dumbfounded.

Jesus sighed and said, “Don’t you remember what I asked you to do? Who were you carrying the stone for?”

The story got me to wondering: maybe it wasn’t that I’d misheard after all. Maybe the truth is that obedience is a reward in itself. Maybe I was supposed to carry this load for Jesus, even if I never understand why. Just because he asked me to.

What if sometimes God just wants to see if I’m willing to say yes?

What burden are you carrying right now?

What would it look like to be obedient, even when you don’t know why you have to carry such a heavy load?

 

 

What My Two Favorite Toddlers Taught Me about Faith

If I were to imagine how Jesus would describe how we need to come to him, I might expect any number of analogies. Maybe we should come to him like a scholar, eager to study and learn more about him. Or as a martyr, passionate and ready to follow him, even to the point of death. Maybe we should we come as a theologian, with all the right answers. Or as a hero, full of bravery and triumph.

But no . . . Jesus says we should come to him, of all things, like a child.

In the past when I’ve read Jesus’ words about coming to him childlike, I had a sort of fuzzy notion that he was referring to innocence and dependence. And while that may be part of the picture, I’m beginning to wonder if there’s more to it than that.

I recently had the auntly delight of spending a few days with my four-year-old niece and my two-year-old nephew, and thanks to them, the whole notion of childlikeness is no longer theoretical. Here are some things Lyla and Tyler taught me about how Jesus wants us to come to him.

1. Ask questions. Lots of them.

At four, Lyla is at the stage where she’s taking the pieces of her world and trying to make sense of them. “Why can’t Aunt Eppie play with me instead of going to work?” “Why won’t they let the birdies at the zoo fly?” “How come Grandpa Joe can use potty talk and I can’t?” “What does canoodling mean?” We tend to assume that faith means not having any questions, but maybe it just means we’re secure enough in the relationship to ask the hard questions.

2. Trust your dad.

When we went to the pumpkin farm, Tyler delighted in freefalling off the hay bales into my brother’s arms, utterly confident his dad would catch him. Where I would have been screaming in terror, he giggled in delight. He knew his daddy wouldn’t let him down. And it left me feeling convicted: why don’t I trust my Father that way?

3. Find joy in the right-now.

As adults, we get bored easily, always ready to move on to the next thing. But Tyler followed Fermi the dog around endlessly, squealing in delight every time he was on the receiving end of a slobbery doggie kiss. As for Lyla, she’d say, “Tell me a story!” some eighteen times a day, never tiring of the yarn-spinning, even when my stories started sounding suspiciously like recycled fairy tales. Can I see the good gifts God has placed in my life, or am I always looking ahead, wishing for the next thing?

4. Be close to the people you love.

Lyla was my little shadow for a couple of days, which was just fine with me…except when it was time to use the restroom. “Aunt Eppie, why do you have to shut the door when you go to the bathroom? Why do you need your pribacy?” Restrooms aside, it warmed my heart to know that this precious child wanted to be near me. And I have to wonder…does God wish I would be a little more eager to follow him around?

I have no doubt Jesus had the likes of Lyla and Tyler in mind when he gave this mini sermon about childlikeness:

One day some parents brought their children to Jesus so he could touch and bless them. But the disciples scolded the parents for bothering him.

When Jesus saw what was happening, he was angry with his disciples. He said to them, “Let the children come to me. Don’t stop them! For the Kingdom of God belongs to those who are like these children. I tell you the truth, anyone who doesn’t receive the Kingdom of God like a child will never enter it.” Then he took the children in his arms and placed his hands on their heads and blessed them.

—Mark 10:13-16

I want to receive the Kingdom of God that way. Like Lyla and Tyler, I want to come to God with my tough questions. I want to trust him with utter abandon. I want to bubble over with joy at the little gifts he brings into my life. I want to be as close as possible to the God I love.

I want to come to him with my whole heart.

The way a child does.

I’ve taken the challenge of reading the Bible chronologically this year and tracing the thread of grace through it. These musings are prompted by my reading. I’d love to have you join me: One Year Bible reading plan.

Healing of the Slow Variety

Two people I love are struggling with physical ailments right now—the kind where doctors can’t quite figure out what’s going on and recovery is agonizingly slow.

