My father came into my bedroom yesterday morning, making sure I was up before he started some remodeling work on the house. Our conversation was a little...odd.
Dad: Hey, don't forget I need you to clean out your room so we can make room for the cribs.
Me: What cribs?
Dad: For the quintuplets.
Me Thinking: What quintuplets? Do I know anyone with quintuplets? Why are they staying here?
Me: (long pause) Who's the mother of these children?
Dad: Well, your mother, of course.
Me Thinking: Am I still asleep? Mom can't have kids anymore--there were just two of us. This makes no sense!
Me: (long pause--can't think of a thing to actually say)
Dad: (bursting into laughter) Oh, what a dream that was that I had!
Me: I was wondering if one of us was dreaming because communication with you is not usually this hard.
My dad went on with his story about how my mother had come back from her current trip in Illinois (visiting family) nine months pregnant with quintuplets--a mean feat as she's in her mid-fifties and had a hysterectomy almost ten years ago. I could go into what Freud would say about my father's dream and what it psychologically represents, but that's not the purpose of this blog (thank God for that, because that analysis would be terrifying to contemplate).
I regaled this story to a friend of mine over lunch, emphasizing the impossibility of this dream and how, due to my father's straight face, I had momentarily suspended belief in medical science.
"Well, did I ever tell you about how my baby brother was born? Mom and Dad decided they didn't want any more children, so she did everything she could to guarantee she wouldn't get pregnant. Her tubes were cut, stitched shut, and burned. The doctors thought she was going a little overkill, but she insisted on getting that 100% guarantee of being sterile for the rest of her mothering years. Well, a year later she got sick. Every morning. Lo and behold, she was pregnant. No one, including a team of doctors, could come up with a reason explaining how this was possible.
"That night they pulled me aside (I was about six) and told me I was going to have a baby brother or sister. 'I know,' I responded. My parents were confused and asked me to explain. 'I've been praying to God every night all year that He would give me a baby brother. He told me that I would get one and the next time Mommy and Daddy sat me down to talk to me, that's what you'd say--that my brother was coming.' Seven months later my mother gave birth to a beautiful little boy."
Combining the power of a child's faith and an Almighty God does make for a pretty solid opposition. God meant for there to be another child in that family no matter what measures her parents took to make sure it wouldn't happen. Prayer is such a powerful tool. It gave my friend the baby brother she wanted (at least at the time--they do grow up into teenagers eventually). It has helped me find the right words to say, confront people on problems that I didn't even know they had. It connects us to the One who always listens--there's no bad reception on the prayer lines.
When I think about just how often I pray, the results are disappointing. It's usually when I want something. A good grade. Wisdom to handle a difficult situation. Safe driving mercies during a storm. I don't pray nearly enough just to share my life with the One who gave me life. I don't pray enough to ask Him what He wants me to do. I don't pray enough just to praise Him for everything. It's such a simple act, and yet it falls to the bottom of my priority list far too often, saved mostly for when "I think about it." If I can talk to my mother without having to "think about it," then I should have no problems talking to my Heavenly Father who is up 24/7. That's something that definitely needs to change.
I remember a prayer I prayed not that long ago, one where I asked God to work His wonders in my family. I was, I believe, referring to helping family members struggling with finances and those of my relatives who are not saved. After my earthly father's dream last night, though, I hope that God didn't generously interpret my request and isn't planning to turn my bedroom into a nursery anytime soon. I think I'll start praying right now--specifically, this time.
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