08 Jul On Holy Ground

I padded across the bright green carpet of my backyard, my eyes set on the tree house my husband and father built with the help of several strong and willing neighbors a handful of years ago, when my youngest was still in diapers and my oldest still had some missing teeth.

My cotton dress swished on my legs as I swatted away yet another mosquito. I heard the white picket fence gate swing open as I caught the gaze of a neighbor boy of about 11 smiling at me. “Hi Ms. Laura. I hurt my finger in the baseball game today. I wanted to know if you could pray for me.”

We sat on the steps of the treehouse, I barefoot and he a little nervous as I brought out my anointing oil. “What’s that for?” he asked. I cited James 5:14-16. He commented on the fragrances of the oil as I applied a dab to his finger and placed my hand in his own. I prayed a simple prayer, asking God for the healing of his injured finger.  He looked up, astonished at the simplicity of the experience. “That’s it?” he said. “Yep!” I said smiling. “Well, I’ll see you later then,” he added as he opened the gate and headed home.

I saw him the next day and he smiled. “Ms. Laura, my finger is starting to feel better. Thanks for praying for me.”

This story has a backdrop to it. I haven’t written on this blog in the last month for one main reason – in my scraps of spare time I’ve been writing curriculum for a prayer class for kids here in my neighborhood ages 8-13. One morning a week for five weeks, I pulled out every chair in our home. I placed the chairs around the edges of my back porch facing inward. I brought out a large white board I had cut at Lowes a few years ago for another class I taught, ready to write out the kids’ thoughts and ideas.

At 10am on Wednesday mornings, they clambered up the stairs, some with wet hair, fresh from swim team practice. Others rode up on their bikes, letting themselves in the back gate. For one hour a week, we talked about what it means to converse with God and we conversed with God together.

The curriculum had a mix of theology and story and plenty of holes for the aeration of how God’s Spirit and their questions might lead the conversation. And every week I was freshly amazed at how these kids showed up – not just physically but mentally and spiritually – ready to engage with hard and sometimes vulnerable questions.

Over these five weeks, the children helped further form me as a teacher. They showed me what kind of a teacher I want to be – one who is known by my students and available to them outside of “class” – one who sees “class” as nothing less than life. There have been many times I have taught a group, walked away, and never seen the people again. But these are children who my children play with regularly – children I see at the park and the pool and around town. We do life together. I know their families and they know mine.

They hear me scold my children for not bringing a towel to the pool or getting candy from the vending machine without asking. They hear me say their names out loud and cheer for them as they play baseball. These children have taught and are teaching me the powerful force for spiritual transformation that can emerge from true community – those with similar interests or goals living in a common space, sharing life together.

In my twenties I craved the adventurous and exciting, believing that I would have the most impact for Christ by going somewhere far away, doing something dangerous. In my thirties, babies and toddlers humbled me and drew me home – home with its mundane duties and relentless meal-making and laundry folding. While I loved my family deeply, I’ll admit that in those early years of motherhood I longed for the adventurous and exciting life I had previously led where I had surely been more useful to God.

But the Kingdom of God is like yeast that leavens and over time changes the very nature and will of a person it infuses. And now, at almost 42, I can say that God has changed me. He has used the leaven of babies, neighbors, children, and everyday life to slow my pace and steady my gaze on following Him right where I am.

And I am learning – slowly but gratefully – that more often than not following Jesus looks like bare feet walking across a wet lawn towards a neighborhood child, a holy ground that is familiar and ordinary.