What I love about my Birkenstocks is how the leather softens and molds around the contours of my feet over time. I wear them every day and sometimes with socks in the winter. They are my bedroom slippers and my footwear for the summer months. I have an old pair I take to the beach. I even chose to have a worn out pair resoled instead of breaking in a new pair--they are that comforting and good.
If you tried to wear my Birkenstocks, you would not find them nearly as enjoyable because they would not fit your feet the way they fit mine. My long, narrow feet with no arch are given extra support by this footwear that perhaps you do not need. And even if you do, they have been worn to accommodate my feet, not yours.
There are simple truths we need to hold dear when we come alongside each other--truths that define us as individuals. It is far easier to come up with generalized remedies for each other's ills than it is to consider we may not know exactly what is best. Sometimes the answers are out of our grasp. We want to understand, but we don't and maybe we can't. Admitting that we have limitations takes courage. Knowing we are not in control is a sign of maturity. Being open to learning gives us hope.
There is a gospel song, a spiritual, that came to my mind during prayer this morning: Standing in the need of prayer. "Not my brother, not my sister, but it's me, O Lord, standing in the need of prayer."
Sometimes it is easier to pray for others than it is to ask for prayer. We can pray with long lists starting with family members and praying in ever widening spirals until we have prayed for the whole world. Prayers for people who are dying seem to take precedence though I often wonder if these prayers should be directed more toward those who will need to adjust to the loss that will occur when the loved one transitions out of this earthly plane.
To tell someone you are praying for his or her need sounds noble, but I believe something happens when these prayers are actually prayed. I can feel lifted up, embraced, made secure every once in awhile and wonder if this is a moment when a prayer on my behalf has made its way to the throne of God. Because we all have different belief systems I try not to impose my ideas on others. Most of my references seem to be from children's fairy tales anyway. But whether we are talking to God or merely wishing someone well, I believe there is power in our thoughts and words. For this reason we must have times of quiet--times when we can stare out a window into the pre-dawn sky and not think about anything more than the squirrel's nest that has now become visible as the neighbor's tree branch, bereft of its leaves, leans ever closer to our driveway. It is in listening to the crunching of the fallen leaves, seeing large, fat robins, and wondering for the briefest of moments why they are hopping around looking for food in January when they are supposed to be the first sign of spring, but then remembering these are the ones that flew South for the winter and that is where I now live.
Though it may sound like this sort of thinking takes a great deal of time, time none of us can spare, it does not. These are momentary experiences that happen without prompting if one is open to them.
Moments of being reminded that whether it is cold or warm, sunny or overcast, a day reminiscent of loss or celebration, I can stand here in my Birkenstocks in the need of prayer and know that someone somewhere is praying for me right now.
If you tried to wear my Birkenstocks, you would not find them nearly as enjoyable because they would not fit your feet the way they fit mine. My long, narrow feet with no arch are given extra support by this footwear that perhaps you do not need. And even if you do, they have been worn to accommodate my feet, not yours.
There are simple truths we need to hold dear when we come alongside each other--truths that define us as individuals. It is far easier to come up with generalized remedies for each other's ills than it is to consider we may not know exactly what is best. Sometimes the answers are out of our grasp. We want to understand, but we don't and maybe we can't. Admitting that we have limitations takes courage. Knowing we are not in control is a sign of maturity. Being open to learning gives us hope.
There is a gospel song, a spiritual, that came to my mind during prayer this morning: Standing in the need of prayer. "Not my brother, not my sister, but it's me, O Lord, standing in the need of prayer."
Sometimes it is easier to pray for others than it is to ask for prayer. We can pray with long lists starting with family members and praying in ever widening spirals until we have prayed for the whole world. Prayers for people who are dying seem to take precedence though I often wonder if these prayers should be directed more toward those who will need to adjust to the loss that will occur when the loved one transitions out of this earthly plane.
To tell someone you are praying for his or her need sounds noble, but I believe something happens when these prayers are actually prayed. I can feel lifted up, embraced, made secure every once in awhile and wonder if this is a moment when a prayer on my behalf has made its way to the throne of God. Because we all have different belief systems I try not to impose my ideas on others. Most of my references seem to be from children's fairy tales anyway. But whether we are talking to God or merely wishing someone well, I believe there is power in our thoughts and words. For this reason we must have times of quiet--times when we can stare out a window into the pre-dawn sky and not think about anything more than the squirrel's nest that has now become visible as the neighbor's tree branch, bereft of its leaves, leans ever closer to our driveway. It is in listening to the crunching of the fallen leaves, seeing large, fat robins, and wondering for the briefest of moments why they are hopping around looking for food in January when they are supposed to be the first sign of spring, but then remembering these are the ones that flew South for the winter and that is where I now live.
Though it may sound like this sort of thinking takes a great deal of time, time none of us can spare, it does not. These are momentary experiences that happen without prompting if one is open to them.
Moments of being reminded that whether it is cold or warm, sunny or overcast, a day reminiscent of loss or celebration, I can stand here in my Birkenstocks in the need of prayer and know that someone somewhere is praying for me right now.
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