“She might not make it through the night.” That’s what another friend heard last week as his wife, sedated, was in the emergency room. There was a walnut-sized white spot on a scan standing for red blood leaking.in her brain.

“Our gas is scheduled for disconnection this afternoon” is what I heard when I answered the phone, a child fussing in the background. “Do you help?”

“It’s probably cancer, in the thyroid.” He’s a junior in college, he’s getting married in May. Of the kinds of cancer to have, it’s a good one. That’s what everyone who knows says. But that’s a really hard truth to hear. It’s not your neck, or your son’s neck, on the table.

What everyone wants most is fixing, for the uncertainty to be gone and the situation to be fixed. Instead, the clock has twenty-four hours and the hospital lost the fast-forward to brain resolution button, and the gas wrench can only be stopped with cash and this Friday morning at 5 is years away.

So what can I say without sounding like a Hallmark card? “It will be fine.”

“God, you know what you are wanting, you see how this all turns out. Because you are God. And I’m not. So give us wisdom, because that’s something to ask for. Give us peace, because we are having this conversation. And what I’d like, since it’s okay to tell you that, is for Joy to not die. And Jordan to be healed. And S___ to find home. And we’ll take care of the gas bill. And help our unbelief.”

First comes whimpering. Then crying. Then a screaming that consumes the child’s whole body. Long before danger of starvation, the child makes sure that there is no one within earshot that has any question about a need for food. That same child, a bottle or a breast later, is content. No tears, no cries, no struggles, no fears.

That’s the image a writer uses to describe a soul in Psalm 131. Instead of worrying, of crying out about “things too great and marvelous for me”, the writer has

calmed and quieted my soul,
like a weaned child with its mother;
like a weaned child is my soul within me.

We can go two directions at this point. We could move quickly to talk about those infants who have no food. Those infants who, no matter how loud the crying, will never be satisfied. Adrift in crowds in Somalia, they will die before they have the food they need.

Or we can look at the condition of our souls.

It is easy for me to allow my soul to be consumed with things I cannot understand, that I cannot resolve. International and internal politics. How everything will be tied together, or will fall apart. Being in charge. Things that they have no direct connect to that I watch friends lose sleep over.

Instead, the psalmist suggests,

O Israel, hope in the LORD
from this time forth and forevermore.

Intriguingly, when my soul is content at the side of a loving God, frenetic activity is replaced with thoughtful observation. I quit trying to fix. I quit being God. I can see around me. I notice suffering. And it is possible to climb from the lap and offer hope. Especially to the child crying from physical starvation.

—

My friend Rich Dixon is still riding the length of the Mississippi on his hand cycle, raising money for Convoy of Hope. He’s ridden 1000 miles so far. It’s one way to help kids.  (Rich and I)

You aren’t sure what’s happening. You can’t see to the end of today. And you are waiting.

It reminds you of that summer before your senior year of high school, the summer that you worked third shift. All alone in the building, all alone working on the computer.  Sometimes alone is okay. But in the hours just before dawn, when exhaustion is setting in, you can see waiting.

It reminds you of the time between you decided to apply for the job and the conversation in your office when they said, “We’ve decided to go the other direction.” Those weeks of wondering, those last minutes of sheer uncertainty about which way your whole life was going.

You are waiting.

And in your waiting, you are trying to talk to God. You make promises and then rescind them and then rescind your doubt and then doubt yourself. It’s so deep, your waiting, that some moments you cannot breath. You cannot sit. You cannot touch the keyboard.

An ancient chant starts playing around the edges of your heart.

More than the watchmen, waiting for the morning.
More than the watchmen, waiting for the morning.

Every bit of urgency and despair and desire and fear pours itself into that line. Because that’s how much you want hope, how much you are aching for this to be fixed.  But you can’t remember where that chant came from.

It came from Psalm 130, which is familiar even if never before seen.  Right before the repeated watchman phrase, the writer tells us the object of desire:

My soul waits for the Lord
More than the watchmen, waiting for the morning.

You aren’t the first to wait.  Or the first to cry out from the depths for mercy. I’ve known the feeling. And found hope.

I wrote to a friend yesterday. I said,

“Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD.”

