Purple Rain

We gathered together, us people at work, in a room filled with a collective desire. Pray for healing we asked, this is what we do. This is what we know. Our voices lifted up to you. Please bless this woman who needs you. Please give her a spirit of confidence, a powerful sense of your presence. Unabashed tears I heard, porcelain cups that crack slender, a hurt for the beautiful. This woman who loves beyond measure we loved her back. Different voices humbly requesting a healing, words colored with praise and trust. Like purple rain you've never seen, but deep down in the knowing place, you trust in its absolute splendor. Watchman Nee wrote: "Our prayers lay the track down on which God's power can come. Like a mighty locomotive, His power is irresistible, but it cannot reach us without rails." If this be so then our tracks ran long, and steam rose high, tears splitting open the gates above. Walking back to my desk I caught a glimpse of maple tree dressed in blazing oranges and reds. Ok,  yes you are glorious. I put to rest the questions, the sadness and doubts, laid them in the place that says I don't-know-why-but-you-do, and lingered in the moment, stillness by the window. There is a song that I like to press repeat when I am in struggle or sad or wondering why we have to suffer or feel pain. A refrain that says nothing yet everything.

When my world is shaking, heaven stands
When my heart is breaking
I never leave your hands

Like purple rain unseen, and angels that move unnoticed, prayer is the door which opens to invisible. All you have to do is believe.

A Hiding Place

Where can one hide from the cares of this world? Truly escape from it all, the tough work, daily grind, grim news on television, political ads. When cars blast anxious horn while I wait to turn right on red light. Learning new work flows on computer, silently praying for foggy head to clear, for instruction to seep into nearing retirement-age brain. Pain continues and feet move forward, one step, one choice, one blessing received at a time. And the desire to rest in a cave like Elijah is extremely overwhelming. Hard times call for smuggling those moments that refresh spirit and restore even flow of breath. Quiet. Relax. Hibernate. Or in the case of a grandmother of toddler twin boys, hide in a Sesame Street Play Hut strategically placed in their bedroom. Oh what joy! Flat on their wee backs with happy grins, or peeking through flap of tent, all giggle and play. Through eyes of a child heavy sack of worries disappear like D.B. Cooper. One boy stands up and carries nylon tent on head, tripping, spilling over and the getting back up. The getting back up. That's the tough, rigorous part we play. More adventure to come, more hide-and-seek and staring at glistening stars, or Elmo's beet-red head. And more stumbling. Wobbly knees straighten again, sturdy, bolstered by God's creativity at awakening weary spirit. Cranking heartbeat up a notch. And maybe, like Elijah, the still soft voice awakens tired, fearful souls in unexpected ways after exiting the cave. I found a hiding place yesterday, in Elmo's tent and toddler boy's glee, breath returned, fluid and free, once again, God's sweet voice reigned on me.