I’ve been praying for a miracle for them—a miracle of the quick variety. There is some precedent for these kinds of speedy healings in the Bible. Many times throughout the Gospels, Jesus puts his hand on someone and brings instant recovery. The deaf hear. The blind see. Pick up your mat and go home. 

After reading story upon story in the Gospels when Jesus merely says the word and a little girl is healed, or a woman touches the hem of his garment and is immediately restored, I was a bit surprised by Mark’s account of a blind man who was brought to Jesus for healing:

Some people brought a blind man to Jesus, and they begged him to touch the man and heal him. Jesus took the blind man by the hand and led him out of the village. Then, spitting on the man’s eyes, he laid his hands on him and asked, “Can you see anything now?”

The man looked around. “Yes,” he said, “I see people, but I can’t see them very clearly. They look like trees walking around.”

Then Jesus placed his hands on the man’s eyes again, and his eyes were opened. His sight was completely restored, and he could see everything clearly.

—Mark 8:22-25

Why, I wonder, did Jesus have to touch the man’s eyes twice before he could see clearly? No doubt Jesus had the power to heal in one fell swoop if he’d wanted to, as he’d done on numerous occasions in the past. So what was different this time?

I can only venture guesses as to why. Maybe the gradual healing was for the blind man’s sake. Maybe he was able to more fully appreciate his sight when it was unveiled to him one step at a time. Or maybe the phases of healing were so the blind man could share his unique story afterward.

I recently had the privilege of hearing Steve Saint speak. This once active man, the founder of the nonprofit ministry I-TEC, spoke to my company via Skype from his bed, where he has been confined for the past several months. In June of this year, he was injured by a piece of equipment he was testing, leaving him an incomplete paraplegic.

Steve is currently in the agonizing process of relearning the most basic of skills—figuring out where his hand is and then trying to make it move. People around the world are praying for a miracle for him, but at this point it doesn’t look like it’s going to be the one-step instantaneous type of miracle. It looks like for him, healing may come in stages.

But as difficult as this process must be for him and for his family, I am struck by the extraordinary testimony Steve has to tell as a result. It’s one thing to remain faithful to God when he does the quick miracle and you’re back to life as usual. It’s another thing altogether to proclaim God’s goodness while you’re flat on your back, struggling to swallow your own saliva.

“The church in America is used to serving out of a place of strength,” Steve said. “But now I’ve been given a gift. I’m learning what it means to serve out of my weakness.”

At the end of his talk, Steve shared the words of a poem called “The Thorn.” He knows now, in a whole new way, what it is to be a mendicant, a beggar, before God’s throne.

I stood a mendicant of God before His royal throne
And begged him for one priceless gift, which I could call my own.
I took the gift from out His hand, but as I would depart
I cried, “But Lord this is a thorn and it has pierced my heart.
This is a strange, a hurtful gift, which Thou hast given me.”
He said, “My child, I give good gifts and gave My best to thee.”
I took it home and though at first the cruel thorn hurt sore,
As long years passed I learned at last to love it more and more.
I learned He never gives a thorn without this added grace,
He takes the thorn to pin aside the veil which hides His face.

—“The Thorn” by Martha Snell Nicholson

* * *

Lord, we are beggars, every one of us. We beg you for healing, whether it comes in a moment or a lifetime. In the meantime, give us the story you want us to tell—and the courage to tell it.

I’ve taken the challenge of reading the Bible chronologically this year and tracing the thread of grace through it. These musings are prompted by my reading. I’d love to have you join me: One Year Bible reading plan.

The Upside-Down Kingdom

When I babysat for a family of four as a teenager, the worst and best part of the evening was bedtime. It was the worst for obvious reasons (elaborate stalling techniques, skirmishes over which bedtime story we’d read, and the usual accusations of “You’re not the boss of me”).

But my favorite part was prayer time just before bed. One by one the kids would go through the litany of people they loved, asking God to bless each one: “Please bless Mommy and Daddy, bless Nana and Grandpa, bless Brother and Sister, bless Baby Doll and my Beanie Babies.” All those blessings may have been part of the kids’ grander stalling scheme, but it was charming nonetheless.

I like to think my prayer life has progressed a bit beyond asking God to bless a laundry list of people, but I confess I still do a similar grown-up version, asking God to bless the people I love with health, happiness, security, steady jobs, good relationships. For smooth sailing, really.

