Praying Hard

Years ago---in the year 2000, to be exact---I started a website on Yahoo's now defunct Geocities called Pray Hard.  Prayer has always been my main ministry in The Body (I'm shy, I'm feeble and I'm certainly no speaker!)  I had been studying intercession around that time and had one of those godly callings in the middle of the night.  You know?  Those times when you're fast asleep and are suddenly awaken by a fully formed idea that pops into your head uninvited.  One that is too wise to have been formulated on its own and that, other than in the case of divine intervention, has no business being there.

Well, the revelation that caused me to get out of bed and write it down in the middle of the night, lest I forget it by morning, was that we simply don't pray enough for others.  Maybe we pray for a selected band of others; our families, our loved ones, those people with specific requests on those pamphlets they hand out at church... and, of course, ourselves.  But, what if everyone in the world had someone praying for them.  Regularly.  Not just people you know.  Not just people you like. 

Well, being the sometimes overly-organized person I can be, I immediately devised a system.  With I Timothy 2:1-2 as my mission statement: "I exhort therefore, that...intercessions, be made for all men; For kings, and for all that are in authority; that we may lead a quiet and peaceable life in all godliness and honesty." the Pray Hard system was set into motion.

It's a simple system.  But, to really work, it's a system that takes commitment.  I implemented it in my own life and set time aside for it every morning, still, these twelve years later.  Are you ready?

Here's how it works [lifted and abridged from the old website]:

THE IDEA: If every believer would pray for a different 20 people every day, within 28-day cycles, we would each cover 560 people a month in prayer.  If 100 people would commit to doing this, 56,000 lives would be touched.  1,000 people would reach over half-a-million lives!  But, don't worry about the math, I've got that covered.  You say you don't even know 560 people?  Keep reading...

THE BENEFACTORS: This system covers so much more than just your inner circle.  Each day you're to include: Five family members: Don't forget extended family and the in-laws; Five friends: People you converse with on a pretty regular basis; Five aquaintances: People you may not be as close to as your regular confidants. These can be co-workers, neighbors, people you grew up with but have lost contact with, people whose names "ring a bell"... any name that can be placed with a face; One church leader: Your pastors, teachers, mentors, Christian organizations you may be involved with (ie. Church camps, your alma-mater, charities, missionaries) and their administrators; Three public figures: Movie stars, tv personalities, musicians, political figures... go for the gold here. They may just  seem like faces on billboards to you, but they're people too.  And, they're included in the "all  men" that I Timothy mentions. Be sure to use people whose work you admire as well as people you can't stand hearing about.  Add some Christian entertainers to the mix too.  They could certainly use our spiritual support, being all out there, exposed, targeted by the enemy;  One stranger: You may not know their names and that's fine. God knows them personally.  It can be a homeless person you tossed a dime to, a woman you saw crying in the restroom, a friendly store clerk, a person you saw on a talk show that you just took pity on... doesn't matter.  Be creative, be compassionate, be sincere.

THE PROCESS: Realistically, you're going to have to write this stuff down.  Reserve a notebook strictly for your intercessions.  Have a page for each day of the cycle.  (Remember, a cycle consists of 28 days. Four Mondays, four Tuesdays, four Wednesdays... you get it. A month!)  Label the top of each page from "Monday 1", "Tuesday 1"... all the way through "Sunday 4" (ie. Monday of the first week through Sunday of the 4th week.) and fill in the names of the people you're going to be praying for each day.  It is hard to think of 560 people at first, so feel free to recycle names.  You may have a small family and not have five new names for all 28 days of the month, so go ahead and repeat if you need to.  Praying for somebody more than once a month doesn't hurt!  New names will come to you as you get into the groove.

Prayer Book sample page

I use a small spiral notebook for my prayer book that I keep in my nightstand for easy, early morning, access.  You may prefer a Word doc, a spreadsheet, a computerized task list or... is there an app for that?  As long as you jot it down somehow.  You will not remember 560 names on recall.  I don't care if you're Rain Man.  Just, make your life easier and write it down! 

