Let The Children Come To Me

Sometimes, when I think about my childhood and how it must have affected how I look at life and relationships and faith and God, I get discouraged. But then I remember something that astounds me no end, how all through my youngest years I felt God's gentle hand on my life.

When I was seven and Liz was six, she paid particular attention to the homily at Mass one Sunday. It was the only time she'd ever professed to get much out of a sermon, so I confess I was fascinated to know how it had affected her. As soon as we got home, she hatched her Bible-verse-based plan.

"We're going to pray for three days straight," she said, evidently wanting to give God the benefit of the doubt since he might not recognize our voices at first blush. "You heard what Father Jacobowski said. Whatever we ask for, we'll get. All we have to do is believe, and I believe. Do you believe?"

Quite the evangelist, wasn't she?

"Sure I do. But what should we ask for?" I said, ready as usual to follow my younger sister anywhere. By that time, we knew there were plenty of starving children in Biafra, wherever that was, who needed God's help. Maybe Liz had in mind some heavy-duty prayers for them. Prayer would surely help them more than the days the kids at St. Elizabeth's School ate nothing but rice for lunch to free up a few grilled cheese sandwiches for frail Biafrans.

"Bikes. A red one for me, and a blue one for you. With baskets on the front, and tassels on the handle bars. They're going to land in the garage by Wednesday at the latest. The Bible and the priest said so."

"But we already asked Mom and Dad for bikes," I said, "and they said no."

"That's why we're asking God," she answered. "The Bible says He won't say no. If we ask for it, we'll get it. That's the way it works."

So we prayed together, she and I, for three nights running--the first and last times we ever raised our united voices to beseech the God of heaven for any reason whatsoever.

Wednesday morning, still in our nightgowns, we sneaked out the back door to the garage. The garage door often stayed open all night. Our family didn't own much of value, not even a car, so thieves didn't worry my parents.

Liz figured an open garage door would make The Miraculous Appearance of the Red and Blue Bikes in the Garage on Grand Avenue that much easier for the Almighty to pull off. Her only concern was that squirrelly Ernie Hagen across the street or Scary Larry down on the corner might get to our new bikes before we woke up and pull a bike heist.

"Wouldn't that be a gyp, after we did all the praying?" she asked, and I had to agree it would be a terrible gyp.

We skittered across the driveway, hanging on to every shred of our sketchy belief system (because Father Jacobowski emphasized how large a role our individual and collective faith played in this transaction), and peeked inside.

No shiny new bikes. Just a wobbly scooter and a rusty red wagon, as usual.

Liz was mighty ticked off at God after that. She thought they'd had a deal. Looking back, she probably decided right then that I was the weak link in matters of two or three gathering together and asking for stuff. Oh, well. But at that moment--because He'd clearly said no and that was something, after all--God got my attention. l really appreciated that He wasn't into cheap trickery and going over the heads of parents who were trying pretty hard to do the right thing. I also found it intriguing that He couldn't be manipulated by little kids, the way lots of adults could.

Yeah. This was a God worth getting to know.

When I was around eleven, my mother announced to me in no uncertain terms that she was dying of breast cancer.

"Have you been to the doctor?" I asked.

"No, and I'm not going, either," she said. "He'll just tell me what I already know. I can feel the lumps."

So I did what any faithful Catholic girl would do: I said a Novena to St. Jude, the Patron Saint of the Impossible. (Most of the stuff that required prayer in my young life felt impossible, so I tended to by-pass more wishy-washy saints like St. Anthony, Patron Saint of the Lost and Found, and go straight for St. Jude, who could obviously get the job done or God wouldn't have given it to him.)

Every morning and every night I prayed, waiting for something definitive to happen with my mother. Eventually, I knew, she would become ill unto death or she'd mention to me that perhaps she'd been mistaken and wasn't quite dying yet after all.

Months of prayer turned into a year or more, with no claification from Mom about the state of her bosoms. Finally, I could bear the suspense no longer and asked, "So, what ever happened with the cancer thing?"

"Oh, it was nothing," she said, way too nonchalantly considering what she'd put me through. "Too much coffee, I guess. I'm fine, except that these varicose veins might kill me..."

Was there a patron saint for varicose veins? I didn't know, but I do know that during those months of praying for my mother not to die and leave me responsible for all those kids, I grew very close to the Lord.

On my 12th birthday, I asked for a Bible. My parents looked at me like I was from outer space, but they got me my very first Bible which, while it languished largely unread, still brought me great comfort. Because you see, by then I knew for certain that God had called me out of darkness into His marvelous light. I knew that he'd made me for a reason, set me apart from my mother's womb for His purposes.

I didn't know what that meant exactly, still don't completely. But I felt the truth of it in my soul.

It took a few more years before He really got ahold of my life, before I understood that He wanted more than my desperate prayers. He wanted my heart. Even now, it's a process of learning to trust Him more, especially when circumstances often conspire to bring back the feelings of those early frightening times.

