Gathered in His Name

My daughters are remarkably pretty. I say this not to boast, but because it is true. Somehow, my genes and Steve's came together to create these beautiful women.

Unfortunately, despite everything we say and do, one of my daughters does not believe, in her heart of hearts, that she is loved. Instead, she is drawn to every flattering guy with smooth moves; she is drawn to the attention like metal filings to a magnet.

She's an adult now, and I can't protect her the way I did when she was young. Heck, even in her early teens, she was really quite beyond our control.

And it is absolutely terrifying.

This week, without telling us, she went with a man more than twice her age to another city, to be a model. Through various connections, I learned that she was at a motel.

Then I read that he had abandoned her at a gas station in this city where she had no money and didn't know her way around.

There was no communication from her for 12 hours.

In 12 hours, a young woman could be trafficked to another country. In 12 hours, a beautiful young woman could be raped, mutilated, and murdered. In 12 hours, a woman with her whole life ahead of her could be sucked into a life of prostitution and drug abuse. In 12 hours her whole life could change.

I thought of all those other mothers whose daughters go missing, who print posters and plaster them on lamp posts, who create Facebook pages for their daughters.

I reached out to my sister and brother-in-law who live in the city where I believed my daughter had gone. They were ready to head out to the motel.

I prayed on my own, silently. I called the police (and got shunted to voicemail because of unusually high call volume).

Then I remembered the power of communal prayer:

"For where two or three come together in my name, there am I with them."

Matthew 18:20

I posted my plea on Facebook, then I went into the family room and asked my son to hold my hand while I prayed for his sister's safety. I cried with him.

Seconds after returning to my laptop, I heard from one of my daughter's friends that she had just received a text message. Seriously, mere seconds.

A few minutes later, I also received a text message.

She was alive. She was not where I wanted her to be, and she had no intention of coming home right away, but she was alive.

I will continue to lift her up in prayer. Out loud, holding hands with whoever will join me.

Here comes the sun (du dn du du)!

And I say, "It's all right!"

This song perfectly expresses how I've felt this week. Four days ago (that's all?) I wrote a heart-on-my-sleeve post about the increasingly overwhelming depression I'd been struggling with for weeks.

I had been thinking about writing it for at least two weeks and then saved it in draft mode for a while after writing it. And even after publishing it, I debated whether to post the link to Facebook as I usually do.

But I did publish and share it because it would have felt hypocritical to do otherwise after my outspoken rant about how depression should not be veiled in shame. [Interesting: I wrote that post on October 7, 2010, almost exactly a year ago. I think I was dancing with a moderate seasonal depression at the time.]

I asked for prayers, and specifically for a quick turnaround. Let me tell you, you guys responded with support and love, and prayers. Some of you shared privately or publicly that you had your own demons. Thank you.

I want to let you know that the quick turnaround happened. As did the good meds. Still working on the psychiatrist. And I've discovered that a suddenly lifted depression is akin to rounding a bend to discover the most spectacular sunset on water.

Or that first glug of water after you've been thirsty for a while. Or a mouthful of juicy bacon. Or a really stupendous series of orgasms. [We women have it good, fellas.]

Yah, it's that good.

Mille mercis. [A thousand thank-yous.]

P.S. To anyone else out there who is struggling, it really does help to talk about it. 

A Particularly Contemporary Dilemma

Nothing says "Internet Age" like the expression, "Pictures, or it didn't happen." That's because nowadays, it is highly improbably that anything of real significance will happen without being captured by a digital camera. Hence the retort to wild claims: show us the photographic evidence or we will not believe you.

And then, Osama Bin Laden was assassinated. With knee-jerk predictability, the hordes yelled, "Pix or it didn't happen!"

Thank heavens, the administration paused and thought better of it. Because, really, we don't need to see that. The pictures do, in fact, exist. I don't doubt that for a second.

And I can assure you that, if those pictures were released, sooner or later, you would see that. Here's how I know.

A little over a year ago, I attended a social-media "boot camp." Not much rigorous training went on, but we did have a captivating speaker who knew his way around social media the way I know my way around a bowl of ice cream. (I am a very skilled ice-cream eater.)

Anyway, the lecturer was whizzing along talking about how corporations have NO CONTROL over social media, that it is viral and that, once something is "out there" it is public domain and we cannot spin the message or, as the saying goes, "put it back in the box." Then he showed us the real, actual video of Saddam Hussein's execution. I was unprepared and shocked.

This is definitely not something I would have sought out.

The lecturer's point seemed to be that the video undermined the purported message of justice being carried out. (It looked like a snuff film, or what I would imagine a snuff film to look like.)

But what really struck me was that I was watching the taking of another human's life and I felt ... nothing. Really. I was horrified at the thought of watching something like this in a context of ... entertainment? It felt wrong. But I did not feel any empathy with the victim or with the witnesses or the executioner.

And that lack of empathy - with anyone involved - made me feel less human. Have I become so jaded by modern drama (like Inglourious Basterds or other Quentin Tarantino creations) that I can dissociate myself from this? Is that a good thing?

"Less human" may be the wrong expression. Maybe it is "too human" and "not godlike enough."

So, as I've listened to the calls for images of bin Laden's execution, I am pleased that the Obama administration has not released those images. We don't need them. They would put this event into the realm of entertainment, not history, where it belongs.