Praying for twenty people a day, you'll find is quite bite-sized.  It can take a mere few minutes, using a simple sentenced prayer for each person, or you can spend as long as you like in time and detail.

I've seen amazing things happen over the course of my twelve years of praying hard.  It doesn't take up much of my day, but it has a great effect on it!  Seeing prayers answered is such a sweet feeling.  It's a particularly new feeling when you begin to see people on your Public Figures lives changed.  Some celebrities on my list have shocked me by going to rehab (when I didn't realize they had a problem), made public confessions (when I didn't know they were hurting) and made professions of faith (when I didn't know they were searching).  Don't get me wrong, I'm not taking the credit.  After all, it wasn't even my idea!  But, when you begin to pray for anyone on a regular basis, you form an unspoken bond with them where you can't help but cheer them on.  Even the ones I made you put on your list that you don't even like!

In the past, people have contacted me through the old webpage to see if they could borrow this system for their Sunday School classes or church prayer groups.  Yes!  This is not intellectual property.  Remember, it wasn't even my idea!  The whole purpose is to get as many people committing to their 560 people as possible.  Use the system if you feel called to.  Share it, tweak it, improve upon it... Then, go forth and pray hard!

(And, if you have a fun or inspiring "answered prayer" story, share it in the comments field below.  Because, everybody loves that kind of stuff!)

An Aunt's Walk

I have, hereby, formally decided to create a separate blog for my "religious" posts.  Why?

For one, placing posts about my Christian walk intermixed amongst my rants about The Housewives and other such guilty pleasures seems to sully the integrity of matters that, quite honestly, should be set apart.

So, now that I've made the decision, there flashes that orange button again, begging me for a blog title.  The natural progression of An Aunt's Life, upon entering theological territory, would be An Aunt's Walk.  Although,  I figured that those stumbling upon the page while blog-jogging most likely don't give a hoot about my aunthood.  So, I've condensed things to just "walk" period.  

Clever?  Maybe not.  But, what's done is done and I'm choosing to move forward.

The intention of walk. is to give my spiritual journey its own due place, apart from the secular one.  I intend to post recently discovered articles I'd written years ago, that never got published elsewhere, insights from my recent Bible studies, prayer tools, theological ideas (of which I have many) and I'll also be merging some of the Aunt's Life Christian archives over from the other page as well.

Am I likely to offend?  Probably.  Am I likely to inspire?  One can only hope.  Will such a page even warrant any kind of audience?  Who knows... but, I'm still unemployed and I need something to do!

So, if you feel like it, come along and join me on my walk.  If not, hit up the other page and read about the Brady Bunch.

Either way, God bless!

The Pride of Worrying

I've never labeled myself as being a prideful person. To me "pride" was always depicted in the egomaniacal braggy braggart types. Pride is sinful. Pride is to be abhorred. Pride leads to ruin (Proverbs 16:18). Pride will get you nowhere (Proverbs 26:12). Pride is a sign of very high self-esteem. So this couldn't be me, since my self-esteem resides somewhere between your shoes and the door mat.

But, it turns out I am prideful. Maybe not in the Webster's Dictionary sense of the word, but in a deceitfully hidden offshoot definition of the term. You see, I'm a worrier.

Worry might seem like the antonym of pridefulness to the naked eye but, if you look a little closer (like all of us worriers tend to do), you'll see exactly what I mean. 

When doing my Bible study yesterday morning, I realized that worry produces the very "Me! Me! Me!" mentality that we often use when describing egomaniacs. "How is this going to effect me?", "I can't do this.", "This is just too much for me to handle." Worry, worry, worry. It may not be boastful in the very least, but it's certainly a preoccupation with self.

