Just before the wedding of our younger son in July 2012, I had sent up a small prayer of wonder: I wonder what I should do next God?  I wonder if working in a church might be a consideration?

We returned from the wedding, walked into church and decided to sit next to a friend of ours who that morning sat alone, without his wife by his side, since she was entertaining out-of-town guests.   The service began with a surprising announcement that our church was seeking a new office administrator and if anyone was interested, you could talk to the Chair of the Board.  I turned to our friend, who just happened to be that guy, and whispered, “I think I might be interested in the job.”

A couple of weeks later my husband Brad came home to announce that he would be let go from his job at the end of the month. As Brad walked away from his position, I began the process to step into this new role at our church.  However, over the next little while, I argued back and forth with God that perhaps this truly wasn’t the best placement, that someone else certainly could handle the accounting procedures better than me.  Lo and behold our church hired a bookkeeper, and I humbly mumbled my gratitude to God, instead of loudly grumbling my complaints to him.

At the same time, Brad and I found that we were mining the depths of our commitment to each other, as he struggled through job interviews and rejections.  Thankfully a close friend offered Brad work with his contracting business, while we muddled through this difficult time.  We struggled through our prayers to God, offering ourselves over and over again in his service.  We strove to remain optimistic, to trust his timing, to understand the lessons we needed to learn.  We prayed, we prayed, and we prayed.

After walking through eight months of unemployment, a job offer in an unexpected area came Brad’s way.  He wouldn’t have envisioned himself at this company, but God had, and knew precisely when Brad should be placed there.  We marveled, as we felt immersed by God’s grace.

As the summer and our older son’s marriage approached, we looked forward to truly celebrating the commitment of he and his fiancé’s love. A few weeks before this wedding I found myself offering up another small prayer of wonder to God.

I wonder if I can truly focus my thoughts to write the “toast of love” they requested us to offer at the reception.  I didn’t know if I could find the time, let alone the ideas to create a worthy toast of love.

About the same time I received an email from one of the women in our church that she was going to sign up to do an on-line Bible study called, What Happens When Women Say Yes to God, starting a week after the wedding, and could I send the word out to encourage other women to join her. Great I thought, one more thing to squeeze into the days before I took time off.  Wouldn’t it be easier to just ignore this request?  However, the title seemed to echo through my soul, I rolled the word yes around in my mind thinking about what it represented.

Yes, a yearning for more, an enthusiasm for more, a sureness of something more.   Just like a prayer, a prayer of faith, of enduring hope and unwavering trust.  Yes, a word of prayer that promises so much more.

I also had to chuckle to myself, because my repeated phrase to Brad as we focused on the wedding was, “whatever they ask of us, the answer is always, yes. “

Eventually, I followed through on the Bible Study information by saying yes to promoting it.  I ordered six books thinking that if the response was limited the leftover books could find a home in our church library.  And then God took my yes, and multiplied it.

We now have 24 women participating in this summer study and more are asking questions about it.  I just ordered another batch of books even though the study has already begun.

And for me, this study has brought me full circle back to my writing blog, abandoned last year amidst the anxiety of what would happen next.  When I read today’s study message I sent out another little prayer.  I wonder God, should I write something on my blog and participate in the blog hopping tomorrow?

After a busy day at the church I didn’t think I would have the ability to focus, but I opened my blog to read my last post in which I reminded myself to be gentle with my writing.

Even as I try to bring this to a close, I am breathing in a reassuring burst of energy that wants only to respond to whatever God wants me to do.  Has this been a year of wondering what will happen next?  Yes!  Has this been a year of being led into the unknown? Yes!  Has this been a year when saying yes has meant wave after wave of more opportunities to say yes? Yes!

The words from this week’s study that resonated loud and clear to me were these:

Saying yes to God “is having the overwhelming desire to walk in the center of God’s will at every moment.”

Yes… to yearn, enthusiastically, for the sureness of His love!

By the way, I did manage to write a toast to love for our son’s wedding.  When I said yes to that, God provided the words to come together.  Check back to this website to read the toast; after I edit it to fit into this blog!

Dee

Perhaps if we could, we might hear your silent vows to each other…

Your laughter floats above the music of my soul, like a twirling current shaping a sandy shore,

One by one our notes appear, discovering the melody, understanding the harmony, measure by measure composing our love.

Your curiosity intensifies the depth of my dreams, like a rushing wind lifting the morning mist.

One by one our voices blend, discovering the melody, understanding the harmony, measure by measure composing our love.

Your devotion dances with the rhythm of my spirit, like a sparkling meteor streaking through the sky.

Rising in crescendo volume, our solos merge, forging a new harmony, measure by measure composing our love,

Our passion inspires the path of our future, like a soaring eagle swooping towards the precipice.

Our chorus encompasses us, combining our melody, intermingling our harmony, measure by measure composing our life.

Our promises glide freely and willingly to each other, like rippling circles reaching to a sheltered bank.

Hand in hand we will create our arrangement, within our harmony, measure by measure composing our life.

Our future beckons, revealing our possibilities, like a sunrise shimmering beyond the horizon.

Together, composing, creating treasures for a lifetime, measure by measure our marriage begins.

With love,

Mom

The route took the marchers down Main Street providing a grand view of the borough from the top of the hill to the train tracks at the bottom. It wasn’t until later that I heard the story of how my Dad had surprised his Mother with his soldier’s homecoming by walking up the sidewalks of that very street while she was busily sweeping her broom across the front porch.  He had finished his tour of duty in Japan at the end of World War II, and decided to come home as quickly as he could without giving notice to his family.  Nana didn’t expect it, but she was swept up in celebration that day!

I’m certain many other soldiers have walked upon that hill on their way to catch the train to report to duty, or on the path to a happy homecoming. Footsteps of servicemen and women echoing up and down Main Street from many years of dedication and sacrifice by veterans of various wars.

As the parade wandered through the streets of Macungie, citizens would tag along at its end, making their way toward the final destination in the Memorial Park.  Many years ago a farmer donated some fields to honor those who gave their lives so that he might live in a free country. Later a monument with an accompanying flagpole was erected to stand as a continual reminder that family members who grew up and lived in Macungie courageously died in service to the United States of America.

For those who wished to gather in the park, the parade morning always ended with a service in the band shell area.

Not until the last stanzas of hymns held aloft the thoughts and prayers of many, not until the last group of servicemen stood in a group to a round of respectful applause, not until the last sounds of taps rose hauntingly through the shady trees lining the picnic areas of the park, not until we turned and walked away from the time of remembering…

Only then, did I remove my white gloves and enjoy the freedom of running through a park on my way home.

Today I join with my fellow Americans and humbly salute all those who have and those who continue to serve the United States of America.

As I watch, he stops momentarily, allowing the fog to enclose his feet; his feathers ruffle slightly as if he is trying to identify the swirling mist.  He’s listening, allowing the hazy dampness to encircle him.  He waits, perhaps searching for a sense of an uplifting current that would help him arise and be airborne amidst the clouds.

The grayness above merges with the paler layers lurking on the ground.  I try to wipe the window to see the goose more clearly, only smearing a smudge on the glass, not clearing my vision.  When I look again, he’s gone.  Hopefully he discovered a way to rise up and find guidance for his flight.  Maybe he realized he had landed too soon to a place promising a welcome habitat.  Maybe the dampness encouraged him to seek an airstream that would lift him to a higher vantage point.

Following his brief visit I open the book on prayer I am currently reading, The Only Necessary Thing by Henri J. M. Nouwen.  He states, “The discipline of the heart…makes us aware that praying is not only listening to but also listening with.  We stand in the presence of God… with all we have and are: our fears and anxieties, our guilt and shame…our joys, hopes, dreams…in short, all that makes us who we are.  With all this we have to listen to God’s voice and allow God to speak to us in every corner of our being. “

Sometimes when I pray I feel like I have landed in a patch of swirling fog, admitting my mistakes, but still hoping to find the promises I am seeking.  I’m trying to acknowledge the greatness of all God does, while still justifying my prayer requests.  Sometimes I come wanting future plans to be revealed within my timeline, reluctant to wait for God’s designs.

