Thoughts just rattle around randomly in our own minds; perhaps we share them with a friend but mostly they are just kept to ourselves. A prayer, however, has an end receiver. Those of us who believe in God are constantly communicating with Him, and even as we have a thought it becomes a missal, quickly projected into the heavens. At the speed of light it hits its target, the God of the universe, true Creator and in charge of all things on earth. That good wish we have for someone becomes a powerful intervention on their behalf, instead of just rumblings in our head.
I think of it like a situation where you know your younger brother has been playing with matches. You have a choice as to whether to let your parents know about this new and exciting interest he has found. If you don’t tell them, but just keep it as a thought in your head, perhaps nothing bad happens but there is also a good chance that he may cause harm to himself or others in the near future, if he does not understand how dangerous fires can be. If you tell your parents, they will have an opportunity to intervene and make the consequences of playing with a potentially destructive object much more clear to him, as he may disregard your admonitions as envy on your part. By trusting your parents’ intervention, you may prevent future casualties.
The first instance reminds me of a thought, versus the second, which seems more like a prayer. When we ask God to protect, love, intervene or take charge of a situation, we are relying on Him to take care of the person in the situation and bring the best outcome possible for all involved. Since we are limited in our own knowledge of the situation, we cannot know the best way to do that, but the relationship we have with God has taught us to trust that He has full knowledge and wants the best for all of us. That is why I always turn a thought immediately into a prayer and do not hesitate to always reference it as exactly that. It seems when someone says “thoughts and prayers” they are really admitting they do not know the difference or, if they do, they do not want to completely trust the outcome to God’s providence and are trying to cover all bases, thereby really covering none at all.

We are told that we are the hands and feet of Jesus. That we are also all a part of one body of Christ. These are familiar sayings in most of the denominations that I have been part of in my church journey over so many moves and forty plus years. I have always had questions that placed literal biblical interpretations directly up against figurative ones in scenarios like this.

I particularly remember one small charismatic church I joined in my first move after I gave my life to Jesus. It was different than any church I had ever been in and they often had lively services on summer evenings on the grass behind the old barn that housed the church in upstate New York, and young women would dance happily during the worship music. It was fun to see such an open expression of joy and hand raising in praise as we worshiped the Lord together. There were a number of changes in my life during that time period, which actually deepened my faith and my personal relationship with God rather than weakened it, but when I was led to leave the church and move my family to Florida, I was met with suspicion. No one left the church easily, it seemed, and there was a lot of submission to the elders’ judgement in terms of personal decision making. I never left my autonomy behind, knowing full well God had been with me when I came there as a single mom and He would be with me when I left as a single mom, so I wasn’t a bit worried that they didn’t agree with my decision.

I did dare to question the elders however, as to the whole ‘family of God’ thing or more explicitly, the Body of Christ expression, because I wondered if there happened to be only one nose, say, and that nose smelled fire and tried to tell everyone else; but the others didn’t see fire, feel fire, or smell fire and so they just told the nose there was no fire. When I tried to tell them some things I felt God had prompted me to share with them, their response was basically “God didn’t say that to us.” So I went on my way, taking my faith and my children with me. I always felt if we each as a Christian had a piece of a puzzle of a body, and I happened to have the nose but I didn’t put my puzzle piece on the table with the other pieces, it wouldn’t reveal a complete face or a finished body. How do we know which piece anyone has been given until they share it, and yet a refusal to share one’s piece makes the whole face or body incomplete, doesn’t it?

Years later, although that church didn’t burn to the ground, it basically folded for many of the reasons I had tried to share earlier with those in authority. I felt badly that they had not been more open to a conversation with the whole church body they shepherded about things that really mattered, to them and to God. They were certainly not expecting someone relatively new to their church, and that person also a woman, to bring something to their minds they hadn’t considered could possibly be a word from God. The Bible is full of examples of God speaking through many, even an animal (Numbers 22:28 anyone?), who did not fit the criteria of the day that those in high religious authority required in order to ‘hear’ God. I have always loved all those stories, especially where God totally surprises everyone!

I saved this as a draft over fourteen years ago. I had someone ask me this question the other day. I have been back on the East Coast since 2018. It is now 2025. I share the rest of this original draft mostly as a reminder to myself that unless we change something, some things don’t change. I still do not have the discipline of a writer, but perhaps I am realizing my heart leans that way and I am enjoying it more, now that there seems to be so much less sand in the hourglass.

from notes, 2013:

The past year and a half since my move from East coast to West have been full of new adventures with God. I see Him everywhere in my life and the things I see are often like parables and seem to matter to people when I share them, particularly those who know Him well.