I'm a champion worrier from a world-class bloodline of them. People who say they strive on stress are an enigma to me. Stress just gives me the scoots! I've always strove to pursue the simple life depicted in I Thessalonians 4:11, "...make it your ambition to lead a quiet life and attend to your own business and work with your hands..." That's the loveliest of prospects to me. Favor calmness, mind your business and keep busy. But, being the champion worrier that I am, I can even screw up the simple life.

Someone once told me that I handled a certain life-or-death situation that our family once faced so well and that I was so strong during this time. I was flattered, but this comment also left me stunned. Mainly because my memory of the same event had me running to the bathroom to throw up the entire contents of my stomach and then praying as fervently as a new convert on death row, because I didn't know what else to do. What this person witnessed was actually just God's answer to my sloppy prayers. My being numb by fear, producing the image of calm and His granting of that Peace That Passes All Understanding that held me upright and helped my legs to move forward and my spirit not to faint.

The Peace That Passes All Understanding has been God's greatest gift to me during the hardest points in my life. But, I seem to let it slip away during the typical day to day needs. My habit of worrying is the ultimate peace-blocker. I don't know why I choose to overanalyze and worry over the simplest things. And, yes, it's a choice! Don't fool yourself into thinking otherwise.

My current worry, of course, is my job search. When the office I worked for closed down in February, it was a very stressful time but also a release into freedom. I had become frustrated in working the same position for eleven years straight and all upward mobility had begun to slide backward. I was granted seventeen weeks of severance and I saw it as a time to unwind, relax, pursue creative endeavors and then eventually pursue a new career path.

Now that I'm down to my last six weeks of mini-retirement, the pressure is on to figure all of this out and quick. I cringe at listings resembling anything to do with my last position, but find those are the only positions that I'm qualified for with the job market in my area being very sparse. The spirit of common sense would remind me that I liked my job and that it wasn't until the wheels of the office closure were set into motion that my job duties started being taken away and reassigned to other offices, leaving me frustrated. And, all of those other industries that seemed so appealing at the time, merely on the fact of being different, now turn out to be much less intriguing upon further research. It's time for big life decisions. And, those are the kind I have no idea how to make.

Instead, I worry that I'll finally get into a new job and end up hating it. I worry that I'll spend a decade at the next place and wind up frustrated again. I worry that my new boss will be mean, that my new coworkers will be gossipy, that I will be sexually harassed, that I won't like the hours, that I won't get good medical coverage, that my breaks won't be at convenient times to accommodate my Hypoglycemia... The list goes on and on and gets more ridiculous as it goes. But, the biggest worry of all is that I can't see the future and that's scary.

The curse of having a colorful imagination is that you will find incredible ways to misuse it. I haven't once overthought the possibility of being overpaid, meeting nice people, having flexibility in new roles, learning something not only new, but interesting. Why is it that those thoughts don't come as easily? I'd like to blame the hardwiring, but knowing that The One who wired me does not want any of us to think that way, I have to take the credit. Or blame. Me. Me. Me. Me!

So moving forward I'd like to welcome Peace into my life, all day, every day. Not just during the hard times or when I realize that I need it. I'd like to start to using my imagination for good and not evil. I'd like to pray more sloppy and emotionally, like I do in hard times, because it's at least sincere. And, I'm going to try to learn to choose not to worry. It will be a hard habit to break... but, my tummy will thank me.

Easter Traditions

Easter begins with an itchy dress.

Throw in an optional bonnet, patent leather shoes, some lacy gloves and a pair of white tights (that are sure to run and have dirt stains on the knees by the time lunch is served) and you've got our childhood Easter tradition.

No one knew this better than my grandma, because she's the one who started it all.

In the weeks leading to every Easter (and Christmas, as well) she'd wrangle up the grandkids, one family at a time, and take us to Sears for the traditional dress shopping spree.

In the earlier days of her grandparenthood, she used to simply shop on her own and deliver a pile of taffeta and scratchy lace to each house before the fateful morning.  I, unknowingly, changed things (at an age when I was too young to even remember) by scratching at my fluffy sleeve, making a sour face and proclaiming, "I no like'it!" during one such dress rehearsal.

