Friday Tidings

Decades ago, my husband and I knelt down to pray in the woods where we were living.  We were running out of money and  options, but we  wanted to keep working together.  God answered.  Just not in the way we imagined. I like to pray. It comes as easily as breathing. I pray as I take my morning stretch. I pray as I head out the door. I pray in the car, on walks, with people, and for people. But what happens when God says “No” to my requests? I should know, because I’ve prayed some very specific prayers, and then waited (and waited) without seeing the heavenly results. What I hadn’t learned then, and must remind myself still, is that I shouldn’t be asking God for all the things I want—it is far better to ask Him for all that is right.  So when I wait and wonder over some unanswered prayer—and I know in my heart that it is something good—I still need to ask, “Is it right?” Maybe it’s a good thing but it’s the wrong time.  Maybe it’s a good thing fo

Stretched out on the couch, my husband shut his eyes—the eye doctor’s visit left his eyes dilated for the evening.  A warm fire provided a soft glow, and I sat nearby reading. It was a companionable time. I read, he rested, the fire burned, and the forest beyond the cabin was quiet. After an hour, I went to the piano, and began playing the songs I scribed years ago. How long had it been since I chose to play in the evening? Then we talked—about life, family, faith, and the future neither of us can see.  What was so different? We hadn’t let our phones interfere. There wasn’t a Facebook update to check out, or a Twitter feed to follow. No computers or televisions were around to make their screens glow.  It was an old-fashioned evening in an old cabin with an older couple reveling in the newness of being detached from the tethered ropes of our online world.  Maybe the old way of enjoying the evening can become the new way. 

Looking for ways to inspire me to move to her new city, Mom scheduled a ski day at Hurricane Ridge. By my standards, the Ridge offered sub-par skiing, and in my typical teen vernacular, I told her so. Yet, when Saturday morning arrived, Mom had cooked a hearty breakfast and we were one of the first vehicles up the mountain.  I’d done my share of winter skiing in the cold, but the wind on the Ridge was biting. I pulled my scarf up to my goggles. When I came in a couple hours later, I couldn’t feel my fingers. I couldn’t wait to complain to Mom. She opened a backpack with hot chocolate, sandwiches, and cookies. I ate without thanking her, while mocking the ski facilities and the cold. She listened without comment.  With my fingers back to normal, I latched my boots and told Mom I was heading out. She looked at the sky and seemed to hesitate. That’s all I needed to be determined to leave her standing there looking skyward. She yelled something, but I didn’t he