Prayer is likely to be undervalued by all but wise people because it is so silent and so secret. We are often deceived into thinking that noise is more important than silence. War sounds far more important than the noiseless growing of a crop of wheat, yet the silent wheat feeds millions, while war destroys them. Nobody but God know how often prayers have changed the course of history. Many a man who prayed received no credit excepting in heaven. We are tempted to turn from prayer to something more noisy like speeches or guns, because our motives are mixed. We are interested in the making of a better world, of course, but we also want people to give us credit for what we have done.

Secret prayer for others all during the day is an acid test of our unselfishness. Our little selves must fade out, leaving a self-forgetting channel, through which God’s warmth flows unhindered in lovely unending prayer. The highest form of communion is not asking God for things for ourselves, but letting him flow down through us, out over the world—in endless benediction.

—Frank Laubach, Prayer: The Mightiest Force in the World

Sharing this in community with Susan, for her Friday Florilegium

Photo credit: Keith Ewing, Creative Commons via Flickr

Out of Hiding


I came out of social media hiding yesterday to answer a few questions from Deidra Rigg, who is (among other things) the managing editor of The High Calling. (She wasn’t interviewing me in that capacity, though. This one is just for her blog readers–and mine, if any of you choose to head on over there.)

It was a really fun interview. I mean, who doesn’t want to talk about herself? (Or is that just me?) Especially after being more or less silent and invisible on the interwebs these past three months, it was great fun to get to share a little bit about myself and know that someone was going to read it.

We talked about my book, my other book, balancing writing and motherhood, and how I organize (or don’t organize) my life. Come listen in?


Photo Credit: Thys, Creative Commons via Flickr.

Winter is Not Forever

I’m shocked to realize it’s been over a month since I wrote even a word in this place that bears my name. Truth be told, I haven’t much to say, but I thought I’d drop you all a line and let you know how we’ve been. About like this:

It’s a wet Wednesday, and we’re out of sorts. Rather, I’m out of sorts, and everyone else is taking their cues from me. Doug’s out of town for a conference, the sky is weeping outside, and I am weeping inside. We’re all a little off our rhythm.

We long for summer—blue skies and sunshine and long walks and picnics in the park. Hours spent out of doors. Lazy days by the pool. Croquet. Strawberries.

These things will come. For now, though, it’s wet, and we must endure, huddled inside our small walls. It’s dry in here, and warm, which is more goodness than many people have.

So I put a little Jadon Lavik on the radio, Jack makes a smoothie, Jane makes cheese and crackers, and I pull out a book of children’s verse. We eat and read on the living room floor, on a picnic blanket. Nothing fancy, just something to get my mind off myself. And it works.

Jack reads “Disobedience” by A.A. Milne. It is impossible to listen to that poem and not crack a smile. Then I remember “A Jonah Day” in Anne of Avonlea, and I pull that book off the shelf and read it to the kids. Between the firecrackers in the stove and the bucket of ice water on poor Prillie’s head, we’re all laughing and enjoying ourselves and one another, even within these small walls.

Even when the food is gone and the books are put away and it’s time to make yet another meal, I find solace in the thought that whatever the gray skies seem to imply, winter doesn’t last forever. Summer is coming.

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