Since that day, she conceded that not every girl loves ruffles, straw hats and lace gloves (fortunately for her, my sister and cousin loved hats, ribbons and gloves) and from that year forward, she would take us along to assist her in her purchases.

Easter morning always started with the baskets.  We used the same ones every year.  Carefully dying our eggs the night before, leaving them in a bed of plastic grass and out on the dining room table for the "Easter Bunny" to easily find (We had the same "don't ask, don't tell" policy with the Easter Bunny as we did with Santa Claus.) The air, by then, thick with the smell of vinegar.  (I, to this day, associate the smell of vinegar with The Resurrection.)

In the morning, we'd rush downstairs to find a toy or two, a chocolate bunny (hollow milk chocolate or white chocolate, for me) and a random assortment of additional chocolates, Peeps and jelly beans.

We'd then down our traditional Sunday morning breakfast of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls and Kool-Aid, hurry our sticky selves into our itchy dresses, and rush on off to Sunday school.

Easter morning was a different kind of church than we'd witness every other Sunday.  There were, not only more hats in attendance than usual, but many more people in attendance as well.  After Sunday school we'd end up squeezing into the sanctuary for the regular service. Usually being bumped from our regular pews by the twice-a-year Baptists who, in their infrequent attendance, didn't understand the normal seating arrangement.

That was okay though, because we'd soon be distracted by the fact that every child-sized patent leather purse (mine included) was filled with assortments of contraband sugary treats.

We'd hide the chocolate eggs to the side of our laps that our mothers weren't sitting on and oh so quietly try to unpeel the tin foil wrappers without being disruptive.  Whether or not it's even possible to quietly unpeel foil-wrapped candy is probably a moot point, seeing that the entire congregation smelled like one huge exhale of chocolate breath on that one April Sunday morning of every year.  The jig was probably up years ago, but no one told the kids.

Easter Sunday sermons were always a sweet relief to the horrific account we'd heard about at the prior Good Friday service.

We'd had one full day and two whole nights to shiver in the gruesome memory of what injustice our sweet innocent Jesus endured on account of our own sins. Then Sunday was a breath of fresh air because that's when the victorious coda of His story would be retold.

I'd always anticipate the Doubting Thomas part of the message. I always liked to think that I wouldn't have doubted Christ's resurrection like Thomas did... but I also always thought it would be oh-so-cool to be the one to get to touch our Savior's palms.

I'd say a silent prayer of thanks during the invitational for Jesus's sacrifice. This meant---not only a thankful heart for my salvation---but also that, thanks to His precious gift, we were no longer required to sacrifice pet sheep as a part of our church services as they did in the B.C. days. Phew!

After service, we'd rush across the jelly bean-littered parking lot and into the family van (with Jelly Belly remnants now stuck to our shoes) and hurry off to family dinner to meet up and play with all the cousins.

Dinner was ham.  A considerable amount of rolls would be consumed.  And, then would come the Easter hunt my aunt would annually produce.

She'd fill the empty lot, where our house now sits, with chocolate eggs and bunnies.  The candy was arrayed as if she just threw it about by the handful and then carefully laid a few pieces in the climbing tree and on the fire hydrant... which, I'm pretty sure, is exactlyl what she did.

Every July, my older cousin would always somehow find an errant piece of candy that had been hiding under a bush for the past three months, finally to be found and consumed.

The sugar high would last for weeks and the memories would last for years. 

These days we still get as many siblings, cousins and offspring together as we can.  Though, we all go to different services in the morning, or none at all.

I home-church my brother's kids, in which the annual tradition has been established of me choking and sniffling through the Good Friday message each and every year.  This year I made it through, without a tear!  (I kind of wonder if the kids were disappointed by this.)

Dinner is still ham. Rolls are still consumed by the dozen. And, chocolate candy is still to be found strewn about on the very same lot that is no longer vacant.

