Watch and Pray

Matthew 26: 36-46

36 Then Jesus went with his disciples to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to them, “Sit here while I go over there and pray.”

37 He took Peter and the two sons of Zebedee along with him, and he began to be sorrowful and troubled.

38 Then he said to them, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.”

39 Going a little farther, he fell with his face to the ground and prayed, “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.”

40 Then he returned to his disciples and found them sleeping. “Couldn’t you men keep watch with me for one hour?” he asked Peter.

41 “Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”

42 He went away a second time and prayed, “My Father, if it is not possible for this cup to be taken away unless I drink it, may your will be done.”

43 When he came back, he again found them sleeping, because their eyes were heavy.

44 So he left them and went away once more and prayed the third time, saying the same thing.

45 Then he returned to the disciples and said to them, “Are you still sleeping and resting? Look, the hour has come, and the Son of Man is delivered into the hands of sinners.

46 Rise! Let us go! Here comes my betrayer!”

 

 

            Jesus asked his close friends to watch and pray for him in his sorrow. He went to commune with his Father about his impending suffering, agonizing over the knowledge of what he was about to experience. And he asked his disciples to watch and pray. He desired their presence, their love, their sacrifice of time and effort to hold him up in this way.

            And they fell asleep. He came back twice and asked for their dedication and encouragement. He told them of his neediness in this conflicted hour. His agony must have been evident on his beautiful, weary face. They fell asleep again.

            Was it too much to ask that they surrender their exhausted minds to pray for him? Was it simply too late at night, too great a request to expect them to focus their hearts on his broken one? They didn’t know, they weren’t aware of what he would soon endure. They had no idea how short their time with him was drawing. How were they to know how desperately he desired their love, how important it was that they stay awake and pray?

            His request was clear, watch and pray. His heart was pure, his love enduring, his word true. Wasn’t that enough? He had a habit of asking difficult requests: drop everything and follow me, drink of me, taste my glory and suffering, accept those who are different, believe in the impossible, step out in faith. They saw the results of following him, trusting his message enough to act. This wasn’t a request steeped in difficulty, requiring great faith, overcoming fear. It was his honest plea to them, “Watch and pray.”

            They had community. They weren’t alone in their exhaustion. Jesus invited three to accompany him. He asked them to band together, watch over each other, interdependently lock their minds in service, support each other as they honored him.

            Opportunities were abundant: to obey, lifting Jesus’ burden of this lonely walk, to encourage, loving his weary soul through this dark, shameful night, to reach the presence of God himself, to call angels to minister, to connect with the Savior in his time of need, to minister themselves to God.

            They were an intimate part of each other’s journey as well. They could’ve tasted the sweetness of trinity, three voices lifting in united benediction, three hearts attending his need for ministry. Opportunity was present for the holiness of community to share weakness, and experience grace.

            I know the failure of Peter and John. I’ve tasted the disappointment in myself when my attentions have drifted off. My eyes have focused on life’s wounds, my heart has been consumed with self-pity. Impatient without solutions for my problems, frustrated by how circumstances affect me, I disregard his simple request. I miss the vision he puts before me. My heart skips over the healing his truth offers.

            I hear the tender calling of his beautiful voice. I feel the gentle rousing of his hand on my shoulder. “Watch and pray.” His grace penetrates my self-centered dreams. I feel the unending adoration in his gaze, pulling my focus back. He loves unconditionally, forgives completely, and welcomes the renewal of my eyes and heart. “Watch and pray.”

We have moments of weakness, falling asleep exhausted from the weight of our journeys. We will have times our infallible minds drift away from the focus of ministry, swallowed up in the daily worries of our own little worlds. Still, choose with me to release fear, and engage in the love we are called into. “Watch and pray.”

Learning to Rest in the Palm of His Hand

12-30-12

I’m asking the question. I’m spending the time in a daily practice of meditation, listening for the answer.

The whispers of my heart tell me that I am successfully moving forward by carving out space to be with God. This is the beginning of finding what I’m looking so hard for: increased awareness, decreased anxiety.

The fear that often overwhelms me quiets as I focus on Him, invite Him in. The still, small voice inquires, “What is your definition of safety?”

“Not being hurt.” It is a child-like voice of mine that answers from a very fearful place. I don’t want to be hurt. I don’t want to feel any more pain.

“It’s time for a new definition of safety.” God promises that it will rain on the good and the bad, that we will face suffering, that trials will come. A new definition of safety… what does that look like?

“I am always with you. That is enough.”

