INSPIRED BY A TRUE STORY

In late fall of 2001, Rachel Wilson, a ballroom dance teacher living in the small mountain community of Pine Lake, California, discovered her husband, Ben, in an extra-marital affair. Her initial response was much as might be expected—tears, anger, despair, thoughts of revenge and more. But, through a series of unlikely events she was led to an unexpected response – a 70-week journey of prayer with friends.

She wrote an email asking if anyone would commit to praying for her family for 70 weeks, not supposing many would agree to such a long endeavor. To her surprise, more than forty said yes.  

Week by week she shared the unexpected stories unfolding. And week by week her friends continued to pray, watching and waiting to see what God would do. 

Here, from the 30th week, is one of those stories.

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June 19, 2002 – Week 30

Subject: Here I am in the Mess

Dear Praying Friends,

I’m writing to you from the beautiful state of Washington at the tale end of a trip arranged by the very best Travel Agent a girl could ask for.

First, a little backstory is in order. In late spring of 2001, several months before our adventure in prayer began, it came into my heart and mind that I would like to take the train up the California coast to visit Holly, a friend in Washington. That impulse was so strong that, despite seeing no practical way of making it happen, I held it gently in my heart with the tiniest of hopes that God might bring it to pass someday.

Then, nine months later, Holly, who knew nothing of that yearlong secret hope, called with an idea and an offer.

The offer included an all-expenses-paid train trip to her home for a ten-day stay. Wow! Of course I gave her an enthusiastic yes!

A yes with only slightly less enthusiasm when I learned my part of the deal involved seven days of babysitting her adorable young children while she and  husband Marco took a much-anticipated anniversary cruise.

Let me just say now, as I write from sunny (yes, sunny!) Washington anxiously awaiting the return of my friends, that the whole experience has not exactly matched what I’d once envisioned. Something that is, I have found, often the way of answered prayers. For these days have been truly a wonderful answer to prayer, but also quite full of challenges, insights, tears, messes, and hot milk.

On the Friday I arrived, when Holly began gathering the necessary documentation for her cruise-ship departure from Vancouver, we entered the crisis zone.

I remembered the parable of the lost coin as we shuffled through boxes and files. Only, in this case, the lost item (her birth certificate) was never found. And because of that there was, of course, no party of celebration with the neighbors in the end.

After some semi-frantic phone calls to Hawaii (her place of birth—the slowest processor and deliverer of certified birth certificate copies in the nation), some late night net-surfing, and a Saturday visit with a notary public just minutes before closing, she and her relieved husband,  Marco, left for the border  armed with Holly’s social security card, driver’s license, high school diploma, and a notarized statement that Holly really and truly is a United States citizen and, despite her lack of possession of the appropriate documentation, was actually born.

Hours later my hassled and sleep-deprived friend called from the balcony of the ship to give me the good news that they had made it across the border and I could wish the anniversary travelers a heartfelt bon voyage.

That’s when the fun really began for me.

In the weeks preceding this trip, I had reveled in cozy visions of rocking little Tyson while Manny and Sadie gathered around for a bedtime story. I thought I would scatter some chicken feed, toss a few oats to the horses, and savor the simplicity of country living and domestic bliss.

The gentle warnings of friends (A five-, three-, and one-year-old for seven days? Are you crazy?) and the squeal of tires as Marco and Holly left the premises, should have clued me in, but I was hopelessly optimistic. I mean, what’s the big deal? They’re just children and I am an adult, after all.

Besides, they clearly liked me. I was sure they would love all the quality time and educational experiences I had planned.

And it went just as I had hoped—for the first thirty minutes.

After that brief idyllic period, my grand plans were rapidly reduced to one shining goal of, upon their return, presenting Marco and Holly with the exact number of children, pets, and livestock they had so confidently left in my care. Clean and happy—in the realm of remote possibility—would be a bonus.

Now, don’t get me wrong, these are not horrible children. They are, in fact, at times, rather delightful. But they are children. As a mother of just one rather self-sufficient teenaged daughter, I had somehow forgotten that where two or three are gathered, there am I in the mess.

How can three adorable little people generate so much trash, noise, dirty laundry and various sticky, slimy and smelly substances? It boggles the mind.

I have needed the wisdom of Solomon (It’s her toy, but he had it first and how tall is God?), the strength of Samson (I’m already carrying the baby and a twenty-pound bag of dog food, but sure, I can lift you over the baby gate), the compassion of the good Samaritan (I’m so sorry that Manny hurt your feelings for the fourteenth time in two hours. What can I do to get you to stop screaming, I mean, help you?), and Martha’s energetic domesticity (Who had the corn dogs with mustard, but no ketchup, and who had the chicken nuggets on the dinosaur plate and don’t worry about that I’ll clean it up in a minute, right after I fold the laundry and collect the eggs).

So, what is the lesson in all this? I’ll have to get back to you on that one. I’m off to pick the kids up from preschool where they are rehearsing for tonight’s graduation ceremony, get them all fed, and cleaned up, and back to the school by 7:00.  With a thirty-minute drive each way, I should have just enough time.

Trusting in Him,

Rachel