Back in the glory days, when I showered regularly, had a respectable job, and clothes that didn’t smell like old macaroni and cheese, I had a coworker whose smile would brighten my day. She worked part time at the front desk, and sometimes, when we’d get to chatting, she’d tell me how she’d prayed for a parking space when she was out shopping, and then, praise the Lord, she found one close to the front. Or she’d pray for a good card during our 3:00 card game break. And it would drive. me. crazy.
In all honesty, I thought it was petty. There is a whole world in pain out there. And you’re praying for that?
Here’s the thing: The Lord answered her prayers. <insert bewildered shoulder shrug here>
*
Last fall, my three-year-old needed an emergency iron infusion. He has autism, and I knew this was going to be an exhausting and trying day for both of us. New places, new doctors, needles and IVs and partial sedation and gas masks all equaled a perfect storm for pushing him over the edge. Trying to keep him regulated in all this was an emotionally and mentally draining exercise in futility. And so I allowed him to bring his favorite toy to the hospital, hoping it would help.
The infusion process took hours. Then we had an hour car-ride home. After getting us both unloaded, I started to unpack our day bag, and my stomach dropped. I frantically pawed through it several times, but to no avail: I had forgotten his toy at the hospital.
I started bawling. Like, legitimately bawling.
I feared the inevitable meltdown when I couldn’t produce the toy. At this point in our journey with autism, he could still scream and cry for HOURS. Yes, literal hours. Plural. Without being distracted or dissuaded. And I was already completely depleted from no sleep and being on high-alert/interference all day.
So I sat in our entryway sobbing, and I told Jesus that I couldn’t do it. Told him I needed a miracle.
When I collected myself enough, I called the hospital. They checked our room, but the toy was gone. I thanked them for looking, gave them my number in case it showed up, and hung up. And cried some more.
*
I’ve been a Christian most of my life, and I still don’t understand how prayer really works. I used to think I had to pray a certain way or use a certain tone or use specific words. I went through a phase where it sounded like I was reciting Shakespeare with all the “thees” and “thous” I used. I swung the other way and talked to him like an entitled, whiny teenager.
These days, I pray with reverence and familiarity. Like we are old friends, but with the awe I feel when I am caught in the middle of a huge storm. The tress are bending and the wind is screaming and the lightening is striking and the sky sounds like it’s ripping apart and the rain and hail are pounding and bouncing, and there is a fearsome beauty and a wonder to it.
*
Sometime after my second round of crying over the lost toy, my phone rang. It was the hospital. A worker had found our toy in the pediatric playroom. They said they’d hold it until my husband could pick it up later, and I hung up in disbelief. I’ve spent many hours in that playroom, and I’m amazed they found it.
I laughed and cried at the same time. After the rush of relief, I realized I felt so seen. God heard my prayer, he saw me in my exhaustion and desperation, and he answered. He reached down and brought that toy back to us. It was such a trivial thing, but my weary, anxious soul felt so loved.
*
For almost a year now I have found myself praying for lost things. Mostly lost toys, but also for lost guitar straps and children who wander outside without my knowing and phones and even my husband’s bank envelopes full of money to deposit. Apparently we (I) misplace and lose a lot of things around here. A. Lot.
And you can call it luck or coincidence or inevitable, but God has answered every time. Sometimes I’ll feel an immediate nudge to look somewhere crazy where that thing couldn’t possibly be (re: lost children mentioned above). Sometimes it might be a few weeks before an item suddenly reappears—usually in a place I’ve looked 100 times already. Each time, my prayer is answered. The lost thing is found. And with each answered prayer, I feel a little more found myself.
*
So often we are scared to ask for the small things that carry big meaning to us. We think that God only cares about the important things. The world-changing things.
Yet it’s in the small things where we see Him in intimate ways. Where we build trust and faith and relationship, where we learn to hear His voice. So when the storms hit and we need to pray for big things, we ask confidently, knowing we are loved and safe and heard.
This isn’t to say that you should pray for every little thing you want. To do that is to miss the point. He isn’t a genie to grant your every wish. He’s a Father who listens intently to your cares and your worries and then gives you exactly what your heart needs.
*
I’ve thought often of my old coworker and her praise-the-Lord parking spaces and cards. And I realize that, under the surface, it wasn’t petty. These things were important to her in a way I couldn’t understand. And God was right there, showing His love and faithfulness to her in a way that spoke directly to her heart.
And I’ve seen that the more I pray for those small things, those lost things, the more faith I have in praying for the world-changing ones.
Our God is a God of found things—from toys to wandering children to wandering hearts. And no matter how lost or insignificant we feel, He sees us. There is no place we can go or hide—no situation too small, no darkness so thick—that He won’t find us. And He is waiting to for us, waiting for us to be ready. Ready for Him gather us back into His arms, to give rest and peace to our weary souls.
To welcome us home, one small step, one small prayer, at a time.
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