I’ve been known to break into spontaneous prayer although I admit it’s been awhile since I shared it with anyone. These days, it happens when I’m in the woods riding our John Deere Gator or walking in between the bean and corn field – alone.

One day when I was spending time with our niece who was 3 or 4 at the time. (She’s twenty–something now) We’d often snuggle together and I’d thank God for her or ask Him to provide for our needs.

This time I asked her, “Do you want to say the words?”

She looked up at me in wonder and said, “No. I don’t know the words to the song.”

We bowed our heads and I said the words for us. She moved in closer and I wrapped my arm around her while trying to wrap my heart around what she’d said.

When I asked her recently if she remembers this she said no, but she remembered us praying together and said when I prayed it didn’t sound like regular talking – it was more like singing.

I’m not bragging here. If it sounded like I was making music, it was because of God. He inspires that in me, brings it out of me, and receives it from me. I believe it is all from Him.

Praying out loud is a tricky thing. Sometimes how we sound matters to us. We don’t want others to hear us stumble, crumble, or mumble. We prefer to confess to no one and keep our messes undercover. We polish our praise and plan our petitions.

My prayer life is a whole lot of rhythm these days (think Johnny Cash’s guitar playing) and a little bit of blues. Sometimes there’s a gritty edge to the music in my soul and at other times a lovely melody. Sometimes I’m a little bit country and other days a little bit rock & roll (thank you Donny & Marie!). 

No matter what life looks like on the outside, there’s a whole lot of praying going on inside. Sometimes the words come with tears and other times great delight. Every now and then I don’t have any words – just feelings. It’s times like those I depend on God’s Spirit to say what I can’t pray — He knows the words to all my songs.

 Romans 8:26–27 (NIV)

In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.

Stable living was not the couple’s first choice. We know Joseph sought other lodging. There was none. Except the place God had planned all along. I believe the God who knows everything was not surprised when the only place available was a stable. In fact, it was the perfect place. It was where shepherds would feel free to come and find the baby resting in a manger.

When I think of what my place in the Christmas story might be I always see myself as a shepherd. Ordinary. A little on the raw side. So, maybe I don’t smell as bad…but I can be a stinker from time to time.

I never want to get over the miracle of Christmas and the way God revealed it to regular people.

God appeared first as a baby to an ordinary man and woman. He trusted one to carry and then give birth to His Son and the other to provide for and protect them both. Then He sent an angelic host with the birth announcement, and ushered some guys used to living on the sidelines to the stable to meet their Messiah. A stable full of Life – a life that would be given for them…and me.

These ordinary guys didn’t stand around trying to write off the angelic announcement as a UFO. They recognized heaven’s messengers and accepted the invitation to meet Him. I think they hurried. I’d like to think I would too. I picture myself running to see the One the angels said had come.

Oh I hope I would.

There they found a family living among animals under God’s great night light. And these underdogs of Jewish society got to see Him first. Then these men, saw what many others missed and did what most others refused. They recognized God in the flesh and they worshipped him. What did they see in the face of the baby? Did they recognize salvation’s Son?

In all the instability of life I see this young family as the truest picture we can have today of stable living. The kind where Jesus is adored, accepted, and worshipped no matter how uncomfortable, scary, or painful life is. Where peace rules and chaos puts up a fight but must eventually flee. Where the lost are found and the dead find life. Where comfort is given and condemnation removed. In this season when the hectic often trumps the holy, I want to continue wondering…what was it like in the stable with the Divine?

I don’t want all the answers. Wonder often leads to wonder or in other words when I wonder I usually end up worshipping. And in that transition I experience a tiny bit of what it must have been like for Mary, Joseph, and the shepherds…a little bit of the truest stable living there is.

I’m really trying with Christmas this year…mostly I feel tried.

Sorry. I’m not doing much better than I was yesterday when I wrote Tis the Season.

I have been doing some pondering.

When I read about the star that shone over Bethlehem I wonder…Why did most of the world miss the star shining over Bethlehem? Were three wise guys from far away the only ones who noticed? I understand Herod not getting it…but what about his wise guys? Didn’t he have a few star-gazers on staff? Or was it all about the politics?  