Our version of the Beatitudes—of what it means to be blessed—would probably go something like this:

Blessed are those with enough money.
Blessed are those who are happy.
Blessed are the confident.
Blessed are those who stand up for their rights.
Blessed are those without major problems to speak of.

But when Jesus came, he flipped everything upside down. His description of true blessing runs exactly opposite of what we’d expect:

Blessed are the poor…
Blessed are those who mourn…
Blessed are the humble…
Blessed are the merciful…
Blessed are those who are persecuted…
—Matthew 5

Jesus sees our troubles and longings here on earth, and he cares about those things. But he knows those surface-level concerns aren’t our deepest needs. While we focus on the here and now, he is looking at the eternal. He has his eye on who we’re becoming.

I love the words to Laura Story’s song “Blessings.” She poses the question, What if the trials we face are really God’s best blessings?

 We pray for blessings
We pray for peace
Comfort for family, protection while we sleep
We pray for healing, for prosperity
We pray for Your mighty hand to ease our suffering
All the while, You hear each spoken need
Yet love is way too much to give us lesser things…

What if the trials of this life
The rain, the storms, the hardest nights
Are your mercies in disguise?

Thank you, Lord, for loving us too much to give us merely what we ask for. Bless us, yes, but bless us with your blessings, not the watered down version we think we want.

I’ve taken the challenge of reading the Bible chronologically this year and tracing the thread of grace through it. These musings are prompted by my reading. I’d love to have you join me: One Year Bible reading plan.

They Wouldn’t Have Found Me Guilty

One of the highlights of Sunday school when I was a kid was after music time, when the teachers would pull out the big blue Flannelgraph board.

I loved hearing the stories about all the old Bible heroes—especially when Pastor Bob was the storyteller. He had a way of recounting Scripture in a way that made me scoot to the edge of my little carpet square, eager for a front-row seat to the unfolding action. Along with Noah, I could practically smell the monkeys on the ark. I could hear the buzzing of the flies when the plagues hit Egypt. I felt the disciples’ surprise when they pulled in the net bursting with fish.

But my favorite story of all was the one about Daniel in the lions’ den. It had all the elements of a good narrative—high drama, the whiff of danger, a few villains, a hero to cheer for, a happy ending, and zoo animals, to boot. I loved the part when the king came to peer over the edge of the den the next morning to find out what had happened. (Cue Flannelgraph image of cuddly lions with a hint of a smile on their feline faces, with a serene-looking Daniel using them as so many body pillows.)

As I read this account now, many years after my Flannelgraph days, I’m still struck by God’s miraculous intervention and the drama of the story. But this time I’m also drawn to the often overlooked beginning of the story—the reason Daniel got thrown in the lions’ den in the first place.

Simply put, he prayed.

When Daniel learned that the law had been signed, he went home and knelt down as usual in his upstairs room, with its windows open toward Jerusalem. He prayed three times a day, just as he had always done, giving thanks to his God. Then the officials went together to Daniel’s house and found him praying and asking for God’s help.

—Daniel 6:10-11

He prayed faithfully, three times a day. Even when it was illegal—and potentially deadly—to do so.

And his prayers weren’t just “Thanks for this bowl of Cheerios” or “Now I lay me down to sleep” or “Please, God, let me make it through this stoplight.” No, we’re talking real, extended times of prayer when he got on his knees, thanking God and crying out to him for help (Daniel 6:11), when he confessed the sins of his people and interceded on their behalf (Daniel 9:1-11).

And all this got me to wondering: Would there have been enough evidence to throw me in the lions’ den?

How often am I guilty of drive-thru prayers, shooting up brief, halfhearted thoughts in God’s direction, rarely setting aside intentional time to sit in front of the window and pray, Daniel-style?

I have a long way to go to become the kind of pray-er I want to be. But if they ever made a Flannelgraph image of me one day, my dream is that it would be of a woman sitting by the window. On her knees.

I’ve taken the challenge of reading the Bible chronologically this year and tracing the thread of grace through it. These musings are prompted by my reading. I’d love to have you join me: One Year Bible reading plan.

“Even Though” Prayers

I was once part of a small group that was stuck in a rut, and in an attempt to shake things up, we decided to study one of the minor prophets. On something of a whim, we landed on the book of Habakkuk, not entirely sure what we were stumbling into.