 

1-9-13

I had surgery to remove the plate and screws in my ankle. Three week later, the infection on the incision site is making me ill, both physically and emotionally. I feel such intense anger seeping from my pores, souring even the air that I’m breathing. My little girl heart, terrified of pain, vulnerability and inevitable abandonment, wants to use the old familiar way of just mentally checking out. The habitual, fortifiable walls can slam down into place. Coldness can stand sentinel.

Peter’s hands embrace me as he prays over me. I quickly retreat, pushing away his touch and the faith of his words. I sleep in an effort to escape the panic climbing higher and higher. He quietly whispers, “Partners can carry the faith for both”, and he stays with me. Even in the face of rejection. He does not leave me.

 I still choose to sit and breathe, and I make an effort to quiet my spirit so I can hear His. I made this commitment to pursue meditation and yoga. It is something I’ve felt a yearning for, something I’ve been pulled to for years. I have been blessed with God sent teachers recently and have felt excitement and clarity that this is a path I’m meant to travel on. So, I sit, sinking into the center of the pain, feeling it suck at my ankles and envelope my heart.

This ugly, destructive, foreigner has planted itself on me. I can feel its teeth sinking in, its vile excretions dissolving my skin. The repulsiveness infecting my ankle in turn, desecrates all of me. And there’s nothing I can do about it. I cannot clean it, cannot scrub it off. I cannot get rid of it. I am nauseated and trapped by its incredibly strong grip.

I medicate with sleep inducing drugs and temporarily disappear.

The next day, I cry out, asking for help. I don’t get out of bed til 2pm. My husband stays by my side and holds me when I cry. I ask others to pray and they respond.

My heart hurts. My stomach feels raw and achy. I want to curl up under the covers and never move. Peter reads in a chair next to me. He doesn’t try to change me, improve me, comfort me. He just stays.

I type Peter the message, too fragile to speak it out loud, “This thing feels like the most germ-filled nastiness stuck to me, invading me, and there is nothing in the world I can do about it. I can’t scrub it off, I can’t disinfect it or cut it out. I just have to sit here while it eats away at me. And not only that, but it limits my abilities all over again, shoves me down and says you can't! It screams all the WHAT IFs in my face and I have zero control to stop it. I feel it with every movement of my body. I can't block it out. It is ugly, repulsive, destructive, and I am trapped with it.”

He is open to listening, unafraid of my confessions. He is willing to sit with me in those dark places.

Within the hour, after I have exposed the living fear that gnaws at my foot, I feel the light begin to permeate. I’m finally able to look into the eyes of my husband. He has physically lifted the weight off of my chest just by his presence, his love. I can breathe a little easier.

We go downstairs, have some dinner, and engage in a normal evening. I am able to receive the compassionate notes others have sent me. I can dismiss the guards, deconstruct the walls, and let in the encouragement from people who love me. “You are a child of God, protected, blessed, healed.”

My heart begins to return to a regular rhythm.

When it is time to meditate again, I sit in my chair, unable to fold my legs on the floor, and I close my eyes. My breath is ragged from the battle. “I am protected, blessed, healed.”

Immediately I am crumpled over, vomiting the painful admission. “I do not feel safe. I have never felt protected. Where were you when I needed you?”

“I am with you always.” I’m supposed to feel comfort with this new definition of safety. Instead, I feel rage. I want to slam my fists into His chest over and over and shove Him as hard and as far away as possible.

My new definition of safety… He is always with me. It isn’t enough. This dark ugliness of illness, of rebellion, of other people’s messes has clamped onto me time and time again, violently sucking away innocence and security. Where were you then?

“I was there with you. I will never leave you.”

I try to breathe. I close my eyes and place my arms on my thighs, palms facing up. I try to relax. The pain buckles my spine and rips at my abdomen. I want to fall into the fetal position with the groaning, the outpouring of tears. Instead, I bow my head and release the sobs.

Later, as I climb back into bed for the night, I read a message from my son. He says he’s been praying for me throughout the day, and asking others to join him in petitioning God for my sake.  While I am trying to block God out, He is sending others to intervene for me. Peter comes in and sits on the bed with me. I share with him the messages I have been getting all day, tears streaming down my face.

“I am so afraid that this isn’t going to get better. I am trying to protect myself with this anger. But I want to let go. I want to trust God. I have felt alone and let down so many times.”

Peter’s face is alight with joy and faith. He expresses the sense of empowerment he has felt the last couple of days as he tried to love me. He shares his feeling of spiritual gifting of faith big enough to hold us both.  “God has loved you through me. He has allowed me to stand here, to physically embrace you, in His place.”

I know this lesson. I’ve heard this whispered to my heart before. Just a couple of years ago I wrote this story…

“Do you feel God?”

“No.” She whispered quietly.

“Do you want me to tell you where He is?” My body cradled her, my hand rubbing her arm. I held my hand out in front of her and wiggled my fingers just slightly. “He’s right here.” I whispered excitedly, with childlike awe at this incredible truth. “He’s right here.” I told her, wanting her to feel the joy along with me. “Do you understand?” I asked.

She shook her head no.

“His Spirit is in me. He’s right here, in me. God sent you me.” Tears began to roll with my humility and gratefulness that God would allow me to honor and adore my child in such a way. Tears gathered and spilled over as understanding dawned for her.

“He sent you Nick. He sent you Jordan. And Merridee. He sent you me.”

She heard me. She understood.

“You know in those dark times when I couldn’t feel God," I started. "Do you know where He was?”

I held up her hand, pointing at the small, delicate fingers. “He was right here. He was in my children; you, and Nick, and Jordan.”

Oh Jesus, you were right there, with tiny smiles that filled my heart, you were in those sweet, little hands patting my arm. You were right there in their beautiful voices calling “Mommy.”

Thank you.

Where is God when you are alone? When you’re lying in the back seat of your car, crippled by the heartbreaking disappointments of being alive? When there are no hands to cover yours, no voices to speak comfort?

He is in the breeze that lifts the heaviness of air.

He is in the tear that traces down your cheek.

He is standing beside you, weeping with your pain.

He is here.

He is here.

When will it truly sink in?

I am in the palm of His hand and no one can take me from Him. I have perfect security in this. I can rest knowing He will never fail me. He has provided from me in every one of life’s circumstances. No matter what I face, I do not have to fear. He continues to reign as Jehovah- Jireh, the God who provides. In His grasp, I have all the strength I need to face life’s hurts. I can stand on the heights enabled by Him, and look with clarity at my life. He has kept me with His strength. His power has infused my mind and given me endurance. I can look out over my future. He is in control. I am in His hands.

 

ANXIETY

 

I went to my appointment with anticipation for healing and comfort, for renewal and more forward motion on the path I’m walking. I walked away with intense disappointment, mostly in myself.

For the past few years, I have felt my body growing tighter and tighter. I have felt my ability to relax lessen. Muscles have grown harder, not in sculpting and strengthening, but in knotting and stubbornness. Focusing on my breathing, accepting the gift of massage, or taking a relaxing weekend away, none of these have brought me relief. Not even the incredibleness of being loved has successfully convinced my body to let go.

My shoulders ache from their raised position. My neck cramps from the lack of oxygen my muscles receive. My lower back tenses and cries for attention. My jaw clenches, grinding my teeth. Migraines plague me for months at a time.

When I broke my ankle March 2012, my left thigh went on extreme high alert, guarding against anything that came within a ten foot radius. It’s still unable to let go of that 24 hour duty. It is hard and tired and unwilling to accept that my ankle is healed.

My stomach surgery in the summer of 2007 left me with more than the vertical scar that runs down my body. The muscles that were cut are still angry. I feel their protectiveness, the damage done.  I feel their fear.

I was told today that my body is not ready to let go.

I am in a constant fight or flight mode. I don’t release even when the danger has passed and I am safe. I’m afraid. I’m terrified of losing more than I already have. I’m sickened by the idea that my decisions have cost others dearly. I’m afraid of failing or being failed. I fear disappointment, physical pain, not being enough, and people finally recognizing that truth. I’m afraid of love dissolving, of security being jerked out from under me, and of discovering that I don’t have a true grasp on anything solid.

The Bible says that perfect love casts out fear. I’ve repeated that verse countless times to myself. And I pray, “I believe, Lord, help my unbelief!” Still, I am always poised for attack, and it is taking a heavy toll on my mind and body. I am choosing to start a daily practice of meditation and yoga in an effort to release this anxiety. I am crying out to God, confessing my inability and begging for His hope.  I don’t know what else to do.

Do I need to scream, wail, break things, burn things to let go of the past? What does grieving require of me? Where do I climb to throw this control off and be free? Do I have to confess to others, admit I need help? I am willing! I want release!! Is forgiveness required? Must I learn to trust in a deeper way? I will commit myself to these miraculous choices. Whatever it takes, I will do!

Phil. 4:5-7 Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near.  Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.