John 17:15 My prayer is not that you take them out of the world but that you protect them from the evil one.
Jesus tried to prepare His disciples for the longest Saturday of their lives. He told them He'd be gone. He told them they'd be grieving, while the world rejoiced. "But your grief will turn to joy," He'd promised. Over and over, like a good teacher, He'd told them these things in different ways. In Gethsemane, He'd urged them to pray "that you fall not into temptation." But exhausted and sorrowful, they couldn't. So Jesus prayed for them. And all during that long Saturday when they huddled behind locked doors, weak, scattered and unbelieving, they were held in the grip of Jesus' prayer.
It was December. Moving day was weeks away. I was living with boxes, in a twilight zone of not here, not there. I was numb, hurtling toward the unknown. What was out there for Whitney and me, for my daugther in rehab? Waiting in the dark.
On one sleet-ridden day, I sat in a pool of lamplight on the dusty floor of our attic, sifting through memories of our four children, now grown and scattered. In addition to our daugther in rehab, there was a daugther in Oregon, a daugther in Hawaii, and a son in Maine. "Don't worry, Mom. We'll come visit," they promised. Among their treasures I found a few old Sunday school pages, Bible scenes with childish crayon scribbles that rendered them priceless.
I traced a yearning finger over an orange Jesus motioning a purple Zacchaeus from a sycamore tree. A red Jesus, arms and lap full of multicolored children; His timber-broen hair brushing little, uplifted faces; His eyes, even through the crayon, shining with love. Then I catch my breath. A praying Jesus, scribbled in black, kneeling at a rock, crayoned dots of red for the blood He sweated. Nearby are the sorrow-laden, sleeping disciples, ghostly white, with no color. I feel myself one of them - blank and unable to pray. Yet I am held in the grip of Jesus' prayer, of His praying for me still. I am protected.
Lord, help me to pray always. But when I can't, cover me with Your prayer.
Shari Smyth
Jesus tried to prepare His disciples for the longest Saturday of their lives. He told them He'd be gone. He told them they'd be grieving, while the world rejoiced. "But your grief will turn to joy," He'd promised. Over and over, like a good teacher, He'd told them these things in different ways. In Gethsemane, He'd urged them to pray "that you fall not into temptation." But exhausted and sorrowful, they couldn't. So Jesus prayed for them. And all during that long Saturday when they huddled behind locked doors, weak, scattered and unbelieving, they were held in the grip of Jesus' prayer.
It was December. Moving day was weeks away. I was living with boxes, in a twilight zone of not here, not there. I was numb, hurtling toward the unknown. What was out there for Whitney and me, for my daugther in rehab? Waiting in the dark.
On one sleet-ridden day, I sat in a pool of lamplight on the dusty floor of our attic, sifting through memories of our four children, now grown and scattered. In addition to our daugther in rehab, there was a daugther in Oregon, a daugther in Hawaii, and a son in Maine. "Don't worry, Mom. We'll come visit," they promised. Among their treasures I found a few old Sunday school pages, Bible scenes with childish crayon scribbles that rendered them priceless.
I traced a yearning finger over an orange Jesus motioning a purple Zacchaeus from a sycamore tree. A red Jesus, arms and lap full of multicolored children; His timber-broen hair brushing little, uplifted faces; His eyes, even through the crayon, shining with love. Then I catch my breath. A praying Jesus, scribbled in black, kneeling at a rock, crayoned dots of red for the blood He sweated. Nearby are the sorrow-laden, sleeping disciples, ghostly white, with no color. I feel myself one of them - blank and unable to pray. Yet I am held in the grip of Jesus' prayer, of His praying for me still. I am protected.
Lord, help me to pray always. But when I can't, cover me with Your prayer.
Shari Smyth
