July 2006

God of Highest Mirth, Full-Bellied Joy, Lord of Laughter:

Thank you for the grace of uncontrollable expressions of fun, humor, and humility.  Thank you for the thrown back head, the squeezing stomach, the tears, choking, wheezing, palm pounding, cheek stretching, intestine gurgling laughter!  How much it means, how important it is for adults to lose ourselves in such play again; we are your children at your feet.  And I believe–I need to know–that our laughter and games are the highest form of worship, and the clearest connection to heaven.  Laugh, Lord!  Laugh me into your Kingdom… and there, let me laugh ’til late into the night for all the rest of eternity!  Amen!

In my prayer journal, I collect favorite prayers that I run across.  Here is one that I use frequently here in the Northwest, USA.  It is by Robert Louis Stevenson (after his death, his wife published a number of prayers from his journal)…

“We thank thee, Lord, for the glory of the late days and the excellent face of thy sun!  We thank thee for good news received.  We thank thee for the pleasures we have enjoyed and for those we have been able to confer.  And now, when clouds gather and the rain impends over the forest and our house, permit us not to be cast down; let us not lose the savour of past mercies and past pleasures; but, like the voice of a bird singing in the rain, let grateful memory survive in the hour of darkness.  If there be in front of us any painful duty, strengthen us with the grace of courage; if any act of mercy, teach us tenderness and patience.  Amen.”

 

WHAT IS A FAVORITE PRAYER OF YOURS??

Dusty violin

leans against the dry, cracked pine

of a windowsill.

 

Outside, a field;

grasses yellow and heavy

brush the roughness

of a small, darkened cross.

 

Sunlight

rolls down from distant hills,

stretching long shadows behind,

pushing through streaked glass,

smears itself

on the unkempt oak floor.

 

Bowed cane,

reaching up against the arm

of an unvarnished chair,

held limply

in his withered hand.

“How good, how delightful it is to live as brothers and sisters all together!”

“What do you want?” and sometimes we answer cynically, “world peace, love and unity.” The cynicism and sarcasm hurts, though; it leaves us feeling smudged. Why? Because, honestly, it is what we long for; it makes us angry that we can’t have it; it makes us guilty that we’re a part of the problem; it makes us sad.

Maybe a part of the sadness is wistfulness? Afterall, we have had tastes of this goodness and delight. They reside in our past and flow together, all lumped together as a warm summer haze called: the good ol’ days. Sad, because they can only be remembered and not relived, like friends that we’ve lost touch with. Good, because they can be remembered and cherished, like friends and memories that can never vanish and will linger like fragreance.

But I also think this cynicism, this longing, this wistfulness and these memories include hope. Sometimes it’s a hope as shadowed as a broken heart that still beats, but other times it is as sure as our next breath. Like faith.

Bring this goodness and this delight, Lord. Be our brother as you were in Jesus so that we can brother and sister each other with delight.

“It is like fine oil on the head, running down the beard, running down Aaron’s beard, onto the collar of his robes.”

I don’t know what oil feels like on the head.  I do know the feeling of lake water dripping on my shoulders while I sun lazily on the shore–hair still damp from a vigorous swim, leaving muscles that feel bunched, alive.  Eyes closed, warmth spreads, cold tickles.

I remember the feel of Mother’s hand gently running through my hair as I relax against her.  Indulgent, safe, embraced.  An electric blanket turned on high after a day playing in the Montanan winter.

And the light feeling of my wife nearby.  Sometimes gentle like a reassuring touch of her finger on my arm.  Other times strong and demanding, or as supportive, as a promise.

Maybe I do know the feeling of fine oil, afterall, as it runs from my head into my beard.  Not thickly pressing, but lightly comforting… like God touching, anointing, tickling, sanctifying.

These touches, caresses, were–and are–my baptism all over again.  They are the assurance of the love and claim of God, and they are everything that set me apart as his child.  These are the assurances and strength–all the assurance and strength I have or need–to point to his love.  Aaron, if this is what your oil felt like, then you and I are brothers.

Help me draw strength, Lord, from such comforitng memories touching flesh, to let my words and actions speak such assurances, comfort and passion to others. 

“It is like the dew of Hermon falling from the heights of Zion; for there the Lord bestows his blessing, everlasting life.”

It is early.  The sun has barely lightened the sky–so that I’m just able to make out the lumpy shapes of sleeping bags in the small claustrophobic tent.  At last: awake.  Motivation shrugs and overcomes the morning chill to struggle out of the bag, put on cold and stiff hiking shoes.  The front flap unzips loudly, and I wish an apology on my sleeping brother, as well as to the still quiet morning.

My hands become wet from the grass’s dew… as I crawl from the cave of my tent into life.  Outside, I can stand up straight and stretch.  I rub my hands together.  The moist chill spreads, then fades. 

I start walking toward the hill that stood above us, unseen, all night.  Sleeping or vigilant?  I don’t know; either would speak of her power and age.  Morning muscles tug timidly first, then stretch with strength… springing over a small ravine like the gap between our sleeping field and this mountain’s wide-stretching belly.

Grasses quickly thin for uneven scrub and brush.  These disperse for craggy and fallen rock.  I am leaning heavily into her now, the mountain.  Rocks scrape loudly.  They slip under my feet–but my step still feels solid sure, as though I already know how each rock would feel and how it might turn and slide just so far, so I push on.

My legs and lungs feel the work of yesterday’s hike and the incline of this slope, but the energy spent is replaced by the strength and draw of determination.  The top of the hill keeps bending and turning from me, but calling and promising: “Come, stand and see.”  I will.

At last, she turns no further.  Before I can mourn the exercise and challenge, creation leaves me suddenly stunned quiet and worshipful.  The top stretches flat with her own grasses and a small patch of forest.

Below me, craggy gray rocks drop swiftly away into the field where the two tents lay, fabrics gently protecting my brothers still sleeping, but unknowingly missing this: beauty.  Behind them, the dark stretch of lake.  Across from me, another mountain, still taller, with snow crowning its heights, already tipped rosy with the first touches from the sun; the sun unseen, but rising on the world somewhere east and behind, while a few low western stars dimly twinkle.

It is as though I can feel, if not see, everything all around me.  Here in this dawn meet a bit of all the creation and universe, people, hearts and souls.  Majesty unreachable, unembraceable, but… touched.  It stands solid, exists, rises and falls with or without me.  And yet it has heard me, lifted me, and held me.  Whispered and promised.  It matters that I am here, have seen its beauty, and have loved.  If it suggests eternity, then I have been touched by eternity.  Its chill and then its warmth spread like the wet dew from grass on hands, rubbed together.

Holy God, majestic like a sleeping or a vigilant mountain, stand before me, frighten me, excite me, challenge me, lift me up, move me.  Then send me back.  Amen.