The crunchy bunnies are still the best, and God is still very good!

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead." (1 Peter 1:3)

Why I Don't Hate Santa

Santa Claus is coming to town. Or, is he?

I never believed in Santa Claus growing up. Being raised in a Christian household, my parents worried that once we found out "the truth" about Santa, we might also be mistaken that the Baby Jesus part of Christmas was also just a myth.

I never minded this decision. They still let us play along with the Santa games. Gift tags under the tree would be signed by him (complete with the irony that his hand-writing looked suspiciously like my mother's.) I didn't care who was bringing the presents, as long as they came! And, we'd still get to go visit him at the mall every year to sit in his lap get our free candy cane. I would never even tell him what I really wanted. I knew that information was useless in the hands of a complete stranger. I would just blurt out a generic answer like, "doll!" all the while fixating my attention on the elf with the peppermint stick prize in her hand standing at the exit gate. It seems a little creepy now that I would willingly sit in a man's lap, that I knew wasn't Santa Claus, just for the free candy. But, I guess candy canes were harder to come by when I was six, so it was okay.

And, of course, there was the added fun of getting to ruin the Santa secret for all of my friends who did believe, no matter how much my parents lectured me not to. (I guess here would an appropriate place to apologize to my grade school friend, Julie, for breaking the news that the jingle bells she heard Christmas Eve 1981 were most probably being rung by her older brother.) I was a very practical and logical child. It would frustrate me to have playmates that were too naive to take a look at the cold hard facts.

As I became an adult, I was still indifferent to the harm of believing in Santa Claus. Plenty of Christians I know use him as a part of their Christmas celebrations. But, then way on the other end of the spectrum, were the ones who claim that it's my spiritual obligation to "hate" him. Maybe these are people who took Charlie Brown's lesson of commercialized Christmas-ism to the nth degree. But, the one argument that helped me choose a side on the great Santa debate surprisingly came from an episode of Seventh Heaven. One of the P.K.s (that's "pastor's kids", for the unchurched) had someone ruin the Santa secret for them on their very special Christmas episode. And, like my parents predicted long ago, the child started questioning the reality of Jesus's birth as well.

Well, Reverand Camden, being the wise soul that he was, sat the wee one down and found a brilliant happy medium. He told the story of the real Saint Nicholas. The historic St. Nick was born into a family of great wealth. Upon his parents' death at his young age, Nicholas could have been set for life, but instead chose to share his wealth with the needy. He eventually gave away all of his earthly belongings and became a bishop in the Christian church. He was imprisoned during the Christian persecutions, but later released and continued on with his ministries. The story of Saint Nicholas became elaborated throughout the years and he somehow, eventually, became mystified as Kriss Kringle and then Santa Claus. So, as Rev. Camden would explain, St. Nicholas is a wonderful figure of Christian charity to accompany our celebrations of The Nativity.

This episode of Seventh Heaven is probably a decade old by now, but it fortunately stayed in the back of my head. Because a few years ago, during one of my Bible lessons with my brother's kids, the confusion of Jesus/Santa/Christmas arose and Reverand Camden's message came rolling out of my mouth, much to my surprise, but with great thankfulness in my heart. I even soon found this child-friendly animated version of the story of St. Nick that has now become part of our Christmas movie viewing tradition. (Click link for DVD info.)

So, at the end of this Santa-searching journey, my Christmas verdict has become crystal clear. Jesus is the true reason for the season. But, please don't ask your kids to hate a saint.

The H Word

Happy Holidays! That's right... I said it. The H word!

In doing so, some people just moved my name from the "Good Christian" column to the "Bad Christian" one. Fortunately for me, whoever it is that edits this change isn't the same editor as The Book of Life, so I don't really give a hoot.