The world has no shortage of ugliness, of pain, or horror or of things that take something from our souls. Let's not clamour for more. On that note, I leave you with this verse:

"Finally, [fellow travelers on this sod] brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable--if anything is excellent or praiseworthy--think about such things."   ~ Philippians 4:8

Oh Ye of Little Faith!

I've mentioned before (long, long time ago now) that I'm not a big church-goer, but that my faith in God is nevertheless very important to me. In that same post I mentioned that I believe in the power of prayer and qualified it by saying that I don't mean that God always answers in the way we want him to.

But what happens when our prayers are answered as we hope? My friend Joe posted a link to a news article about a church that got what it prayed for (the rather spectacular demise of the beer joint nearby), then denied its prayer had any effect.

As the case made its way into court, the judge looked over the paperwork. At the hearing he commented, “I don't know how I’m going to decide this, but as it appears from the paperwork, we have a bar owner who believes in the power of prayer, and an entire church congregation that does not.”

I've seen it happen before: heartfelt prayer is sent up; an immediate, compassionate answer is received; those who joined in the prayer pooh-pooh that the two are connected.

Man. If I were God, I'd be flipping the bird.

Let me share three personal stories with you. These are not parables or miracles, and I am not stretching the truth.

Bringing the Dead to Life

Mere days after I returned from my summer mission trip, I went to a Christian camp for a long weekend. Truth be told, I was hoping to rekindle a romance with an ex-boyfriend. It didn't work, though he was very friendly and talked about the girl he'd met who eventually became his wife. I made a few new friends, however. Somehow I had never made arrangements to get home and my parents had gone on their own summer vacation to northern Ontario. One of my new friends offered to drive two hours out of his way to get me home.

When departure time came, however, his little beater of a car would not start. Not a click, not a whine. Nada. Finally (isn't it always a last resort?), I suggested we pray. We stepped away from the lifted hood, joined hands in faith, and prayed.

The car started on the first crank.

My new friend confided that he was somewhat ashamed that he hadn't thought to pray sooner.

Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which was lost!

I was at a women's Bible study in Alabama and we were waiting for our leader to arrive. She was walking from a fair distance away, and it was night time. The later she became, the more we worried. Our host's husband went out driving to look for her. Again, I suggested we pray.

We bowed our heads and I briefly and plainly spoke our concerns and asked God not just to find her, but to find her soon.

About 30 seconds after we said amen, she walked through the door.

I said, "Who says God doesn't answer prayers?"

"Well, but she was already on her way here by the time we prayed," someone pointed out.

The Lost Sheep, Part II

Late one afternoon, I realized that Peter, then 14 years old, was nowhere to be found. He'd gone missing before (usually getting on the wrong bus or deciding to make his own way home without letting us know), but this time was different. He was depressed and had left a note saying that felt he wasn't wanted and was going to go where someone did love him. And that he felt life might not be worth living.

I printed out recent pictures of him with our phone number and drove around the neighbourhood asking if anyone had seen him. I explained that he had Asperger Syndrome. No one had seen him.

I returned home and called the police. They asked if he was capable of feeding and dressing himself. Yes, of course! Well then, they would not follow up. I mentioned his note - that he might be suicidal. That got a reaction.

I gathered Emily and Brian into my arms and asked them to pray with me as I cried sloppy, snotty tears. Again, I stressed to God the urgency of our plea: "Please, Lord, bring him home NOW!"

Seconds later - truly no more than 15 seconds - Peter stepped jauntily through the door, happy to be home, completely oblivious to our despair. I held him and told him that he was loved, that it would break my heart to lose him, that I would cry forever.

The doorbell rang. I opened the door to the man who had found him and who simply wanted to be sure that Peter was safe and that someone was home with him. He told how he'd found Peter on the highway heading north, toward Canada, and how he refused to believe Peter's lies.

I thanked him, but didn't get his name. (He was certainly our hero, but was he also an angel?) I didn't even offer him a cup of tea! I was just completely overwhelmed with joy that my son was back.

---

Now, I'm a pretty rational woman. I like scientific evidence as much as the next person. If someone wrote these into a script, I'd laugh. And I could write all the rational rebuttals myself (so I'll save you time):

• The car was probably "flooded" and just needed time to rest.
• The Bible-study leader was already "found" before you even started praying, the result of your host's husband's efforts.
• Your son was already on your street before you prayed - a result of your driving around with all those flyers.

All that to say, "Prayer had nothing to do with it. It would have happened that way regardless."

I have three comments.

One: I believe that God does not operate in linear time the way we do. I suppose that falls under the "omnipresent" heading. Why, in heaven's name, could he not hear a prayer and retroactively set in motion the answer to that prayer?

Two: I can understand those comments coming from non-believers, but from Christians? Who profess to believe in prayer? Who were there when it happened? What does God have to do? Strike you with a lightning bolt (like a sleazy pub)?

Three: How do you know that it would have happened the same way even if I had not prayed? You have no more evidence for that position than I do for mine.

I've never considered myself a woman "of great faith," but maybe I've underestimated it.

Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.

Hebrews 11:1

By that definition, I have faith.

[Jesus]  replied, "Because you have so little faith. I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.

Matthew 17:20

P.S. If anyone has suggestions on how to get teenagers to move as readily as those mountains, please let me know.