Things hoped for.

I've been thinking about faith lately. And people like Joel Stockstill. Joel Stockstill is the youth pastor of the biggest youth group in America. He has also lived with kidney failure since he was sixteen. He is now in his early 30's. So two or three times a week, for three hours at a time, for the last fifteen years he has gone into the hospital to have dialysis. I follow him on twitter, and he writes things like this:

"today i am still basking in thankfulness that Jesus has given me life for 30+ years. Many have passed on & yet HERE I AM! His Stripes 4 me!"

"Today a day of rest and treatment. Wait,1 of those doesn't go! Treatment isnt Gods best. I reject all reliance on medicine & embrace healing"

"Claiming total miraculous healing today in Jesus mighty name! perfect function in kidneys and restoration of all things stolen by the enemy"

"Today my petition and confession are the same 2 BRAND NEW KIDNEYS!!! i will settle for nothing less & stop at nothing to receive Jesus best"


He totally inspires me to believe God for . . . anything, everything! But sometimes my faith gets tangled with doubt. Because now I have a daughter that I'm trying to teach about faith. And I know what I think about the power of Jesus, but . . . what if she becomes disappointed? What if I keep confessing healing over her, and she never gets rid of her glasses? I mean, I'm confessing complete healing in her eyes while I stand there looking at her through my own glasses! I've answered several calls for healing, and prayed over my own eyes with no noticeable difference. What if that doesn't inspire her, but makes her think I'm foolish?

I can handle waiting for healing. Everything worth having is worth waiting for, faith is the substance of things hoped for -- you guys have heard the same messages I have. I'll keep standing, but I want Natalie's faith to be unshakable, too. What do I tell her about people who believe for healing and die in sickness? Because that happens.

But who has more faith: the person who thinks it's pointless to believe and is never healed, or the person who believes without wavering and is never healed? Which is more likely to be healed? Which is more likely to move in a spirit of healing? Of course, it's the person who believes.

So I will believe for me and for her. And for both of us to have great faith.

"Lord, I believe, but help my unbelief."

The alphabet is overated, anyway.

I used to feel a little guilty when I thought of my two girls. When Natalie was a baby, she had my attention every moment that she was awake. As a toddler she said lots of words, could count to 10 in English and to 5 in Spanish, and could sing her ABC's.

When Natalie was almost three, Elsie was born. And it actually came as a shock to me that I could not devote the same kind of time to her as I had to her big sis. I'm not sure really what I my expectations were, but they were not grounded in reality. I couldn't read her 3 books and sing her ten songs before every nap -- like I had with Natalie -- because I had a three year old who also needed attention (and wouldn't stay out of the room that long, anyway). I could easily get to the end of a day and find that with keeping house, giving bathes, making dinner, and chasing Natalie, I hadn't read her a book at all, or counted to 10, or sang the alphabet song. Some days I felt good if I could just get everyone fed, clothed, and down for a nap.

As Elsie has reached toddlerhood, I've noticed that she hasn't hit all those "milestones" as quickly as Natalie, and it made me feel guilty. Surely this was my fault for not reading enough books, or talking to her enough, or trying to get her to crawl sooner.

But after lots of prayer I've realized that there has been an exchange on both sides. Elsie may not have as much one-on-one time, but she has way more family time, because Natalie and I are with her all day. She has an extra person to laugh at her funny faces, to give her kisses and "I love you's", and to help her. She always has a family member by her side when Jason and I leave to go on a date. She has positive peer pressure to use a napkin, or the toilet. When I'm making dinner, she still has someone to play with.

I was measuring my love and attention to her based upon what she was doing, instead of basing it on . . . well, what it actually was. And while Elsie may not have the same memories of mommy-daughter time that Natalie does, the overall message is the same: that she is loved.

The most powerful thing I can do now.

This little stool sits in the girls' bathroom (or do stools stand?). Ruth has one similar to it, and we've had them for so long that I don't even remember how old we were when they came into our possession. If you could hold it and turn it over, here is what you would see written underneath:
Handcrafted by Floyd and June Spidle. Eleanor, Jesus loves you! So do we!

