Tuning in to Your Story

Talking about prayer is one of those things that makes people feel bad about themselves. It’s on a perpetual list of “Ways I Fall Short,” along with the other favorites:

“I should exercise more.”

“I should spend less money.”

“I should be more patient with my children.”

“I should eat less.”

“I should pray more.”

Just tack it onto the end there and it sits perfectly aligned with all the other shortcomings.

……..

I learned to pray because I was raised by a praying woman. This sounds much more holy and beautiful than it felt when I was a teenager with problems of any kind:

Friend problems at school?   -“Have you prayed about it?”

Nervous about a test? -“Have you prayed about it?”

Anxious about trying out for the team? -“Have you prayed about it?”

Worried about finding a dress for prom?  -“Have you prayed about it?”

I can assure you that I had not. And that there was an excess of eye-rolling on my end.

PUH-LEEZE, MOM. Gimme something real.

………

I asked my mom, Denise Nyberg, to write a guest blog for me about how she learned to pray. I hope that you’ll find her story as delightful as I do: and that it might just inspire you to give it a shot yourself.

My Mother –

I was a young woman half way into what had been labeled a “high risk” pregnancy.  It was only termed that, I suppose, because I’d miscarried some years before and my first child—now a healthy toddler—had come into this world at the robust weight of just over 4 pounds. I have to say: I didn’t feel all that risky. All these labels and concerns seemed like overkill.

But there was stress.  We were poor.  Not third world sort of poverty, but we had to count every penny and the count always ran out before the needs were fully addressed—pretty much daily.  Food, clothes, car, mortgage, doctor co-pays…real life. 

We were happily invested in church, and I decided: “Won’t it be fun to enjoy a weekend away with other mothers and leave the kids at home?” Yes. The answer was YES.  It was a Mother’s Retreat—carefree, kid-free, husbandless—household concerns left behind for 24 hours, somebody else cooking… exactly what my weary heart needed.

The topic was “Prayer”, but truly, that was an afterthought. It was the kid-free, responsibility-free time away part that got everyone together cheerfully doing what women will do.  Talking, sharing, laughing, a little crying maybe. Girl time together can be good for the soul.

When I got back home, with a fresh appreciation and thankfulness, Toddler and Dad hit the sack early. They’re exhausted. I sit in my darkened room with my tired thoughts.  Prayer was on my mind.  Maybe I was ready to give this a shot, instead of falling onto the pillow with something in the line of “Now I lay me down to sleep…zzzzz…”

So, kneeling (it was getting harder and harder to get the pregnant belly off the ground, but it seemed proper), leaning into the squishy rocking chair with the hideous flowered fuzzy polyester in my face, I start the “conversation”. 

Any commendable How Mature of Me exercise quickly morphed into more of a dumping ground and a laundry list.  It was quickly a Let Me Just Tell You How It Is kind of conversation.  And once the bridge was down, it all started pouring out.  Tiredness had opened the floodgates: 

How on earth are we going to do this? 

– I need maternity clothes. 

I’m heading into the fattest time and everything from the last baby is threadbare and stained. 

– And we need a car.
– And the bills are big. 
– And, and, and…and I want some Famolare shoes. 

You have to be “of an age” to know those…let’s translate it to “I want some Birkenstocks!” 

–Oh, and I want to have a girl, please. 

Because I’m going to want to do this again otherwise, and maybe that’s not the best—and besides, pink is just so delightful. 

On and on…tears…more worries…tears…more wants…finally tears again because after voicing all this audibly, there’s the admission that it’s narrow and self-serving. How hard to admit to being selfish and superficial. It was therapeutic, though.  Off the chest; a release of stress… and I slept well that night.

How do you feel about coincidences? 

Within a couple of days, I took a phone call.  An acquaintance is on the other line. Guess What? She is just wondering if I could use some maternity clothes? She’s cleaning out her closet and can she bring them by this afternoon?  Yes.

And her cast-offs? Several BIG black garbage bags full of designer ensembles.  This was not Target, or Motherhood Maternity medium range; it was Neiman’s (when they were solvent, you understand)—mountains of beautiful fabrics and color and fun. 

I noticed this might be a stroke of divine intervention, but… I certainly don’t want to read too much into bags of designer maternity clothes.

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Within another two weeks, I was in the hospital flat on my back in the middle of the night.  Not only were there untimely contractions, but a blood vessel ruptured. The entire emergency room surrounded me.  It was Absolute Hospital Bedrest from this day forward. What if that had happened in the car on the way? Perish the thought. 

I stayed there in my hospital bed, on my back, for two weeks.   That was the limit on the new medicine that was keeping contractions at bay.  This baby was stubbornly bent on entering this world two months early.  Emergency ultra-sounds (not routine in those days) suggested a boy. I did keep asking “Could it please be a girl—just for me?”  

This baby was all about a grand entrance and there was no more negotiating with this child.  No time for the preventive injection to ensure rapid lung development.  No time for anything. This baby was coming two months early—no matter what the rest of us wanted.

Guess What? It was a girl!  A three pound baby girl.  She lived in the hospital for a month.  She was not the kind you “ooh and ah” over in her little isolet.  She really looked more like an underdeveloped Rhesis monkey.  IVs all over, crooked half formed fingernails, no bigger than a Whole Foods package of cheese, but zero breathing trouble.  ZERO.  In 1978—9 weeks early.

If every life is a miracle, surely there are a few that are even more in that category.  But that’s just the half.  What about the bill?  The BILL!  The hospital invoice.  Cue the scary music.

The hospital business office called to deliver the ultimatum…pay up our bottom line or—?  Or what? You’re keeping the baby? After a month of hospital care, private incubator, private 24-hour nurse to ensure the perfect amount of food through a continuous feeding tube…astronomical.  The minimum amount required for release was so far beyond us that we might as well have been told we needed to provide some moondust.  Impossible.  Period. 

Our little church took up a special offering.  It was the weekly usual, but it was going to go toward the hospital bill. 

Guess What? The offering total was within five dollars of the outstanding required payment.  Delivered to us as we were sitting in the hospital hoping for some mercy at the financial window.

One month later, a cashier’s check arrived in the mail—anonymously. The note included said, “Given in the name of Jesus Christ”.  From whom? Jesus?  We’re still guessing on that one. 

One month after that, a refund on an insurance bill that had been accidentally overpaid arrived in our mailbox. It was a big one.

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I never got those Famolare shoes. It didn’t matter. I didn’t need them.

For me…and my husband…and my family—life happens.  Ups and downs, ins and outs, highs and lows.  There’s an underlying premise—whenever possible, tell it to God before anything else. All of it. You might cry to be faced with your own shallow, narrow self. You might cry because whatever you’re in is just too much. You may cry because it’s so scary. You might not see a resolution. 

But you are heard. You are loved. You are wanted. You are known and accepted anyway.  And your story isn’t fully written yet. There are probably more chapters. His story for you is bigger than yours.  Step into the bigger, better story because it’s way, way more exciting than yours.

Surely, you’ve guessed…that baby girl is my Sarah: the baby who grew up to create The Happy Envelope—and so much more.  And my story is your story too, in a way, because you’re reading this—and you have some connection with The Happy Envelope—therefore to Sarah.  The story is actually eternal.  It goes on and out and back—well, forever. 

It’s not actually my story. It’s His. And I’m just happy to be able to share a little bit of it with you.

Sincerely,

Denise Nyberg