It wasn’t very original. It was the end of a prayer that David wrote (Psalm 27). But it’s what came across my desk yesterday and I passed it on to him.

“Waiting. That’s a really tricky one for me.” That’s how he replied.

I understand. Waiting is really hard.

• When it’s Christmas and you know there must be something amazing and you want to find out what it is, waiting is hard.
• When it’s report card day and you are pretty sure it isn’t going to be something amazing and you are wondering what your parents are going to say, waiting is hard.
• When there are a million seeds in the field, when those million seeds represent everything you own, and there is a race between the seeds sprouting and drought and storms and seeds ripening and the combine working and the market  falling, waiting is excruciating.
• When the enemies of your soul are all around your house and it is the early hours of the morning and you cannot sleep, waiting is hard.

As a professional worrier, I understand.

In the middle of that prayer, David talks about how he talks to himself:

My heart says of you, “Seek his face!”
Your face, LORD, I will seek.

David’s heart, the voice inside that is feeling the pressure, the despair, the stress of everything, wants hope. It longs for something other than the current uncertainty. And that voice says, “Stop trying to figure it all out. Just look for His face.”

David looks.

When at the end of the prayer he talks of waiting, he’s assuring his heart (“take heart”). It’s a “just wait. You’ll see” kind of wait.

Humans are satisfied with whatever looks good;
God probes for what is good.
Put God in charge of your work,
then what you’ve planned will take place.

My friend said, “But how?”

Here’s part of what I said:

We create plans all the time, plans that don’t work.

They don’t work because they center around us and our own view of reality. They run aground because other people exist. We cannot control other people. (We can barely control ourselves).

For example:

You make a plan. Your spouse exists. And her very uttering of anything can affect whether that plan happens.

We think, “If only I could have a bigger view, process more variables, be able to read people better, talk better, explain better.”

Then we think, “What if someone could see the interplay of everyone. See the end from the beginning.  Suggest which path might be better, which way of living might be best.”

And God, assuming that he is who he says he is, is that someone.

But with God, the starting point isn’t that I plan and then say, “Hey God. Make this work.” Or even “Please please please make this work and I’ll be indebted to you forever.”

The starting point is, “So, God, you know where you want me to end up. Even better, HOW you want me to end up. You know the kind of person that you want me to be so that, at the end, I’m more like you. Today I need your direction. About this decision, I need your direction. More importantly, I need to know the values you are using, God, so that I use those as my values so that I end up with the choices you’d make.”

And then never say “amen.”

Back then, I had a plan for that hour. Fifteen minutes of praying, fifteen minutes of reading, fifteen minutes of catching up with online, fifteen minutes of writing (a series of posts on signs for that first month.)

As I think about the four years since then, much has changed in our lives. And I’ve discovered that I can add habits a little better than I used to be able to. (You are reading one of those habits right now).

But I’m also looking at this particular habit and discovering…

Habits sometimes need to be reviewed. I’ve clung to the 6 am habit. I’m still consistent with the social media part of it. But I have to be honest that the other three quarters of that hour aren’t nearly as consistent. Going back to the original intent of the habit is helpful.

Habits sometimes need to be renewed. Having seen where I’ve not been consistent, it’s time to renew the commitment, to look for ways to restore the balance. Not because it’s more spiritual to pray and read the Bible than look online. However, the plan was a good one. It was healthy. And I need the consistency of morning quiet and reflection.

Habits sometimes need to be refused. Some mornings the habit is to get up at six and stare at the screen. Those mornings, I would be better served by laying on the downstairs sofa and catching an extra hour of sleep. Because the beneficial habit isn’t just 6. It’s the content of the hour.

—

This is the second of a series of posts on 6. The first was Psalm 6.

All: Hear our prayer, O Lord.

A: I’m empty, O God, as empty as the heart of the widow walking next to the coffin of her only son. Do remember her, Jesus? No options? No hope? You healed her son. Please raise my heart.

All: Hear his prayer, O Lord.

B: I’m full, O God, thrilled with the adventure of a new week, a new morning. Yesterday was wonderful, the community, the worship. Let me remember the awareness of your presence all week long.

All: Hear her prayer, O Lord. And bring them together.