Lord let me be more like a goose grounded in the murkiness of a morning fog, awaiting the right timing to take flight again.  Let me listen to you with all I am. Help me to reposition myself so that I am ready to hear and to find the place where you want me to be.  Lord let me listen like a goose ruffling its feathers sensing the uplift of a low-lying cloud’s hidden current.  Lord may your spirit flow to every corner of my being as I trust in your guidance and love.

I begin to pray, letting myself settle into the presence of God, knowing that He will be with me as I rise through the mist.

“Oh, maybe next time,” I say to Dusty, “Here you go, catch it!”

Having missed his target, he anticipates my throw, and runs ahead of the foam disk, eager to jump up and snag it in the middle of a flying leap.  Unfortunately the direction I toss it in doesn’t always match his head start in this race.  Sometimes he’s half-way to the lilac bushes when in fact my forward fling has gone slightly askew, and he is forced to search for his favoured find beyond the fire pit.

Shortly, the resulting hoped for moment occurs, and voila, Dusty captures his prize.  Disk in mouth, he waits for me to venture close to him, but just as I draw near he mischievously runs in another direction.  Eventually he tires, drops the coveted slimy circle and rolls over for a belly rub.  I realize Dusty’s definition of “next time,” means he has happily conceded to a bit of loving after a good run with his floppy toy.

“Oh, maybe next time.”

That nagging word, “next” bothered me when I was growing up.  As the younger of two sisters, 15 months apart, “next” became a worn out refrain.

“Maybe next year you will be tall enough to go on the roller coaster.”
“Maybe next year you can take piano lessons.”
“Maybe next year your hair will be longer to braid in pigtails.”

Why “next” always dragged along that qualifying maybe, I don’t know.  It bothered me for many years and became a haunting phrase in my vocabulary.

So when it happened that my two sons were born 15 months apart, I paid attention to how often I used “next time” or “maybe next year” or “just wait, next time you’ll be able to do it,” especially when addressing my younger son.

However, the Easter when Don and Chris were only two and three, a simple revelation changed my entire perception.  The three of us were sitting at the kitchen table waiting for a few hard-boiled eggs to cool before painting them. I began to read a story about the week Jesus experienced leading up to his resurrection.  My tone of voice and sadness as I explained the crucifixion moved each of them to crawl into my lap as I continued with the unfolding events.

After a bit of pushing and shoving they settled down, looking at the pictures as I read.  Finally we reached the part where the stone had been rolled away from Jesus’ tomb.  I paused so they could see the huge hole in the side of the rock.

“He’s not there.  What do you think happened to Jesus?”  I asked.

At this point, little Chris had stood up on my legs in an effort to hug me tighter around my neck.  From his new vantage point he spied something that his brother had yet to see.  I had my finger tucked into the book, waiting to flip forward for the finale, creating a gap that gave Chris a sneak preview.

All of a sudden Christopher’s face lit up and he pointed.  I barely had a chance to ask again,

“Where do you think Jesus is?”

Chris happily shouted,  “He’s on the next page.”

From then on, I looked forward to thinking about the “maybe next times” or the “next year whens” or the “it will be your turn next.”  I didn’t dwell on the frustrating way that “next” sometimes sounded like a  call to doom as when the nurse holds up the vaccination needle loudly honing in on her “next” patient.  Instead, it became this glorious word that represented hope, and opportunity. I would picture Jesus, hear Christopher’s excited shout, and hold that thought close to my heart, “He’s on the next page.”

Yes, “next” is a simple word I say over and over again throughout my day, one that has a beautiful meaning for me.  I challenge you: how often do you qualify your moments with a “next time,” or “maybe next week,” “next month,” “next year?”  I often say the phrase, “Oh maybe next time,” since it comes forth from habit, from many memories over many years.  But it no longer pulls me backwards with frustration; I let it brighten my outlook as if it always holds a brand new discovery.

This morning Dusty reminded me to be constantly ready for my “next times” whether I’ve got a head start or I need to change my direction.  He showed me how easy it is to admit when I’ve dashed off on a crazy chase, and how wonderful it feels to submit to some reassuring love.

So as Easter enters into another year, I wanted to share my prayers by simply tossing “the next page idea” to all of you.

Dusty and I look forward to continuing our walk with you, page by page.