And underneath their names is a phone number. I've often wondered if that could really still be their phone number after nearly thirty years.
I don't remember Floyd and June Spidle. I don't remember how old they were when we knew them. I don't remember what they looked like. I don't remember if they lived close to us, or if they used to give us candy. I only know, from what my parents have said, that they were a spiritual mother and father to my parents, and that he built the stools and she painted the characters on them. I don't even know if this was something they did for a lot of people, or just something they did for us.

When I was fourteen, a family moved to my hometown and started attending our church. She was pregnant, and after a while I became their regular babysitter. For a season, I went to their house every Saturday. I remember that it was this often, because I basically spent my Saturday morning waiting for the telephone to ring. If it didn't, I became a little sulky, because they weren't going to need me that week. When we had special events at our church that I thought they might attend, my insides jumped with expectation and hope.
I had fallen in love with this family. At first, I just loved their baby boy. He was a roly-poly ball of adorableness, and I loved him from his round little head to his round little feet. When he grew a little older, we would jump down the stairs together holding hands. I blew him bubbles in his backyard, and pushed him in his red and yellow Fisher-Price car. I was sad when it was time to put him to bed because then the fun was gone. But I couldn't have been more delighted than the night when I put him to bed, told him I loved him and heard him whisper back, "I ov oo." In fact, I put it in a calendar.
I discovered I loved his parents, too. They had southern accents, and really -- who can resist that? They were always saying kind and encouraging things to me, and blessing my heart. The car rides to and from my house were full of friendly conversation and jokes instead of uncomfortable silence. They gave me gifts, and cards telling me how much they loved me and appreciated all my help. We even ate dinners together and watched movies together. Honestly, I was a little insecure around them, because they were so cool, and I loved them so much and wanted to always make a good impression. But even with that teenage insecurity, I still felt that they were the first adults that could be my friends, too.
They moved away when I was a junior in high school. Several states away. I was devastated. My parents took me to their house the night before they moved so that they could help pack and I could watch their little boy. I was so jealous over that little boy. I was honestly irritated that night when anyone hugged him goodbye, because I knew they didn't love him nearly as much as I did. What fakers.
The mom had given birth to another baby the month before; a girl. I sat in a room with her just before it was time to leave, crying because I wouldn't see her grow up. Somehow I pulled myself together enough to hug everyone and say goodbye. But I was crying before I could walk down the driveway to my parents' car. And I didn't stop until I fell asleep that night.

For the first few years I was able to keep in touch with them, but after I went to Bible College I lost track of them. They had moved a few times, so the phone number I had was useless. Last year someone told me they had gotten divorced. I was heartbroken. My friend didn't really know any other details, which made it worse. I had witnessed how madly in love these two were, how could it be possible that they divorced?
A few days ago on facebook, I asked a mutual friend if he had any contact information. Yesterday I received his reply. He told me that both of them had remarried, and that he didn't have any information, but that he had always gotten a hold of his friend by googling his name and city. I tried over and over again to get some sort of connection with them from the internet -- a phone number, an email address. I actually found the husband, but couldn't get his information without paying for it. Which seemed a little intrusive, if nothing else.
After I had given up (for the day, anyway), I went into the bathroom and cried. And cried. That's where Jason found me when he came home from work. I just kept thinking of that beautiful family. Of that couple that had been been so important to me, and made me feel special at a time when I was self-conscience and unsure. And oh, the babies. Those babies that I would have done anything to shield from pain. That I had held and kissed and prayed over. And all I could do was resolve to be important to someone, and make them feel as special as I had felt.

But last night, after the tears were wiped away, I thought of something else I could do. I spotted the little stool in the bathroom. And I wondered if Floyd and June Spidle loved me as much as I loved the family now broken and far away. I wondered if every now and then they prayed for me, maybe even still. I wondered if they had prayed for me when I was walking through difficult times in my life. And I remembered that, though we sometimes think of prayer as a last resort, it's really the most powerful thing we can do.

So I prayed.