Yet I go from one day to the next, many of them with time to sit down with a computer or a pen but I have not done that. I did do it when I was struggling to make sense of my life, to see the next step ahead of me, wondering how to provide for myself, or at least I did when I thought I was struggling….and therein lies the difference. I am not struggling now, even though I continue to seek His guidance every day, many times a day, for the same reasons I did before. The difference now is that I am confident He has the answer for me and that He will present it at the appointed time: His time, not necessarily mine. And I know that it is good, in fact, perfect that way.

I must begin to write these things down, because they are becoming too many for me to hold in my head and recount to those who seem to want to know. When  I am questioned by someone about the meaning of something in daily life, these stories all spill out of me. I am often asked why I don’t write them down and I have no answer. I do not want to get to see my Maker and have no answer. I must look at my time differently and expect more of myself. I believe that He may be expecting more of me, and I don’t want to let Him down. The people He has put in my path are daily miracles, full of wisdom and insight and the power of His love and our prayers in this life. It is a rich and wonderful story that needs to be told, even by someone who thinks she is but a grain of sand. It is not for me to ask why, but just to do my part. This is my portion.

Four words that my son said were my most used exclamations on our five day trek across the country twelve years ago. We were in a small sedan complete with me, my then 28 yr old son and my trusty rescued dog, Gypsy. Oh, and every bit of clothing and memorabilia I could fit in the trunk along with a sewing machine, just in case I needed curtains or something to make my new home quickly homier.

It seemed that my response to anything unexpected was one or a combination of these expressions. I feel as though they accompanied a certain period of my life; one full of the unknown, of changes, both in scenery and in relationships. It was a time of experimentation with the boundaries of the self I had pretty much ignored during the raising of my two boys. There is only so much time available, and mine was already spoken for between their needs and those of making a living. This was not my retirement exactly, but as close to it as I might ever get. It meant still working, but only enough to cover my rent, as social security and Medicare had kicked in, taking with them the huge burden of so many years with no personal health care off of my shoulders. I was able to attend to the repair of my body and doing some needed maintenance that had often been postponed. I started a decades long update on my teeth, as I found my smile was my most treasured attribute and a loss I did not want to accept if there was a choice. And now there was.

I am often reminded how very fortunate I have been to navigate this life time with always enough opportunities to take care of my basic life needs, and I am ever conscious of those who do not have access to them. I am distressed by the constant promotion of dependence on government, rather than the human family and community surrounding them, to comfort and provide incentives to address those needs. God never intended an absentee and faceless, often heartless, entity to do what other humans could do so much more efficiently and kindly, with an accompanying love and appreciation for the soul, not just the body, of the individual… not just the case number.

And so I try to remember what those four words meant as I used them during that time. Perhaps I was only talking to the ‘inside’ me, the one giving herself permission to fail, to stumble, to pause or to grab on to a lifeline as needed, as her rocky life journey evolved. I rarely, if ever, use them anymore, but they were certainly wonderful handrails when I needed them.

I cannot believe that my last post was in April of 2014. That is three and a half years ago! What happened to me?
I think I went into a lethargic funk and was basically comfortable. Just meandering through my life, doing my daily tasks, noticing amazing little things, but not spending any time to record my thoughts about them. Not that anyone is neccesarily reading this, but because my son once wrote in an Anne Lamott book he gave me for my birthday that her books were the closest thing he had found to the book I had yet to write. That book was Traveling Mercies, and his note on the front page was a supreme complement to me. Just the other day I was reminded by a friend from high school of Anne Lamott, and I pulled out Help. Thanks. Wow. and read it cover to cover while my internet was being invaded by spyware; so grateful for the total break in my knee jerk evening routine and a momentary return to things that actually matter!
And what do all writers have in common? They write. Daily. Whether they feel like it or not.
I keep saying how I lack discipline. Why do I keep saying that? I walk the dog morning, noon and night, whether I feel like it or not. I eat every day, usually three times a day. I show up for work every day I am scheduled, on time and dressed for the job. I may not take my vitamins on a daily or even weekly basis. But that isn’t everything. I remember to pray many times a day, and surely that counts for something. Or at least it is something to build on, especially if I start praying for the discipline to write every day. Perhaps having no TV for a day is a great start. At least it is a place I can reboot this blog and clear the cache of my brain and see what thoughts and ideas come into the newly cleared spaces.

