As with most train wrecks, I didn’t see this one coming. I was stunned. I was shattered. I was numb. And there was nothing I could do about it.
Or was there?
I couldn’t sit still. I just needed to do something. That evening, I cleaned the inner workings of our ancient coffee maker. I picked up a book which sat unread in my lap. It might as well have been written in Sanskrit.
I could FEEL anxiety creeping in.
And then, God nudged me. What are you going to do different this time? Are you just going to let darkness take over? What about Me? Why are you not praying?
And I prayed. O LORD, show me how to navigate through this situation in a way that glorifies You and brings us through this devastation to an even stronger place. I knew I was heading into a miry bog where I could not touch bottom. God put on the brakes.
“Don’t expect things to be different, if you do not pray,” wrote Corrie ten Boom, one who knew. It is not based on circumstances or the other person changing course. But expect yourself to be different because you prayed.
Even as I was praying for God to guide me and to align my heart with His, I could feel an unexpected peace coming over me, like a breeze through a back door that had somehow opened.
Later, when I was trying to go to sleep that night, as I pulled up the blanket, I prayed that God would cover every aspect of this hard thing with His peace. I visualized powered sugar icing pouring over hot cinnamon rolls, dripping into every crevice. His peace. His peace saturating in a supernatural and unexpected way.
The next morning in church, still feeling rather numb and not very advent-joyous, people greeted me, “How are you?” “Great,” I said, hoping the broken places didn’t show. I stood and sang the familiar carols. And things began to happen. There is something about in-person worship, singing out loud with a huge group of people, that alters your insides. I closed my eyes and let the voices sweep over me, worshiping the Almighty God.
Later, I went for a cold and cloudy run. There is nothing like running it out. There is nothing like praying it out on a run. I called on the LORD. I poured out my heart to the LORD. I cried to the LORD. I didn’t come up with any spectacular answers or a script that would make everything right again, but I prayed until I ran out of words. I had a podcast going, but I have no idea what they were talking about, just voices passing in one ear and out the other.
And then, on my playlist, music began coming through my earbuds. Songs of adoration and ascent and joy building up in layers, measure upon measure. I started humming along. Praying in the key of G. And then, a chorus of glorias began. Strong currents of harmony, singing gloria in worship, something extraordinary unfolding.
I began singing along. Out loud. There was no one around but God and a couple squirrels to hear me. And then again, those trees, that towering congregation of trees joining in, it seemed. It was like being embraced. God is not going to bring me through. He is already at it. And it took music for me to comprehend that.
I was singing gloria all the way through my running shoes to the hard-packed trail beneath my feet. And I didn’t care who heard me.
That was exactly what I needed. Call on His Name. Cry to the LORD. And sing, sing to Him a new song. Out loud, not for God to hear, or to get His attention, but for me to realize who He is.
So many prayer “formulas” call for praise first. But by the end of my run, all that was left in me was gloria. And isn’t that what should resound at the end of our prayers? Praying through this hard place and knowing Him more. And all we can say is gloria.
And perhaps the point is not the answer to our prayers, but God’s response: His glory that somehow gets indelibly all over everything. There was no sudden change in the situation, nor a light show with an angel chorus, because there are no singular outcomes. But the life-changing assurance, I am with you.
The recording ended. But God keeps singing over me.
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