students of jesus

If I told you what I was really thinking most of the time, you’d discover the monster within me: selfish, judgmental, and proud. Dare I draw back the curtain, just a little? I’ll pick something entertaining and safe—honest.

When I have my morning Facebook devotions, every day I receive an invitation to play Farmer’s-Candy-Time-Garden-Crush-City-Saga, or some other odious on-line silliness. No. No, I don’t want to play your silly game. I want to stalk people from the safe distance of the Internet. Chat feature? Off.

One woman was particularly bothersome. She issued invitations day after day, calling out all manner of games and interactions. I was just about to “unfriend” her when it hit me: she’s disabled, and almost completely homebound. She constantly sends our requests for others to play with her.

I still thought about unfriending her. But that still, small voice said, “You should do something.”

“I have my standards,” I answered. “I won’t play those stupid games.”

“OK, do something else. She’s alone.”

“Like what?”

Silence, followed by more silence. The Holy Spirit speaks to me pretty clearly sometimes, but that doesn’t mean He makes things clear. He left me to think it through.

I decided to receive every invitation as a call to prayer: every time she issued an invitation, I would stop browsing Facebook and lift her up for a few moments. I began to pray for God’s presence in her home; for her children to remember and comfort her; for her heart to turn fully Godward.

[I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking my prayers lead me (finally) to action. But no. Prayer is action, and I prayed faithfully. But something did happen, and it wasn’t pretty.]

Her Facebook invitations kept coming, and I prayed. And they kept coming. And I prayed. And they kept coming—one after another, day upon day, sometimes more than once a day. I began to resent the interruptions. (I told you my thoughts are not pretty.) These interruptions came at no regular intervals. There was no prayer schedule I could far into. Each one was unique, and each one was a bother.

I came to envy the Muslim practice of prayer five times a day: at least they are on a schedule. At least I could order my time. I remembered the tolling of noon church bells from my hometown, calling my consciousness back to God. Perhaps I could give up my promise to the Spirit and simply use my iPhone as a modern minaret. Then I’d be back in control. Working, praying, reading, and surfing Face-Insta-Twitter. I’d be Master and Commander of my busy, busy world again.

The true lesson is about me. I face interruptions every day—we all do. What if those interruptions are a call to prayer (or some other action)? The call to prayer is more than church bells or the wailing of a muezzin. So are a thousand other daily cues. Can I recognize which interruptions are divine? Will I yield to the Voice that speaks, but leaves me to navigate my own response?