I have struggled, over my lifetime, to find an answer to the recurring question of why I seemed so different; more emotional than others, more inclined to seek the truth, more concerned with people’s feelings than their bank accounts (or my own).
I have met so many people who seemed to find the right partner, the right job, to enjoy the pleasures of life so much more easily than I did.
For some odd reason, I often found my inner comfort zone to be right  where others saw discomfort. I was secure where they would feel lost. I was at ease where they were acutely distressed.
I am beginning to understand that while I appeared to have every basic body part and brain function in tact, I have apparently always been handicapped. In the same way that a blind person has extra perception when it comes to hearing than many of his sighted friends, I always seemed to pick up on heart waves that no one else noticed, or if they did, they could not describe them as easily as I seemed to be able to.
I know now that all those times that I had such a different experience than what appeared to be the normal response of those around me was precisely because I was indeed handicapped, with a sensitivity to the spirit God put in me at birth, made only more profound after I asked Jesus into my life at age 37.
As so many people with severe handicaps will testify, I appreciate things in life that others just don’t even seem to notice. I am aware of the kindness of people and the workings of God in ways that others can’t begin to comprehend, especially when they consider experiencing my circumstances. And in the end, those handicapped individuals almost always say they wouldn’t change a thing about their lives, because their experience of it has been so rich and so filled with awe and wonder. I have to say that from my vantage point, I would totally agree.

I have to laugh at myself sometimes, a lot of times if the truth be known, and one of those times is when I approach a traffic symbol where the words to follow have been written on the pavement before it, telling me exactly what to do.
This morning while I walked Gypsy back from the beach, I walked over one and as usual, read it top to bottom, instead of the way they intended it to be read, bottom to top, the order in which you would roll over it in your car.

 
This one said Wrong Way with an arrow going toward the wrong way. I laughed because I couldn’t help but read it my usual way…..Way Wrong! I got thinking about how I used to be so much more easily led astray by not heeding the signs God intentionally left for me to see. I guess I am a bit obtuse or just easily adaptive toward pleasing others, so I naturally got off the path more frequently than I do these days. I would take jobs that were not in my gifted areas and then be in pain about them. I would get into relationships that were not good for my personality type or my heart and then be in pain about how to get out of them (without hurting the other person of course!)

 
Nowadays, I spend much more time praying for God’s purpose and jobs that He leads me to. I pray for relationships where he wants me to be involved, and they are always a benefit of some sort to both me and the other person in our growth as a Christian. Or He wants me to bless someone and it always feels like a service to Him, not something I would necessarily choose in my flesh.

 
So, when I looked at this signage on the road before me, I laughed because now I often am able to say at least to myself, “Way Wrong”, in terms of the direction I might choose on my own vs something I know to be the Lord’s leading. Staying anchored in His word also helps me to discern the difference more easily. Perhaps as I get older, I just don’t want to go the wrong way any more, as it takes so long to get back on His track sometimes. So I will keep looking for the ways He confirms my path, trying not to get ahead of Him but appreciating it even if he has to shout Way Wrong! before I detour out of His lane.

My journey through this dating experience, and getting caught up on life with a man God has brought into my life at this moment in time, has uncovered many memories. Initially they seemed good, then not so good, then good again. Layers and layers of where we have been and how we got to the place we are right now. Water under the bridge in some ways, but information that a potential mate for life needs and expects to know. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God, as they used to swear in the witnesses in Perry Mason court cases!

After processing some of the negative ones again to see if they are still binding me in any way, there often surfaces a second memory of the same place and time where I could see that my heart was turned to God and the expectation of the good life He had ahead for me and my children. As a single Mom, I often missed the presence of a male at the head of our table, both to anchor our family and to be the covering and protector any family needs. I remember at a certain point that I would set the dining room table with our finest linens and silverware and china. These were former wedding gifts I rarely had occasion to use any longer, yet they looked pretty when I looked at the dining room we also rarely used, as though we were awaiting a special guest.

I remember setting the table for four, though we were a family of three at that time, and for most of the time I was raising the boys. I remember laying out the place settings, and thinking as I did that Jesus might show up any time, and in the guise of someone that I might not initially recognize. I wanted to be ready to welcome Him into our home, and to always let anyone know there was a place for them and for Him at our table.

As all of this looking back and remembering the places He has kept me grounded in an unsteady world, makes me smile when I think about the ways in which He was present at our table. I remember the blessing my grandfather on my Mom’s side always said before we ate. “Be present at this table Lord, be here and everywhere adored. Thy creatures bless and grant that we, may feast in Paradise with thee, Amen.” I always thought it odd he said the same blessing at every meal, but it was really a good one, as I reflect on it now.

I  received a special gift this weekend, along with a book that Billy Graham has just written, The Reason For My Hope. It is probably the last one from this incredible man of God, and I am stuck by how each paragraph, each sentence contains so much truth , insight and yes, hope for all of mankind, in spite of everything we see going on in the world today. To me it would seem as though he would be discouraged at what he has seen over his lifetime, but because his hope is in our eternal salvation, in God not in man, he is every bit as passionate near the end of his life as he was in the beginning of his ministry. He is an amazing blessing to the decades of people whose lives he has touched and to the generations that will follow.

The part that struck me this morning even as I was being uplifted by his words, was that I hadn’t read thirty pages when I had noticed two mistakes. Not in his message, not in his work, but typos! Typos, can you believe it? He has a great publisher, probably hundreds of people who have read this before the publisher took it to print, and yet here are these common errors seemingly obvious to me, that no one caught.

At first I thought, should I call someone, write them that these were there so that future printings would be perfect? Then I realized God was just showing me, once again, how I struggle with the fact that regardless of being saved, in spite of spending thirty years safe in His protection and love, I still struggle with imperfection. And I always will. I am imperfect. We all are. Save one, Jesus Christ, who came so that we might have eternal life and be accepted, with all our imperfections, into His Kingdom when we leave this earthly body and return home.

I always thought it was a good thing to be a natural proofreader, but sometimes it isn’t,  unless it is your job. It makes me search words for the meaning that might be lost between the lines, a hanging participle that might cause someone to read something in a way other than what the author intended. Yet often this is just how God speaks to me in deeper ways, calling attention to the flaws I have asked Him to reveal in me that I might possibly improve on with some effort on my part and grace on His. I don’t want someone to read me wrong, so to speak. Or is it that I don’t want them to see my imperfections?

Today He has shown me that He doesn’t see my imperfections in the way I see them. He sees my heart. He sees the soul He gave me at birth and the life that I have lived trying to be true to Him and to myself. He does not proofread every moment of every day, every misstep that I have made, every wrong word that I have written or said. I sometimes can be so disheartened by getting something wrong that I miss His bigger picture for me. His love and compassion are always the meaning between the lines. His care for me goes far beyond my getting everything perfect. His joy in me is never undone by one wrong thought.

I thought I was not a perfectionist. I try to look for the good in people and in situations without judging the small mistakes, but I was wrong; being a proofreader is looking for perfection. I attributed this to a characteristic of God, but I was incorrect, as I so often am. We are made in His image, not He in ours. Nothing in His word says He is a proofreader, in fact much the opposite. We are flawed, imperfect, and we need Him to get through this life. He sent His perfect son to die on the cross for the mistakes we have made and will continue to make, just so that we can experience His love while we struggle through life on this earth and so we may one day join Him in eternity. End of story. I do not need to tell Billy Graham’s publisher there are flaws. If anyone knows that, it is Billy Graham. Perhaps God allowed those  just for me to see. He’s like that, you know.

This has been the week of Thanksgiving, and as such a time when the children I care for weekdays have their parents home for much of the week. As a result I have some time off, and the thing I thought I would do with it was clean my apartment, getting rid of accumulated clutter and sorting through old paperwork no longer needed, to make room for more, I guess!

That was my plan, so I had absolutely no social events, save Thanksgiving dinner, to get in the way of that plan.  God had a different plan. I was close, as it definitely involved cleaning, but instead of my house, He seemed to have more interest in my heart.  This week, interestingly beginning on a Sunday,  has evolved into a thorough searching of the insides of my heart; examining the things in  residence there and the reasons behind them moving in. Many, it seemed, had actually already moved out, but left behind a few remnants of their stay and some cobwebs and dusty corners that needed a broom and a little elbow grease to remove. Cleaning up that space left a very beautiful peaceful new place for a future occupant.

All in all it has been a wonderful adventure, but emotionally and physically exhausting in the process. He has His reasons for this, and I believe He has been slowly revealing them as we do this together. I have given Him permission to bring someone into my life with whom I could share both my love for Him and a true and honest love and partnership here on earth. I believe all the hard work we have been doing this week will make perfect sense as He reveals the next part of this journey. At the very least, He has given me a clean bill of health and my heart seems to be ready to move forward! My heart, Christ’s home.  That in itself is wonderful news!

My apartment, however, looks exactly the same as it did a week ago.