Everything to God in Prayer by Lorraine Triggs

As a parent on the receiving end of calls from our young adult who is supposed to be on his own, I now marvel at my mother’s patience with my endless calls home when I was first on my own.

I don’t remember the drama that prompted one call, but I am certain that once my mom said hello, I jumped right in with all the details of the situation.

“Well,” my mother finally said when I deigned to give her a chance to reply, “did you pray about it?”

“No,” I said. “I’m telling you about it.”

You know, confiding in my mother—that mother-daughter bond is much sweeter now that I 'm older than it was in my recently-out-of-college independence. I wanted her advice. She should be flattered that I sought her out.

“I’m going to hang up now,” my plainspoken mother said, “and you can call back once you prayed to the Lord.” And she hung up on me.

Let me say it again. I called my mother for advice and she hung up on me.

If texting had existed back then, you could be sure I would have texted ??? And you could be sure my mother would not have replied, not even with the praying hands emoji.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. My sisters and I had been around her long enough to know that she truly did “carry everything to God in prayer” as the old hymn encouraged.

She carried everything to God in prayer the afternoon of my father’s funeral. Everyone was ready to head to the church from the funeral home, except for my mother. I was sent back to look for her. My mom was right inside the door, praying with a young woman.

“Mom, come on.”

She heard me but she didn't respond.

“Mom-m-m-m-m.”

She ignored me, finished praying with this stranger, and then hugged the woman good-bye. Taking me by the hand, we walked to the waiting car.

“Why did you have to pray with her and make everyone wait?” I asked.

My mother looked at me. “Lorraine Elizabeth, I lost my husband, but that young woman lost her child and she needed prayer.”

Nehemiah and my mother would have gotten along famously. His go-to was prayer—not talking about prayer, not reading about improving one’s prayer life, but praying to God. As soon as he heard about the broken-down walls of Jerusalem, he “sat down and wept and mourned for days, and I continued fasting and praying before the God of heaven.” (Nehemiah 1:4) I like to imagine that Nehemiah just plunked himself down right where he was and started praying.

Even these years later, I marvel that my newly widowed mother stopped what she was doing to show love and to pray with the grieving mother at the funeral home.

Her instinct to carry everything to God in prayer is rooted in understanding who we are and who God is. We: the servants and sinners; God: steadfast promise keeper.

Unfortunately, my natural instinct toward self-sufficency often uproots my understanding of who I am and who God is. Lorraine: capable, in charge of things; God: does what I want when I get around to asking him.

As long as I am in charge, my instincts are to trust myself, not God. Or to trust my mom. Or my husband. Or my colleague or friend. None of us are truly in charge, so why do we keep telling ourselves that we are? And forgetting the God who gives and loves and waits and keeps on loving no matter what.

No, the people I love are not to stand in the place of the God who loves. When I carry everything to God in prayer, then I recognize that he is in charge of me and my people.

God: in charge of things; Lorraine: needs help to do what he wants even and especially when it's not what she wants.

I am working at honing my instincts when it comes to prayer. After all, I have my mother's legacy to uphold.

I realize now that when I called my mother for advice and she hung up on me that she was giving me her advice. Sage advice. Click. Dial tone. Don't look to people when you should be looking to Jesus. Pray to the loving God of the universe.

Carrying the Flag by Wil Triggs

I’ve worn suits to church—white shirts from the dry cleaners with heavy starch. I’ve also worn t-shirts, Hawaiian shirts, sport coats, even turtlenecks in the winter. And then there’s the Ukrainian folk shirt, the Russian chapka hat and the reindeer boots made for the Russian Arctic.

Yes, styles of dress change.

When we were missionaries with College Church some seven years ago, we had the privilege of participating in the missions festival “as missionaries.” It’s a very different experience to participate in this special time from that perspective. The festival is a busy time for missionaries, packed with meetings and opportunities to connect with different people, groups, classes and the whole church through the worship service. The Russian fur on the head and reindeer boots were especially handy when we used to have the “spring” missions festival in what seemed like the dead of winter.