C: We are certain, O God, of the direction you are taking our family. We know that it will be hard, that love that gives up stuff and family is confusing to many, confusing to us. But we know that you are here and we know that you will be there. And we are grateful.

All: Hear their prayer, O Lord.

D: I’m so confused, O Lord, and then I hear that family and I am even more confused. How can they be certain of hearing you? How can I be certain of you hearing me? How can they pick up and leave and say that it’s you? I’d take just a whisper. Just an echo. Just a word.

All: Hear his prayer, O Lord.

C: And answer, please.

E: I am grieving. I admit it, O God. I know that you are with me. I know that. But he isn’t, not anymore. Not til forever. And I am trusting, that I am. But I am alone.

All: Hear her prayer, O Lord.

Leader: We are here, God, as different as apples and transmissions. Our fullness and emptiness grate on each other. So grant us your peace. No other will do.

When your little kid wanders off and you find him twenty minutes later, you get really mad at him. “Ben, I’ve told you a ton of times to never to wander off like that!” But what you really mean is, “Ben, I love you so much and am so glad that you are not lost!” The heat of emotions gets us every time. Recently, we have tended to get angry at those who have done things to harm themselves and us, needlessly.

So one thing we’ve been pondering – and seeking to apply – is that it’s great to first go to God with our anger and frustration. After then we can go to others.

Are we weak and heavy laden, cumbered with a load of care?
Precious Savior, still our refuge, take it to the Lord in prayer.
Do your friends despise, forsake you? Take it to the Lord in prayer!
In His arms He’ll take and shield you; you will find a solace there.

That is from an old hymn, written in 1855: What a Friend we have in Jesus.

Yes, we don’t talk like that anymore, but just as you would read Shakespeare, look beyond the language to see the depth of truth and meaning there.

This is such a simple truth, but it’s something that I have to keep remembering, re-learning and applying again – over and over. Maybe a way to expand our thinking on this is to think of new ways that we can do this today. Share your idea in the comments to help all of us move forward in this. Or share a story of how you did this, to encourage the rest of us. Thank you!

(Paul Merrill writes here every First Friday)

I don’t think I’ve talked to you about what I think it means to pray for someone, but that story is a perfect illustration.

I have this idea that “praying for” can mean “praying about” or “praying with” someone. So when someone says, “pray for me” they might mean “pray about this situation that I’m in.”  Or they might mean “pray with me and ask God to fix this because if we get enough people asking him, he’s bound to pay attention.”

However, I’ve got this idea that “praying for” might  mean “Would you talk to God because I can’t right now.”

It’s like, while I was holding my hand on the red line, I couldn’t make a call. But that didn’t mean that I was doing something wrong, it meant that I was engaged.

I said to Nancy late last week, “I’m looking forward to being able to pray again.” I wasn’t ignoring God. I was as aware of his presence and peace as I have ever been. But I didn’t have time for conversation. I was holding my hand on a red line to stop the bleeding. I had friends who were calling 911.

Jesus, I want you sitting here.

I don’t want to have to be patient. I don’t want you to be invisible. I want that relationship fixed. I want that heart healed. I want that brain to start working again, just like it was.

I want to know what to say.

I want to be able to say, “Jesus loves you and is praying for you and cares more about that person than you ever will.” I say it, Jesus, because I know it’s true, but, with all due respect, it sounds cliche.

I’d rather have five smooth stones in my hand, to fling at the towering Goliath of despair and watch it come crashing down. And still have four in my hand.

I’d rather … you know what I’d rather have, Jesus? I’d rather have you. Sitting on the deck. By the lake. With a cup of coffee in your hand in the early morning. The two of us looking at the calmness of the lake and you saying,

“See how smooth that is? I made that. And there was the time that there was a another lake, and a boat. And guys exactly like you who wanted to know that I was awake, that I was paying attention. They yelled at me above the noise of the storm. They thought I didn’t care. They thought I was ignoring them. They thought, well, they thought the storm was going to be too much for me. But it wasn’t.  The storm was easy. It always is. Them trusting me was hard. It always is.”

That’s what I want. Instead of the ache that I feel right now. I want that coffee and that calm and you.

And what I know is that you do too.

I mean coffee and calm and me.