As it happened, the book turned out to be a bit of a downer. In you had to boil down the prophet’s message into a couple of key points, you’d probably end up with something cheery like judgment and destruction. According to some commentaries, one third of the book can be categorized in a genre called “an oracle of woe.” Not exactly what you might call a beach read.

But as our group talked about the book, we were struck by its authenticity—the raw way the author cried out to God about the injustices he saw and begged God to act on behalf of his people. The book of Habakkuk is heart-wrenchingly honest, and achingly beautiful.

Ultimately the prophet didn’t get all his questions answered; he never fully grasped what God was up to. But he concluded with a song of trust—the kind of trust that moves in when human understanding fails.

Even though the fig trees have no blossoms,

and there are no grapes on the vines;

even though the olive crop fails,

and the fields lie empty and barren;

even though the flocks die in the fields,

and the cattle barns are empty,

yet I will rejoice in the Lord!

I will be joyful in the God of my salvation!

—Habakkuk 3:17-18

Sometimes I wonder what Habakkuk would have written if he’d lived several thousand years later, in our era. These days most of us don’t grow fig trees or rely on an olive grove for our livelihood. But such a song of trust rings just as true for us today, regardless of our situation.

Even though the job prospects are drying up

And there is no money in the bank…

 Even though another treatment has failed

And doctors have exhausted all other options …

 Even though another month has gone by

And the crib remains empty and barren…

Even though another lonely night has passed

And the other side of the bed remains empty…

Even though another prayer has been offered

And the heavens reply in stony silence…

Yet I will rejoice in the Lord!

I will be joyful in the God of my salvation!

Whatever “even thoughs” you find yourself up against today, may you cling to that ever-gracious “yet.”

I’ve taken the challenge of reading the Bible chronologically this year and tracing the thread of grace through it. These musings are prompted by my reading. I’d love to have you join me: One Year Bible reading plan.

The Stephanie Sandwich

When I was a kid, our church had one of those “harvest festivals,” where you have all the candy and fun parts of Halloween, minus the ghosts and witches. Rumor had it the main attraction would be the giant cardboard-box maze that would cover the entire church basement. My little brother and I were ecstatic.

My mom volunteered to help coordinate the event, so we went to church with her for the afternoon. While she decorated and prepped food, Kyle and I scoped out the maze. It was even more colossal than we’d dreamed, with countless twists and turns and dead ends. Even so, we felt up to the challenge. After all, I was pretty big stuff now that I’d turned double digits.

Things were a little dicey at first. We took one wrong turn after another until we had no choice but to break out of the boxes and stand up to get our bearings in the fluorescent-lit basement. We pressed on until we finally made our way to the end of the maze. Once we had the route down, we practiced it tirelessly for the rest of the day, and by the time Mom was ready to take us home to change into our costumes, we were confident we could make it through blindfolded, maybe even backward. Not that I was one to brag.

But when we came back later that evening, somehow everything looked different. The basement was pitch dark, with strobe lights flashing and creepy music blaring, interspersed with recorded shrieks and laughter. I mustered up an internal pep talk, reminding myself that I’d completed this maze dozens of times that very day. And besides, as the older sister, I had to put on a brave face in front of my brother.

We got in line and anxiously awaited our turn. When we got to the front of the line, the chaperone asked if we were sure we wanted to do this. His doubt only increased my resolve. Of course I was big enough to do this! I took hold of my brother’s hand, and we ducked into the maze.

We were only a few steps in before I decided there was no way this was the same maze we’d practiced earlier that day. Surely someone had rerouted the whole thing while we were home changing! I would never have admitted it out loud, but I was more terrified than I’d been in my entire decade of living.

Despite my big-sister bravado, I knew it was time to admit defeat. Kyle and I backed out to the starting point and went to bob for apples.

Then a family friend, a high schooler, came to our rescue and volunteered to take us through the maze. I was skeptical at first, seeing as I was still a bit rattled by the whole experience. But he assured me we could make a train: I would hold on to his ankles and Kyle would hold my ankles. We’d be in this together. And so we made it through the maze, with Kyle as the caboose and me sandwiched in the middle.

