Awakening at 4 a.m., clammy knees sticking beneath sheets, I grab pillow and trudge downstairs to couch, scarlet velour smooth. Pulling Grandma Hilma’s quilt to chin, cotton heaviness barring machine-made chill, I gaze out front windows. Streetlight glares tawdry. Half moon hangs nursery-rhyme perfect, framed by wisps of locust tree.
I fret.
Worry is my persistent foe. I go for days and weeks carefree, and then it’s with me again, like a malaria, rearing up, renewed. It claws in the hollow of my stomach deep.
I wish I could say I hand it all over, release beast to God. But not always. Prayers are empty, dry, distracted, unable to soften hollow clawing. I don’t always feel him here. I listen, but don’t hear. Grope blind but don’t feel.
Clock ticks loud. Windchimes clink soft, jingling like a charm bracelet sliding down slender wrist.
His comfort feels far. I pray, still.
: :
Lifting creaking metal lid I see it tucked beneath bank statements and electric bill: “To my precious parents,” script in delicate blue on airmail envelope. Mary writes from Tanzania, where she studies to be a doctor. She tells us about her favorite subjects – chemistry, geography, biology – inquires about Noah and Rowan and our weather in Nebraska.
And then this, buried in the middle of paragraph two:
“I would like you to read Psalm 121. It gives hope to those who lose faith and those who face problems. I like to read the chapter before sleeping.”
Lifting my Bible off the desk, I turn the pages. I’ve never read Psalm 121.
The Lord watches over you –the Lord is your shade at your right hand;the sun will not harm you by day,nor the moon by night.The Lord will keep you from all harm –he will watch over your life;the Lord will watch over your coming and goingboth now and forevermore.[Psalm 121:5-8]
When hollow worry descends, when spirit splinters, when hope falters, when sleeplessness stalks, he is there in the lonely darkness. Today, tonight, now and forevermore.
I may not feel him always; I may not hear him over ticking clock, clinking windchimes. But he is there. His words and voice are carried in a letter from Tanzania, neat blue script on single sheet folded twice, found tucked beneath the electric bill.
Thank you, Mary, daughter so far so close in Tanzania, for showing me the way.
Addendum note: Mary is not our biological daughter. She is a girl we sponsor through our church. As an AIDS orphan, Mary has far, far greater worries than I…yet she lovingly showed me the way. I find God so amazing that way…
This week Ann Voskamp at A Holy Experience asks us to write about the spiritual practice of listening to God.