Can you imagine if that star showed up today? We have watchers looking for satellite changes 24/7. Surely this light would get their attention right? Who would break the news of a new heavenly phenomenon – Fox or CNN? What would world leaders say? Would the experts try to explain it away or let it be what it was…a message with a Miracle attached?

Or would we miss it too?

I’m also curious…did Mary & Joseph notice the light leading the way to Jesus? Were they amazed by the celestial light? Did folks in Bethlehem speculate about how heaven’s spotlight shone on their little town?

And then there’s this thought: Psalm 147:4 says, “He determines the number of the stars and calls them each by name.”So…I read this and ask myself, “What was the name of this star?” Maybe that will still be important enough when I get to heaven to ask the Star Maker.

For now, I’m going to take a minute and do a little star-gazing of my own. And, I’m going to let the truth of Psalm 147:4 reverberate through my heart and soul. Every star has name and God knows it.

I stared at my right foot. The angle was all wrong. For the first time when my brain told my ankle to move it remained in place as if it hadn’t “heard” the internal command. I realized the connection was  broken and so was the ankle.

I slid myself out of the way of incoming human traffic and realized I was sitting in a large puddle of water and grit. The beautiful restaurant floor was not only shiny…the standing water made it an accident waiting to happen.

It happened to me.

Instinct told me to hold still until medical help arrived. Moving me without doing more damage wasn’t an option.  An ambulance was dispatched.

A young paramedic asked, “How attached are you to your boots?”

“Very,” I whispered, “but please get it off me.”

I closed my eyes as he deftly cut off half of my favorite footwear. I remembered trying this pair of Durango’s on and feeling both comfort and surprise. My feet were “at home.” I’d sort of been kidding when I mentioned I wanted a pair of boots as a souvenir from this trip. It was no joke when I took them to the cashier at Shepler’s in Austin, Texas. I loved my boots.

I wore them when we rode our motorcycle, when I went to church, out to lunch with family & friends, on dates with my husband, and at many of my speaking engagements.

(Me in my boots on a much better day!)

For the past year they’ve stood in a corner of our storeroom while I recovered physically. I hadn’t forgotten them I just couldn’t bring myself to look too closely at them.  Leaning together in the shadows they appeared undamaged even though I knew the one bore a permanent “incision.”

The other night, I intentionally went and got those boots. I carried them and a box of tissues to my favorite chair. I had not released anger or grief over the accident. It was time. My heart beat fast and I broke out in a sweat as I clutched the boots to my chest. I let go of the left one and took a long look at the right one.

It was worse than I’d thought.

They’d had to cut it from top to bottom on the inside of the boot to release my swollen ankle. I remembered the pain and the sight of my injury. Bulges in all the wrong places revealed the ankle bones weren’t where they were supposed to be. The color was all wrong. The relentless pain surged hot and violent.

(My boots now)

I hadn’t allowed those memories in. Now, as I held that boot, they demanded my attention and I let them have their way.

After I’d fallen, the pain hit fast and hard. I thought I might vomit and my bowels threatened to let loose. I begged God to hold both back. He did.

One memory has continued to bother me but I pushed it aside not wanting to deal with it. Another customer bent over me and explained he’d complained to the management of the danger and had asked them to get a mop…a sign…or a rug. The manager chose not to. To him, the beautiful floor was more important than safety.

His lack of concern endangered me and others.

My body stiffened and my jaw clenched as I allowed the vivid memories of the fall come forward. Anger rose, pain flared in my tummy, and I held my breath. I really did not want to continue on this walk down memory lane. I looked at my ankle; scared and swollen over a year later. I ached that night because a weather change was on its way.

A gentle shift took place in my soul as grief nudged the anger out of the way. Big hot tears cascaded over my lower lids then hung off my chin. I meant to wipe them right up but both hands were otherwise engaged…hugging the broken boot close – one arm encased inside where my foot once felt so at home.  Sobs continued their relentless march to freedom and I let the tears fall onto the leather. I felt my body shaking as it released pent up emotion. I sweat, my nose ran, and I gasped for air inbetween crying jags. (definitely not a Kodak moment!)

I admitted I was very ticked off and asked God to protect me from sinning as I expressed it. I told Him I was sad that I would never be the same – 13 pieces of metal change the way a joint works. I cried and prayed and ever faithful God listened.

In that messy hour, holding my Durangos close, my wounded heart took a tiny step toward healing.