My faith is still a clumsy one. I ask the wrong questions more often than not, and pray prayers that fail to get to the crux of the matter. But God knows my heart and hears my cries and loves me more than I can yet imagine, every bit as much as when I was a little girl hoping for a blue bike and proof that God is good.

As strange as it sounds, to this very day I've never owned my own bike, but that's OK. It stopped being about the bike a long time ago. The blue bike got my attention, and a wonderful Savior kept it.

But to think my life with Jesus started when my sister and I peeked into that empty garage which, as it turns out, wasn't really empty at all.

Posted by Katy on 06/01/05 at 09:09 PM

Fallible Comments...

Ahhh.....lovely.

I did something really similar over a camera when I was 10ish. The supply list for summer camp said, among everything else, "camera (optional)". Despite the "optional" caveat, I convinced myself that everyone would have a camera, that I'd be the only one without one (Horror of horrors!) and that I really needed one. So I prayed earnestly--not allowing myself one iota of doubt--for a camera that didn't appear.

I went to camp anyway. No one had cameras. My faith was restored, since it became obvious to me that God was way smarter than I was and he knew that no one else would have one, so he saved me from the embarassment of being the only 10 year old girl with a camera (Horror of horrors!).

Anyway, it's wonderful how God can work with our childish minds and childish faith to teach us....
-----
Posted by rebecca on 06/02/05 at 06:30 PM
Since my injury I spend alot of time on the web. On another blog I found out about an advertising scheme that gives away free computers! I allready got one, didn't cost a thing. So I thought I'd pass along the info for anyone else on a tight budget. : )

http://www.FreeMiniMacs.com/?r=15601403
Posted by Mary on 06/02/05 at 07:36 PM
Very good!
Posted by Paul Nichols on 06/03/05 at 03:34 PM
I loved this. So fresh, so honest, so inspiring.
Posted by Lorna on 06/11/05 at 07:34 PM

