I woke this morning, on a Monday, still savoring Sunday, and I felt the Spirit’s prompting to write it down. So that’s what I’m doing. I’m capturing a few special moments of an ordinary day in mid-September and I’m sharing it with you. And maybe you’ll find some sort of connection. A reason to hope… or a surge of joy… or a whispered prompting of your own.
Church was special yesterday, for no particular reason. It was just one of those mornings when you realize this is exactly the place you’re meant to be, with these exact people. Maybe I noticed it especially because I’d been there the night before, until rather late, chatting around a bonfire with a gathering of women. The weather was hot, summer clinging, mosquitoes invading from the marshes nearby. And yet we lingered. Clustered on benches around an overly warm fire, swatting at ankles, oblivious to all. Just happy to be together.
Later I’d lay in bed smelling of sweat and smoke—too weary to shower, too stimulated for sleep. All night, replaying conversations, remembering faces, some familiar, others new. Offering silent prayers. And then it’s morning. Sunday. And I remember thinking how my short night might make for a long yawning morning, surprised when it didn’t. Taking note of the unexpected buzz within.
Kyle and I usually start our Sundays teaching the kiddos. Hands-down, some of our favorite little humans. They trickle in with their smiles and their stories, a few shy from being new. Soon the room is humming with the low-key play of early morning. I sit cross-legged on the carpet, chatting with little girls about their weekend, organizing Shopkins in tidy rows. Kyle is partway through his Lego structure when he’s summoned for a game of foosball. He notices one of our older boys, sitting at a table alone. Wanders over to chat. I eavesdrop. My prayers all summer have been full of this particular boy and his mama. By lesson time we’ve got a couple dozen kids, assorted ages, wiggly but ready. This week our topic is “God knows how you’re feeling” and my heart swells and aches when I think about the children and stories right here in this room.
There’s a half-hour, give or take, between kids and worship. Time to mingle over a cup of coffee and the smell of the cookies we’re trying not to eat. I wander past a young couple with their baby, not much older than Quoia. She remembers our trip to California, and asks about it. I tell her the trip was sweet and our grandson is perfect—but now I miss the feel of him, snuggled in my arms. The young couple and their baby are all matching in their Green Bay Packers wearables, and we joke about being rivals. Later I realize I should have shown them my picture, taken last Sunday, of Nils and Brina in their Vikings jerseys, and Quoia dressed like a football.
Often on Sundays I ask the Spirit to orchestrate my connections, and this morning He’s extra generous. There’s a gal I’ve been praying for, hoping to see, and just as I turn our eyes meet. We visit for a while, and she introduces me to a friend, and it feels like a holy encounter. We’re saying “let’s catch up again soon” when I spot another family I’d been hoping to see. A woman I met at the bonfire, whose daughter I’d just met at youth group last week, and on the way to church I’d thought it might be fun to introduce our husbands. So just before the service is about to begin I get Kyle’s attention and motion for him to follow.
The whole morning is like this. A worship team of my favorite friends. Nostalgic songs stirring specific memories—a history of God’s provision. The pastor’s sermon, his illustrations, words and phrases, reminders of perfect peace. I think about the funk I was in, earlier this summer, and how I’d known it was a spiritual battle. Now all but forgotten. I acknowledge the difference, eyes filling with quiet tears of joyful relief.
The service concludes and I’m gathering my belongings when a friend of Kyle’s seeks our attention. He’s on the prayer team, and they’re short-handed. Can we step in to help? We make our way to the stage where we stand and wait, thinking nobody’s coming. And then, it’s my friend. The one I’ve prayed for. God-orchestrated, divinest appointment. She admits her pain, articulates her fear. Our tears mingle, and Holy Spirit fills my prayer with His healing words. And I am amazed. Tenderest love of our all-knowing Father.
This could only be Him.
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