I remember the traditional Russian and Ukrainian clothes we wore. I remember our son, hanging out with John Leaf and other MKs. I remember making a big pot of borscht for people to taste. Sharing life with other missionaries was always a gift. I recall the intemse interest and prayer support from adults. I especially enjoyed presentations on Sunday morning in the STARS classes, and how, even years later, some of the people remembered what we said and told us they were praying for us.

At one festival, our Sunday evening assignment was the two-year-old preschool class. Seriously? Two-year-olds? Based on our experience, if any missionary needs encouragement (or anyone really), he or she needs to visit the two-year-olds.

We kept the teaching simple: We explained that there are children who live in a country called Russia and that Jesus loves them. We also had one of our “matryoshka” dolls—Russian nesting dolls. We showed the little ones the first and largest doll; then opened it to reveal the second doll; then the third doll, lining them up on the table as we went along. Each doll was met with gasps of surprise and delight. We held up the tiny second-to-the-last doll and asked if this was the last doll, and when we opened it and showed the final doll, (a twig of wood with two black dots for eyes), the children broke into enthusiastic cheers and spontaneous applause.

Throughout the festival, there are meetings and presentations for missionaries, so that they can learn from one another and be encouraged and challenged in a variety of ways. I remember sharing heartfelt struggles and engaging in times of prayer with fellow missionaries, some who are still serving today. Others who have since died or moved on to another form of work or service. This is happening this weekend, too, with our current missionaries. And it is a blessing.

Looking back, I remember a sense of love from the church and my sense of obligation to serve the church well in my missionary work.

When there were flag processionals as part of the worship service, it was a big deal when our church acquired the flag of Russia (as opposed to the hammer and sickle of the U.S.S.R.). And several of us missionaries served in that area, so it was interesting to see who would be chosen to carry either the flag of Russia or Ukraine.

Now, participating in the festival as a non-missionary member of College Church, I relish the time to hear the perspectives of our missionaries from different parts of the world. I’ve noticed over time that the seemingly constant changes in the world today make for more rapid change and upheaval. This is true not just in our news and political realms, but in the global missions efforts as well.

Yet the earthly changes we experience as people do not stop the living God from working in big and little ways every day. Today even.

This weekend, I look forward to the missionaries participating this time round: nineteen missionaries, seven from watch countries, all here to be with us. Old friends, new faces—I’m hoping to learn at least three new things to help me in my sense of outreach and missions. How can I pray better? What might my next step be? How can I encourage these missionaries in real ways? What of their stories will I get to hear?

And during this festival, as in all the other festivals, when I see the black flag that represents persecution, we think and pray for so many people in many different countries of the world. We know some of their names, but there are many others whose names we don’t know. We can lift them in prayer to God, who knows not only their names, but also every hair on their head and every tear they cry.

Looking ahead, I can’t help but think of the vision John received. The blessing of so many people, from all over the world and across the whole canvas of history itself, all coming together around the Lamb. It is where we are headed, and why we long to reach out, that others from every corner of the world might join us. As we begin this special time, let us consider the heavenly kingdom that will include people from every tribe coming around the Table.

And they sang a new song, saying, “Worthy are you to take the scroll and to open its seals, for you were slain, and by your blood you ransomed people for God from every tribe and language and people and nation, and you have made them a kingdom and priests to our God, and they shall reign on earth.” Revelation 5:9, 10

The Believable God by Wallace Alcorn

Most of Julian Barnes’ novels are semi-autobiographical so we aren’t certain who is speaking, the fictional character or the novelist himself. In his Nothing to Be Afraid Of(2008), he has his older brother Jonathan, a professional philosopher, confessing: “I don’t believe in God, but I miss Him.” 

I find this at once profound and courageous. This fictional character seems to be saying: The god in which I once (naively) “believed” I find unbelievable. What I do find believable, however, is my longing for a god in which I can believe. 

He constructed his own notion of God, so that what he accurately finds unbelievable is his notion of a god but not yet the believable God. He can imagine a god only to the extent he can project beyond the finest humans he knows to something of an ideal man, a superman. Even as an image created, this is not yet God and, therefore, not yet believable. 

It is rather like an ant looking up at an elephant and saying to himself: Well, I’m glad that big thing, whatever it is, didn’t step on me. But I won’t believe in this thing until it sits down with me on my level for a cup of coffee and we can chat in my language about what interests me. I want to know what it can do for me. I want something “believable,” i.e., something in which I am able and also willing to believe, whatever that means.

Nothing a man—whether Barnes, his character, or one of us—can find is ultimately believable. We can’t find God because we don’t know where to look. 

We understandably look within, but what we find is an aching void crying out to be filled by something believable. We reasonably look outward and around us but what we find is equally disappointing. We miss him, without much of an idea of who he is. 

Although Barnes’ character uses the personal pronoun he, his language would more accurately express his actual sense of the matter if he used the neuter it. So, too, would the common noun god rather than the proper noun God. (Such is what he actually supposes.) 

God, in fact, is a person—not a concept, influence, or even a force. He is not some thing to be found, but a person who finds. Yet, his having found us is not what makes God believable, only believed. His believability, as it were, is absolute whether believed or not.

It is God, who alone is ultimately believable, who must find us. And he has. It is ours, then, to be found. Our job is to respond to God who always has found us—even when we weren’t looking or looking, but elsewhere.

Morning and Evening Prayers

Here are two prayers—the first a morning prayer from Wendell Hawley and the second an evening prayer from Ellen Elwell. May these prayers frame your day.

Blessed and glorious God,
Author of our salvation, sustainer of our life, giver of all that we have—
incline our hearts to believe your Word.
We are so obsessed with trivial things, but we want to be captivated with things eternal.
So much of little worth gets our attention.
We confess inattention to your Word.
We confess the fickleness of our affections, and our unbelief limits our trust that you, O God,
are able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we can ask or think.

We don't see our prayers answered with such abundance, and we doubt.
We know our problems are greater than we can solve.
But we are afraid to go out on a limb and really cast our care on you.
What if you don't answer as we want?
What if a much-needed job doesn't appear?
What if family relationships don't improve—but get worse?
What if loved ones remain disinterested in spiritual things?
What if my desperate heart's cry goes unanswered?

Lord, I'm not like Habakkuk,
who witnessed everything crashing around him and still rejoiced in the Lord.

I confess that I'm like Asaph,
who realized how bitter he had become at the bewildering events of life.
But like the psalmist, we've come to the house of the Lord . . .
It is here that we see things more clearly,
You will guide me,
counsel me,
strengthen my resolve,
shelter me in the storms,
steady my footsteps,
meet my needs,
quiet my soul.
My prayer from the depths of my heart is . . .
Deliver us from foolish charges, senseless complaints, ignorant doubts.
Saturate our souls with the greatness of Christ!
Make our faith in Christ and his goodness unshakable.
Make our trust in Christ so absolute that nothing can erode it.

We believe; help thou our unbelief.
May we not stagger at the promises of God. . .

(from A Pastor Prays for His People by Wendell C. Hawley)

Dear Father,
"Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep." These words, plucked from a familiar children's prayer, still resonate with me. Somewhere deep inside me, they tap into adult-sized fears that sometimes surface in the night. Though my slumber might be disturbed by bumps and creaks, it's more often my uncertainties of the future or fears of complicated tasks and relationships that leave me tossing and turning. Yet all the while, Lord, you quietly and sovereignly watch over me. No problem or situation is unknown to you or too big for you to solve. No care or fear I have is beyond the scope of your understanding. Tonight instead of counting my worries or even counting sheep, may I rest in the countless ways you provide for me. For you are the Good Shepherd, I am your lamb, and you have promised to be with me.

(from Timeless Grace: Prayers for Every Occasion by Ellen Elwell)

Note: both their books are available at the church book stall between services on  Sunday morning.

Look Likes a Mountain to Me by Lorraine Triggs

One significant fact you need to know about me is that my roots reside in the flat landscape of Detroit. This is a city where major east-west arteries are called mile roads and run unhindered through the city and suburbs. This is a city where you get on Interstate 94 and actually go west, real west, to Chicago. We don't deal with mountains, no matter how high or tall they are.

My husband, on the other hand, is from the Golden State full of freeways and roads that constantly run into mountains or foothills (which still look like mountains to me). The news of a wildfire at Lake Elsinore takes me back to the first time this midwesterner went to California. 

I do have to concede that California's freeways are built well. They have to be with all those obstacles, but you can take the 215 to the 15 to the Ortega Highway and snake your way to San Juan Capistrano from where Mom lived. I had no idea what any of this meant.

But that's exactly what my husband, his mother and I were doing, snaking our way to San Juan Capistrano in my mother-in-law's sturdy American-made sedan. Mom lived in the "inland empire," which was acceptably flat, nestled between a couple of different mountain ranges.

As we were driving, the only issue I had on the otherwise beautiful drive was those mountains that loomed large on the horizon as we took an exit to to Lake Elsinore.

I looked over at my husband who was clearly enjoying the drive on California roads again. "Where is San Juan Capistrano?" I asked.

"On the other side of the mountain."

"How will we get there?" I, the innocent flatland native, asked.

"We drive over the mountains," my native California husband replied.

I was silent. What? Was this a joke?

It wasn't. And this was supposed to be fun.

My first car ride over the mountains was a mixture of terrifying drop offs (note: no guard rails on the sheer cliff side of the road) to breathtaking beauty of evergreen trees and flowers. 

The road wound back and forth and scaled the mountain. We climbed so high that the view of the desert valley was starting to look the same as it had from the plane when we flew in. At a certain point in the drive, Wil confessed, "When I first went on this road as a kid, I was terrified."

Gee thanks. I am sure I didn't say one word until we began our descent and didn't fully relax until we began what seemed like a gentle slope down toward the beautiful Pacific coast. Note: after we returned home, all Wil's aunts told me that they would never drive that "treacherous" road.

Sometimes my walk with God resembles the Santa Ana mountain range by Lake Elsinore and not the flat miles of roads of my childhood.

I know that I'm going someplace good.

But I look up at the looming mountain of anxiety and wonder how I'll make it to that beautiful destination. Or I'm traveling back and forth, climbing what seems like treacherously high ground. I know I'm just a few feet away from a cliff and sudden and terrifying crash-and-death.

"How will I get there?" I ask God.

Over the mountain, of course, with all of its terrifying moments and unfound fears. The road God gives us is not always flat, not the familiar and easily navigated roads I grew to love and trust as a child.

But I know at the other side and along the way is the breathtaking wonder of God's peace and its guard rails around my heart and mind, and the Spirit's whisper to look beyond the mountain cliffs to where my help truly comes—the One who made the mountains and will not let my foot slip.

I lift up my eyes to hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth. He will not let your foot be moved. . . . Psalm 121:1-3

Wholehearted God by Kylie Hultgren

The Lord is righteous in all his ways and faithful in all he does—Psalm 145:17 (NIV)

I think a good way to describe me is scrambled. Not like the eggs, but then again, maybe that is a good description. I throw small pieces of myself into so many different places. A little segment to this friendship, a bit to this relationship, a small portion to this assignment and even smaller portion to this event. I find my work and my efforts half–hearted, or maybe even a quarter–hearted. Each task sucks out a sliver of me, and the reality is that nothing has all of me. I feel spread out, but spread only into these little pieces. Unfortunately, none of these bits and pieces accurately represent who I am as a whole.

What brought me to this eye–opening and heart–wrenching understanding of myself was a clearer understanding of who someone else was. I found myself eye to eye, breath to breath and heart to heart with the very One who embodies consistency and faithfulness. He puts his everything into what he does, and nothing he ever commits himself to is partial, half–hearted or mediocre. Yahweh alone is completely and thoroughly wholehearted. 

A few months ago, I began doing some calligraphy with ink. One of my favorite things is to make cards with certain Swedish sayings or verses on them. The words seem so foreign, yet perfectly normal all at the same time, and  I cannot help but artistically write them out. Full confession here: I don't know a lot of Swedish words or expressions without the help of the Internet or my Farfar (Swedish for "grandfather"), but as I was aimlessly searching the Internet, I discovered one of the most profound and  beautifully ornate words—“helhjärtad," translated into English as “wholehearted."

I clung to this little word, because it is often un-useful for us. The reason we find it un-useful is because no one quite seems to fulfill its high demands of reliability. The word "wholehearted" or “helhjärtad” carries with it a rare commitment, one that we humans do not comprehend or know how to live up to.

Even the word itself is connected and whole. I found this out the hard way because I initially wrote “whole” and “hearted” as separate words, only to find it's one word. Think about the words quarter-hearted or half-hearted. They are split up, disconnected and scrambled. We do not know what it means to be “helhjärtad,” because we are so busy being scrambled, so busy being busy, so busy being needed. But are we actually really needed? That is for another musing for another Saturday. But the question truly is, do we ever do anything wholeheartedly?

The term wholehearted is hardly ever used in our culture, because it would be extremely difficult to describe anyone as wholehearted. The more I try to tackle this concept in my own mind, the more I am brought to the feet of the triune God who is wholehearted in all of his ways. He does not partially heal, slightly remove sin or somewhat hear his people when they call to him. He is 100% attentive and 100% involved. He is a “helhjärtad” God, wholehearted in word and deed. Totally wholehearted in the way he not only approaches me, but also interacts with scrambled old me.

Post Cave Rescue by Wil Triggs

This week, various news outlets reported an update on the Thai boys cave rescue. Like the rest of the world, I waited, prayed and hope, so I was curious what was happening since the rescue.

Updates showed the boys, post rescue, participating in a Buddhist ceremony in which they would become novice monks. One BBC header said, “Thai cave rescue: saying sorry to cave spirit Nang Norn.” Again, BBC reported, “They will stay in different monasteries until 4 August meditating, praying and cleaning their temple. The length of time they will spend doing this—nine days—is a nod to a Thai lucky number.” The boys were dressed in white robes, heads shaved.

Many of the news pieces also reported that one of the rescued boys did not participate in the ceremony because he was a Christian. Those words leaped off the page. One of the boys…a Christian.

So, naturally, I got curious about who this one Christian boy is and here is what I found out.

A news outlet in Australia called him a hero, noting that he is “proficient in five languages—English, Thai, Burmese, Mandarin and Wa, a language spoken near the Myanmar and China border. It was his knowledge of English that was crucial because it allowed him to talk to the British rescue divers on behalf of the group when it was discovered nine days after becoming stuck. Adun provided clarity to the rescuers on how long the team had been in the cave and what they needed.”

How does a 14-year-old boy become proficient in five languages? Especially a boy news outlets described as displaced or stateless in Thailand. He is from a state in Myanmar (Burma) that is not recognized internationally or by its own government. Fleeing their home, his family took him to a school sponsored by Compassion International. Between his school and their journey away from their home toward a more stable and somewhat safe country of Thailand, he learned all those languages including the all-important English, that made it possible for the rescuers to communicate with the buried boys.

George Bednar, one of our pastoral residents, spent years in Myanmar, the country Adun and his family fled. So I asked if he had heard about the Christian boy.

Knowing of the ethnic group from which the Christian boy came, George explained that these “people are warriors. Fighters. Headhunters. They are small in number, but incredibly strong. They have fought for their survival against the Burmese to the south and the Chinese to the north. They are historically very aggressive and very stubborn. The fact that this boy is a Christian is nothing short of a miracle.”

He shared with me a Facebook post from a friend as the world waited and prayed for the rescue attempt. Here’s part of the post: “I learned today that many of the Buddhists and animists believe that this happened because a spirit that lives in the cave is unhappy with the team. They think that the team must have disrespected the spirit somehow, perhaps by not making proper offerings of food or other items. Meanwhile, one of the missing kids belongs to a Christian family…[the church is] gathering around this family, and they are singing and worshipping and praying together as they wait, not only encouraging the family but providing a testimony for others around them.”