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Personal blog of christian writer & fallible mom Katy McKenna Raymond in Kansas City, Missouri Katy is represented by Greg Johnson at WordServe Literary Read more Katy at LateBoomer.net Follow Katy on Twitter Follow Katy on Facebook 123 Recent Posts Try Becoming Brenda Starr Off Beat Scattered That’s It So I’ve Finally Signed With An Agent. Now What? The Spoon Sciatica Sweetheart A Woman’s Train of Thought Has No Caboose However much we own, we are all still living on borrowed time After all, when restaurants shrink portions, they don’t shrink prices. As with everything in life, balance is key. Slow down, you move too fast… Yeah, I know. I have issues. Search Advanced Search Syndicate Login E me at katy @ ngenius.com	Let The Children Come To Me Sometimes, when I think about my childhood and how it must have affected how I look at life and relationships and faith and God, I get discouraged. But then I remember something that astounds me no end, how all through my youngest years I felt God's gentle hand on my life. When I was seven and Liz was six, she paid particular attention to the homily at Mass one Sunday. It was the only time she'd ever professed to get much out of a sermon, so I confess I was fascinated to know how it had affected her. As soon as we got home, she hatched her Bible-verse-based plan. "We're going to pray for three days straight," she said, evidently wanting to give God the benefit of the doubt since he might not recognize our voices at first blush. "You heard what Father Jacobowski said. Whatever we ask for, we'll get. All we have to do is believe, and I believe. Do you believe?" Quite the evangelist, wasn't she? "Sure I do. But what should we ask for?" I said, ready as usual to follow my younger sister anywhere. By that time, we knew there were plenty of starving children in Biafra, wherever that was, who needed God's help. Maybe Liz had in mind some heavy-duty prayers for them. Prayer would surely help them more than the days the kids at St. Elizabeth's School ate nothing but rice for lunch to free up a few grilled cheese sandwiches for frail Biafrans. "Bikes. A red one for me, and a blue one for you. With baskets on the front, and tassels on the handle bars. They're going to land in the garage by Wednesday at the latest. The Bible and the priest said so." "But we already asked Mom and Dad for bikes," I said, "and they said no." "That's why we're asking God," she answered. "The Bible says He won't say no. If we ask for it, we'll get it. That's the way it works." So we prayed together, she and I, for three nights running--the first and last times we ever raised our united voices to beseech the God of heaven for any reason whatsoever. Wednesday morning, still in our nightgowns, we sneaked out the back door to the garage. The garage door often stayed open all night. Our family didn't own much of value, not even a car, so thieves didn't worry my parents. Liz figured an open garage door would make The Miraculous Appearance of the Red and Blue Bikes in the Garage on Grand Avenue that much easier for the Almighty to pull off. Her only concern was that squirrelly Ernie Hagen across the street or Scary Larry down on the corner might get to our new bikes before we woke up and pull a bike heist. "Wouldn't that be a gyp, after we did all the praying?" she asked, and I had to agree it would be a terrible gyp. We skittered across the driveway, hanging on to every shred of our sketchy belief system (because Father Jacobowski emphasized how large a role our individual and collective faith played in this transaction), and peeked inside. No shiny new bikes. Just a wobbly scooter and a rusty red wagon, as usual. Liz was mighty ticked off at God after that. She thought they'd had a deal. Looking back, she probably decided right then that I was the weak link in matters of two or three gathering together and asking for stuff. Oh, well. But at that moment--because He'd clearly said no and that was something, after all--God got my attention. l really appreciated that He wasn't into cheap trickery and going over the heads of parents who were trying pretty hard to do the right thing. I also found it intriguing that He couldn't be manipulated by little kids, the way lots of adults could. Yeah. This was a God worth getting to know. When I was around eleven, my mother announced to me in no uncertain terms that she was dying of breast cancer. "Have you been to the doctor?" I asked. "No, and I'm not going, either," she said. "He'll just tell me what I already know. I can feel the lumps." So I did what any faithful Catholic girl would do: I said a Novena to St. Jude, the Patron Saint of the Impossible. (Most of the stuff that required prayer in my young life felt impossible, so I tended to by-pass more wishy-washy saints like St. Anthony, Patron Saint of the Lost and Found, and go straight for St. Jude, who could obviously get the job done or God wouldn't have given it to him.) Every morning and every night I prayed, waiting for something definitive to happen with my mother. Eventually, I knew, she would become ill unto death or she'd mention to me that perhaps she'd been mistaken and wasn't quite dying yet after all. Months of prayer turned into a year or more, with no claification from Mom about the state of her bosoms. Finally, I could bear the suspense no longer and asked, "So, what ever happened with the cancer thing?" "Oh, it was nothing," she said, way too nonchalantly considering what she'd put me through. "Too much coffee, I guess. I'm fine, except that these varicose veins might kill me..." Was there a patron saint for varicose veins? I didn't know, but I do know that during those months of praying for my mother not to die and leave me responsible for all those kids, I grew very close to the Lord. On my 12th birthday, I asked for a Bible. My parents looked at me like I was from outer space, but they got me my very first Bible which, while it languished largely unread, still brought me great comfort. Because you see, by then I knew for certain that God had called me out of darkness into His marvelous light. I knew that he'd made me for a reason, set me apart from my mother's womb for His purposes. I didn't know what that meant exactly, still don't completely. But I felt the truth of it in my soul. It took a few more years before He really got ahold of my life, before I understood that He wanted more than my desperate prayers. He wanted my heart. Even now, it's a process of learning to trust Him more, especially when circumstances often conspire to bring back the feelings of those early frightening times. My faith is still a clumsy one. I ask the wrong questions more often than not, and pray prayers that fail to get to the crux of the matter. But God knows my heart and hears my cries and loves me more than I can yet imagine, every bit as much as when I was a little girl hoping for a blue bike and proof that God is good. As strange as it sounds, to this very day I've never owned my own bike, but that's OK. It stopped being about the bike a long time ago. The blue bike got my attention, and a wonderful Savior kept it. But to think my life with Jesus started when my sister and I peeked into that empty garage which, as it turns out, wasn't really empty at all. Posted by Katy on 06/01/05 at 09:09 PM Fallible Comments... Ahhh.....lovely. I did something really similar over a camera when I was 10ish. The supply list for summer camp said, among everything else, "camera (optional)". Despite the "optional" caveat, I convinced myself that everyone would have a camera, that I'd be the only one without one (Horror of horrors!) and that I really needed one. So I prayed earnestly--not allowing myself one iota of doubt--for a camera that didn't appear. I went to camp anyway. No one had cameras. My faith was restored, since it became obvious to me that God was way smarter than I was and he knew that no one else would have one, so he saved me from the embarassment of being the only 10 year old girl with a camera (Horror of horrors!). Anyway, it's wonderful how God can work with our childish minds and childish faith to teach us.... ----- Posted by rebecca on 06/02/05 at 06:30 PM Since my injury I spend alot of time on the web. On another blog I found out about an advertising scheme that gives away free computers! I allready got one, didn't cost a thing. So I thought I'd pass along the info for anyone else on a tight budget. : ) http://www.FreeMiniMacs.com/?r=15601403 Posted by Mary on 06/02/05 at 07:36 PM Very good! Posted by Paul Nichols on 06/03/05 at 03:34 PM I loved this. So fresh, so honest, so inspiring. Posted by Lorna on 06/11/05 at 07:34 PM Page 1 of 1 pages Commenting is not available in this weblog entry. Next entry: The Quest For Immortality, Mama-Style Previous entry: Blogger Reveals All! << Back to main


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Personal blog of christianwriter & fallible momKaty McKenna Raymondin Kansas City, Missouri

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Let The Children Come To Me

Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri