Monday morning: With the dog settled in her favorite spot on top of the couch, the husband off to work, the kids gone to school, I sit at the kitchen table with a hot cup of coffee. It’s “Quiet Time” at last.
I look out the window on this cold early winter day. No breeze stirs the nearly-bare oaks. No rustling critters—no squirrels, no chipmunks, not even a bird—disturb the scene. I’m alone. And it’s quiet. Even the refrigerator is silent, not emitting any of its usual groans and hisses.
I savor the silence for just a moment when I hear a woman shouting. “You’re wasting time. You’ve got so much to do! Get busy!”
What horrible tyrant screams these orders at me? Why does she sound just like me? Who is this shrew living in my head?
“Hush!” I tell her. “I am busy!” You don’t have time to waste like this, she starts again. Do something! GET TO WORK!
“HUSH!” I say, louder this time. “I AM doing something! I’m sitting here with God…”
I need this quiet time. I need to just sit sometimes and rest my body and mind. No question, it’s hard to do, but it is so worth the effort. I crave the restorative boost I’m discovering in the quiet, in the silence, alone with God.
I need to take time to do “nothing” in the presence of God—not studying the Bible, not writing in my journal, not recording my “progress” on a chart, not reading inspirational books—just sitting with God. Just being there, not structuring every moment with God like I structure the rest of my life—but just being with him.
This activity has a technical name: meditation. Richard Foster says, in Celebration of Discipline, that meditation leads us into “detachment from the confusion all around us in order to have a richer attachment to God.” Meditation is “the one thing that can sufficiently redirect our lives so that we can deal with human life successfully.”
Meditation is the contemplation of God, thinking about the fact of his existence, the wonder of his love, the holiness of his nature and the glory of his presence. What a stunning thing it is to be able to do that, to be allowed to contemplate a holy God! So why is it so hard for me to do this wonderful thing?
The apostle Peter wrote, “Be clear-minded and self-controlled so that you can pray” (1 Peter 4:7). Peter hit on two of my biggest challenges. Being “clear minded” requires sweeping my mind clear of all the distractions: dirty dishes, dog shots and dentist appointments. It means silencing my inner shrew.
“Self controlled”? I’ve never been able to “stay on task” for long, unless I’m involved in something I really enjoy—spending time with friends and eating fudge, for instance. Is it possible that time with God doesn’t have to be a chore, but as enjoyable as time with a friend? Is it possible to feel a fudge-lover’s kind of ardor for time with God?
Could time with God be something to look forward to—something I want to do instead of something I have to do? Foster seemed to think so. He and thousands—millions maybe—of other people found it wonderful to spend time with God. One of the keys seemed to be this “doing nothing”—this meditation.
Meditation is another way to worship. “Worship the Lord” always sounded so serious to me—an activity reserved for cathedrals with ornately carved high ceilings and stained glass window panels. My cathedral is my kitchen. I worship the God of the universe at the altar of my kitchen table, with the jelly stuck to the placemats and faint impressions in the wood where a child did his homework and pressed a little too hard with the pen.
The kitchen ceiling isn’t carved, only cobwebbed. The light fixture above the table isn’t a crystal chandelier, but a clearance shelf bargain from the local home improvement store. The window glass isn’t leaded, only laden with the grime of a family’s living.
But my kitchen table is where I meet God in the morning. Where I lift up my voice and sing songs of gratitude and praise. Where I sense him smiling as he listens. It’s also where I sit in silence, listening to what he has to say about who he is and what he’s done.
He is able. “Jesus looked at them intently and said, ‘Humanly speaking, it is impossible. But with God all things are possible’” (Matthew 19:26 NLT). Is there anything I need that isn’t included in “all things”?
He is faithful. “Never will I leave you, never will I forsake you” (Hebrews 13:5). Never. Never. Never.
He is a Friend. Jesus defined the term. “Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). He did just that for me. And for you.
Someone told me once, “If you want to hear from God, put yourself in a position to hear from him.” That’s what I’m learning to do in my kitchen cathedral. I’m learning to put myself in a position to hear from God. To obey his voice when he calls, “Come!” To obey his urging to just sit and stay awhile, to be quiet and listen.
Sometimes he whispers softly, words of love to my heart. I am loved. I am his.
Sometimes he states clear direction for the day, prompting me to call someone, to pray for someone, to go somewhere, or to tackle a particular task. Sometimes he causes an awareness of his presence—a tingling rush of his spirit that excites and energizes me at the same time it comforts and soothes.
Sometimes, as on that gray winter morning, he directs my attention to the wonders of his creation outside the window. The rush of sudden wind rattling the oaks, the last leaves shaken loose and falling, dying. The world white with early, unexpected snow, like forgiveness. And buried deep, the hope of spring and resurrection.
(excerpted from Confessions of a Prayer Wimp by Mary Pierce. © 2003. All rights reserved. Zondervan/Harper Collins Publishers.)