When did "holiday" become a swear word? It's not a lie... There are several holidays out there. I hope you enjoy them all! Thanksgiving is one and it's coming up next week and I'm a big fan of synonyms. So, you might hear me tossing off any combination of "Happy Thanksgiving!", "Have a nice Turkey Day!", "Enjoy your holiday!", "Gobble gobble to you!" in the coming few days. No one will clutch their pearls and gasp when this happens in November.

But, come December, get ahold of that necklace because you might hear me saying that word in the most offensive of months! At Christmas-time. And, shame on me for not assuming your religious beliefs or nationality. Shame on me for living in such a diverse metropolis. Shame on me for having friends of different faiths. Shame on me for having manners and being inclusive.

I would never take the Christ out of my Christmas. My faith is the most important thing I have and hold. I do celebrate Jesus' birth on this holy day. But, if someone else doesn't celebrate the same holiday as me, why would I force them be merry on mine? And, why want to deprive them from being happy on theirs?

If you're sure of someone's religious or social practices it's lovely to greet them with more specificness. Then is the time to lavish on the Merry Christmases, Happy Hanukkahs, Jolly Kwanzaas or whatnots. But, to the friendly stranger on the street, to be utterly p.c. on December 25th do we use a general hyphenated "Merry Christmas-Chinese Food and Movie Day-One Day Before Kwanzaa-One Week Before New Years to you!"? Or do we save our breaths and just consolidate it to "Holiday"? Many people who do celebrate Christmas, don't celebrate Christ. Are they excluded from the Christian greeting and delegated to only using "Xmas"? Some Muslims celebrate our holiday, some don't. How do I make that call? And, what about the local Jehovah's Witnesses who don't celebrate anything? This all seems like too much homework for a two second passing with a stranger!

I do think it's a little silly to overly generalize holiday-specific items. Referring to a Christmas tree as a "Holiday Tree" to me is as silly as saying "Holiday Dreidel". If someone wants overdo it with the political correctness, isn't that just more funny than it is offensive? They just don't understand! Besides, Jesus doesn't live in my tree, He lives in my heart.

So, instead of being offended this season, just be delighted that a stranger is friendly enough to stop and greet you. Because you won't have a Merry Christmas if you spend the whole day grumbling. If you can't bring yourself to say "holiday" you can always give an everyday "hello" or simply plain go back to ignoring strangers altogether. Besides, everybody knows what the real "H" word is anyway... It's heinie.

Matthew 7:1 "Judge not, that ye be not judged."

9/11

I don't know why I even applied makeup this morning. I knew I'd be inundated with 9/11 sob stories. I knew it would be unavoidable today. I knew I'd be going to my brother's house to do my weekly Bible study with his kids. I knew I should try to work Patriots Day in somehow. But, dealing with ages ranging from 5 through 14, I was stumped on ideas how to.

As a warm up, I listened to part of a 9/11 sermon that was playing on the radio on the drive over. It was by one of those "shouty" preachers, so I'm not even sure what his message was about. (I've never responded well to shouty preachers. If I'm not being grounded, stop yelling at me!) But, just the topic at hand forced images of falling bodies into my head and I started weeping on M-5 at 65 mph.

For some reason that's my 9/11 image. For some people it's the image of one of the planes hitting one of the towers that will repeat in their heads on constant replay this weekend. For some people it's the image of the massive skyscrapers tumbling to the ground like a stack of blocks a toddler kicked over. Maybe, for you, it's the people in face masks running helplessly from the billowing wave of ashes and soot. For me, it's the jumpers.

I've created a theory that comforts me when I think of these bodies. When I was about eight years of age, I fell from a tree in the backyard. I couldn't have been more than fifteen feet off the ground. I don't remember falling. I don't remember landing. I only remember waking up a few minutes later to my mom checking my eyes for a concussion. I believe God built us with a mechanism of losing conscienceness when our bodies are facing a state of shock. If I couldn't stay conscious throughout a fifteen foot drop, my hope is that these victims that fell had their spirits taken from them long before impact.