After the rescue, instead of going to the monastery, Adun participated in a service of thanksgiving. At the service, they allowed him to speak, and here is some of what he said, “By the 10th night, we were losing patience, hope, physical energy and courage. We could not do anything to help. The only thing that I could do was pray. I prayed ‘Lord, I’m only a boy; you are almighty God, you are holy, and you are powerful. Right now I can’t do anything; may you protect us. Come to help all 13 of us.‘ And then I finished my prayer, thanking God for everything that happened to myself and my friends … all 13 of us.

“Thank you to everybody who prayed for me and the whole team,” Adun said. “Thank you to everybody that helped us, and the last thank-you [goes] to the Lord: Thank you God. God bless you all.”

Wow. Jesus—our Savior, worker of miracles, God of wonder. Instead of apologizing to a mountain and making appeasement to earn good merit (and good merit, as George comments, is “necessary for the Buddhist to have good luck today and in the next life”), we are blessed to give thanks to the living God and to Jesus, who appeased God’s wrath on our behalf for today and in the next life forever. He is the Savior who dove down from heaven to bring all of us out of the pit of our guilt and shame and sin. He rescues us and brings us out of darkenss into his glorious light.

In the coming days, Adun hopes to gain citizenship in Thailand. But, isn’t it wonderful the citizenship we already share with this boy.

In the Community, for the Community by Ann Classen

“In the community, for the community.” That's what my dear lifelong friend Sherry
came up with as we began our second walking loop around Northside Park. In our 30 years as friends and walking partners, we have literally walked somewhere just shy of 30,000 miles. I guess that means we have walked around the world together.

Of course, we solve the world’s problems as we walk, but we also seek to bring our thoughts and words under the Lordship of Christ and see them through the lens of the Bible. We have hashed and re-hashed Christian marriage, parenting (and its huge range of issues from babies sleeping through the night, rebellious teens to marriage), Christian versus public schools, social media, how to limit and monitor cell phone and computer use during high school, social media, pornography, grandparenting, colleges, sermons, books, podcasts, prayer, prayer requests, Bible study, local and global missions and the occasional decorating dilemma. These are a few of the issues covered. I did mention social media, right?

We often discuss College Church's ministries, local and foreign missions, and in particular, Twice is Nice Resale Shop. All the while contemplating how we can live out our faith in a way that makes a difference to people around us and bring glory to God.

It was during one of these conversations that we ended up talking about Twice is Nice and why we love it and how to communicate that love to others when Sherry came up with “in the community, for the community."

Twice is Nice (TIN) is one of two resale shops College Church owns and operates. The proceeds from TIN go to support the Outreach Community Center in Carol
Stream that's within a mile or two of where the store is located.

Outreach Community Ministries' (OCM) mission is to, “restore hope and provide opportunities for people to become all that God intends them to be; partner with the local church to put Christian faith into action through service to the community.” I am honored that my church, our church, College Church is partnering with OCM to provide opportunities for us to put our faith in action in the local community.

The Outreach Community Center (OCC) and TIN are located in southeast Carol Stream. This area has 7,000–plus people living in apartments. Of that figure, 55% are ethnic minorities and approximately 35% of these households live below the poverty line. Of the people Outreach Community Center serves, 88% are below the poverty line and are from 36 different countries.

This is our collective community—our Jewel, our Northside Park, our Home Depot and our schools. Your donations are wonderful and always welcomed, but
for Sherry and me, it’s our interaction with people in our community that matters.

Many of our customers are from the neighborhood and speak limited English; others are “resale junkies," antique dealers and bargain hunters who know that the proceeds go to OCM. We have a lot of regulars we know by name, whom we greet with a hug, offer counsel and pray together. We build relationships with court–ordered community service workers, the eight STARS who work in our
store, OCC summer interns and volunteers from church many of whom we never
would have rubbed shoulders with if it were not for TIN.

We also keep open eyes and ears and hearts for ways to connect the store to College Church, and to speak the name of Jesus and the hope of the gospel.

Come and volunteer or shop or donate. After all, Twice is Nice is in the community and for the community.

In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven. (Matthew 5:16)