Sunday morning, and the sky was still black — save for the jewelry of lights on skyscrapers. I twisted through city streets, and headed north on Interstate 29. I had three hours to make it home.
I could worship God here, in the city, but felt the pull toward home. I wanted a front-row seat to God’s mending in our brokenness. I needed to worship with my family, in the wooden pews of a country church.
Sometime last week, intruders broke into our church. The thieves didn’t take much — for we have little. But they stole a bit of our enthusiasm, leaving us discouraged on the weekend of “Rally Day,” our opening day of Sunday School.
The break-in frightened our Anna. Churches, she said, aren’t supposed to get “broken.” And if someone could “break” her church, then maybe they could break her house, too.
She was scared to sleep alone, fearful someone would crash through her bedroom window. And a day after her first fears erupted in tears, her mom was headed for the city for a weekend with girlfriends. I would be three hours away, weighed with guilt in the leaving.
While I was away from this place and this computer, you slipped in. I didn’t ask for your prayers, but you knew. You knew.
Over and over, you promised to pray for our church, and for our girls, gripped with fear:
“I pray that peace and security will soon return to the hearts of those who have been hurt,” one wrote.
“I am on my knees praying for your children,” wrote another.
One of you reminded me: It’s only Friday. Sunday’s coming.
My Sunday began before the sun rose, as tires spun me north. I waited for day’s first light before I dialed home.
“How’d she sleep?” I asked him.
“She was in her own bed — all night long,” he told me. “She never even brought it up when I tucked her in.”
“Oh, praise God,” I said. And I did — I praised God and his Sunday Power.
God mended a little girl’s heart, using your prayers as threads. I didn’t see this tapestry woven in my comment box until after I got home from church.
Tucked in the comments were your words. I cried through them all. …
I had no idea.
Three times a week, I type words in this place, making marks with letters. Then you … you turn around and make marks on me, too.
Anna told me this morning: “I’m not scared anymore, Mommy.”