Last night was bible study night. Every Wednesday, like clockwork, we drive the 20 or so miles to our church and open the doors, turn on the heat (or air) and lights, and prepare to welcome our members and visitors. We've done this faithfully for the past 4 years, so it shouldn't really be a big deal. Right?
Except last night, our faithful attendees weren't able to make it due to work obligations that, as it turns out, are going to prevent them from coming indefinitely. And our prodigal daughter, who recently returned with her two children after a year-long absence didn't show up either. Which left my husband, small children, and me there all alone. So, after a brief prayer to thank God for His goodness, we shut everything off, bundled up our crew, and loaded back into the car for the ride home.
Now, since this isn't the first time this has happened, I'll admit I should have been better able to handle the situation. I'm seasoned, a prayer warrior (or so I've been told), a veteran saint who has suffered disappointments and has come through worse than this. So, why do I feel so - angry? I could literally feel my heart breaking inside of me - like something in me died a little bit.
It's funny. My husband spent the entire ride home quoting scriptures, sharing testimonies of everyone from Moses to Paul about overcoming obstacles, bearing burdens, girding up and fortifying our prayer lives, and carrying the proverbial cross. And I know all of that. But I felt strangely numb - and just a little bit guilty. Aside from reiterating what I'd been saying all along - that the gospel goes where we go; that he's still a preacher, whether we're in the desert place we're in now or closer to our friends and family elsewhere; that maybe the fact that the other businesses in the strip mall where our church resides are closing and relocating is a sign from God that it's time for us to move on - aside from those things, I had absolutely nothing to say.
So we're driving along, him teaching the lesson to me in the car that he didn't get to teach that night, me silently sulking, when I hear it - a soft, sobbing noise from the back of the car. We stop to listen, then I call out my oldest daughter's name - Are you ok? we ask.
She's silent for a moment, then, through muffled sobbing, she says, "Yes, Mommy. I was just saying my prayers because I didn't get a chance to say them today. I wanted to talk to God." Talk about a slap in the face!
Here I was, fuming because the service didn't go the way I'd wanted it to go AGAIN and my 7 year old's only concern was getting into the presence of God. I had half prayed at church, seething in frustration and disappointement, and my little angel was in the back seat touching heaven with her beautiful tears and sincere heart. Kind of makes me wonder who's the real prayer warrior.
Needless to say, I checked my attitude and repented for the crazy thoughts going through my mind. This time, my way of escape came through my precious baby girl, who reminded me that at the end of the day, the only thing that really matters is getting in the presence of God.