Sometimes the scariest thing when we’re up against a difficult situation isn’t the situation itself but feeling like we’re facing the blackness and creepy noises alone. We reach out in front of us, and we can’t see a thing. We glance over our shoulders, and it seems like an empty wasteland from behind. We feel exposed, vulnerable to attack.

After Israel was captured and exiled to Assyria, they felt that same sense of abandonment and isolation. But through the words of the prophet Isaiah, God reminded them that they weren’t alone.

Get out! Get out and leave your captivity…

You will not leave in a hurry,

running for your lives.

For the Lord will go ahead of you;

yes, the God of Israel will protect you from behind.

—Isaiah 52:11-12

God promised to go both ahead of his people and behind them. As they crawled through the dark, scary places, they could hold on to his ankles, knowing he would guard them from anything that jumped out in front of them or snuck up from behind.

Whatever dark mazes you’re facing today, may you know that God goes before you to guide you. Behind you to protect you. And that you are sandwiched safely in the middle.

I’ve taken the challenge of reading the Bible chronologically this year and tracing the thread of grace through it. These musings are prompted by my reading. I’d love to have you join me: One Year Bible reading plan.

The 12th Hour: Praying after It’s Too Late

Every Thursday I have the privilege of meeting with an amazing group of praying women. Most of them are older than me, wiser than me, and have a longer track record with God than me. I can’t quite explain it, but there’s something about the way they pray that makes my breath catch in my throat every time.

Their prayers have a certain unshakable quality to them—a kind of quiet confidence. They’ve seen God prove himself faithful so many times in the past that they know they can trust him, even when disaster is nipping at our heels.

One Thursday a few weeks ago we felt calamity’s hot breath panting closer than ever. We’d been praying a lot of “11th hour prayers” in recent weeks—asking God to intervene in desperate situations that were growing increasingly dire. Each week we came before God, asking him to step in at the final hour and prevent these worst-case scenarios from happening. We knew he could intervene. We’d seen him do it before.

But on that particular Thursday, all the things we’d been dreading became reality.

The woman with the two young daughters succumbed to cancer.

The marriage we were interceding for fractured beyond repair.

The prodigal we were praying for cut off communication with his mother and moved across the country.

The young immigrant who was struggling with depression took his own life.

As we gathered in our little meeting room, our hearts were heavy. How do you pray after it’s too late? How do you pray when the worst thing has already happened? How do you pray when the clock strikes midnight and God has just stood by, silent?

The Israelites knew this feeling of desperation well. The prophets had predicted that judgment was coming and that Israel—God’s chosen people, the very people who had been blessed with his special protection for generations—would be overtaken by their greatest enemy, Assyria. They were on the cusp of their worst-case scenario. Would they still have faith when the thing they dreaded most loomed large and inevitable?

In the midst of everything, the prophet Micah made this statement of quiet confidence:

As for me, I look to the Lord for help.

I wait confidently for God to save me,

and my God will certainly hear me….

Though I fall, I will rise again.

Though I sit in darkness,

the Lord will be my light.

—Micah 7:7-8

Micah didn’t insist that God would prevent disaster from coming his way. He didn’t assume that if he was faithful, God wouldn’t let him fall. But he did hold on to the belief that if he fell, God would help him rise again.

Hezekiah, the king of Israel during Micah’s day, didn’t let the promise of coming judgment skew his view of God either. Even when his world was on the verge of falling apart, he believed that God could still see what was happening, that he would still listen to his prayer:

O Lord, God of Israel…you alone are God of all the kingdoms of the earth. You alone created the heavens and the earth. Bend down, O Lord, and listen! Open your eyes, O Lord, and see!

—2 Kings 19:15-16

When our worst fears become reality and we no longer know how to pray, may we take our cues from those who have gone faithfully before us. Like my praying ladies, who continue to gather each Thursday, no matter which side of the disaster we’re on. Like the prophet Micah, who believed that God would raise him up again after he fell down. Like King Hezekiah, who believed it was never too late to ask God to bend down and listen.

We have passed the 11th hour, Lord. Yet still we pray. We beg you to bend down your ear to listen. Even when we don’t know the words to say.

Have you passed the 11th hour in prayer before? What did you do?

I’ve taken the challenge of reading the Bible chronologically this year (not to be confused with chronically) and tracing the thread of grace through it. These musings are prompted by my reading. I’d love to have you join me: One Year Bible reading plan.