I stood in my kitchen, dazed from the energy lost by a vigorous cleaning. My eyes closed briefly. On the screen of my mind I saw a lifetime of chores stretched out before me like an endless string of camels crossing the Sahara. I felt a momentary pang, remembering the Saturdays of my childhood. Every Saturday was a blank page waiting to be filled with my favorite things. Those days are gone. Now, the pages of my days are scribbled on before I ever arrive. With a sigh of resignation, I began to sort through the mail on my counter.
The letter from India came with two pictures of my sponsored
child, one happy with the Christmas gift I had sent, and another of the Christmas
meal he had enjoyed with the other boys living at the home. It was one line of
his letter that burned into my heart. "I regularly read Bible and pray for you
and your children." Stunned, I put down the letter. He prays for me? The thought
had never before occurred to me. I was the one who was supposed to pray for him.
Before I could stop them, the tears came.
I know I am just one of thousands of
typical American moms, driving the minivan, over-scheduled, plagued by the guilt
of not keeping up, not doing enough. And he is the typical sponsored child,
needy, without family, dutifully thanking his sponsor for sharing a little of
her American dollars. But in that moment I was given grace to see the truth. In
the Spirit, those labels don't exist. He and I are two beautiful souls woven
together by prayer. That is the power of prayer. Our two souls kneel, neither
one above the other, but both at our Father's feet, brother and sister in
Christ. We are forever bound by the love of Jesus.
The picture in my mind
changed to a scene in Heaven. I saw myself meeting this dear boy, speaking face
to face with laughter. I saw a Saturday there, together with
him, fresh as a new sheet of paper... waiting to be filled with all of our