I comfort myself with that thought, but it's the witnesses I cringe for. I watched a documentary a few years back that just happened to be following a team of firefighters on that fateful day. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/9/11_(film) From its footage is that famous shot of the first plane flying low throughout the skyway of NYC.) These firefighters, trying to save what lives were still savable inside before the buildings would inevitably collapse, had the added concern of having to avoid the falling bodies and listen to them each one hit ground. A sound that on film I will never forget. How much must it haunt the ones who were forced to hear it live? Another touching documentary from the History channel (102 Minutes That Changed America http://www.history.com/interactives/witness-to-911) is made up of footage from everyday citizens that got caught up in this madness and happened to have their home video cameras at hand. These were not trained emergency professionals. They've never been drilled in advance for such an attack. How on earth do they cope with these memories?

Well, I managed to wipe away my tears on the road and pull it together enough to get through Bible study. After our devotional I asked the kids if they knew today was. After slightly accurate guesses of "Sunday", "your birthday" and "The Sabbath Day" I hinted a little by telling them the date. The oldest, of course, knew much of the events of September 11, 2001. She was four years old at the time and she's been learning it in school and we've been answering her questions about it for years. The nine-year old knew it had something to do with planes crashing, but wasn't sure if it was just some sort of accident. And, the five-year-old was content enough to just know it was my birthday weekend and would we still be going canoeing?

I explained the events of this tragic day in the most child-friendly language I could create. Somehow that lead me to tell the story of United 93 and what heroes those passengers were in fighting back. In the middle of the retelling I began to no longer recognize the voice coming out of my mouth. Oh no. I'm crying again. Instead of stopping to gather myself, I made the mistake of pushing on and overcompensated by talking even louder. Oh no, now I'm sobbing. I know this because the kids all looked up at me to see what strange kind of creature had stolen my voice and taken over my body.

The action of me trying to cheer myself up and sound audibly decipherable again led us to stories of good things that came during this tragic time. I taught them how in the Pentagon, renovations were being done at the time, so the area that was hit wasn't nearly as populated as the terrorists would have hoped and was actually better built for such an attack then any other side of the Pentagon's structure. (http://whatreallyhappened.com/WRHARTICLES/911_pentagon_renovations.html) Insanely good luck or God's intervention?

I told them of how God provided for our own family's distraction. My older sister was pregnant with my twin nephews at the time. Not being due for another two-and-a-half months, the day after 9/11 she went into early labor. (The doctors blame toxemia, a small part of me still blames the terrorists.) These boys were forced into the world much too early for expected survival. But, after months of touch and go health and development, these babies got to come home before their due date even! Such love provided to us to focus on and distract us from the worries of the world. That's our 9/11 story.

I know there are people that doubt a loving God would even allow something like the attacks of 9/11 to ever happen. These people don't acknowledge that God chose to create us each with our own free will. There have been those who have chosen to use theirs in the most despicable of ways and others choose to do good work. He never promised us He would seize control of any of our actions, just that He'd faithful to those who believe. Faithful to some, might mean shielding us from any bad event that could possibly come our way. But, is that really what faith is?

I know my family prayed and prayed as this tragedy unfolded. I know we were met with even more shock and confusion in the possible loss of my first two nephews, my parent's first two grandsons, my sister's first two children that she so badly wanted... and we prayed and prayed some more. I'm glad our family's 9/11 story had a happy ending. I'm glad that we were granted the peace that passes all understanding that we certainly weren't providing for ourselves. I can't answer the spiritual mysteries of the world with my tongue or with my hand, but they've certainly been proven to my heart.

I don't know if I made a mistake in teaching a kindergartner of these events too young, too soon. I left out the jumpers, I baby-talked the definition of "hijacking". I don't know how the families of the victims of this day carry on and explain it to their young. None of us are perfect. There's no engraved rules on how to tell this story and which parts to leave out. I'm just thankful that as surely as I too will never forget... I have also been blessed with the gifts of coping and of moving forward.