Before we get started, I’d like to give you a moment to let the cheesy ’80’s ballad wash over you.  Go on, sing it out.  You know you want to…

…

Feel better?’

Great.

There is no great way to transition from obscure ’80’s music to prayer, but I’m gonna give it a try.  Consider yourselves transitioned.

Once upon a time I was an early riser.  While the rest of my generation slept until noon, I could often be found at sunrise jogging through the streets of my neighborhood.  This was pre-baby when I still enjoyed jogging and my body moved in a more coordinated rhythm to make it possible, of course.

In college, I spent many an early morning watching the sunrise as I crammed knowledge into my over-functioning brain.  In early motherhood, when it was me and one tiny baby, I watched the sunrise as I whispered prayers into his ear.  I prayed he would grow into a man of character, a man of grace, a man of stature and wisdom and knowledge.  I prayed that he would be strong and courageous, filled with love and a desire to help those in need.

But something happened to me in the seven years since I three times became mom.  I lost my sense of wonder at the morning.  My bed grew warmer and more comfortable.  My children pitter pattered their way through the house at such an hour that in order to beat them up I really needed to rise while it was still night, just so I could welcome the morning.

With this unfortunate phenomena, I also lost my ability to passionately cry out on their behalf.  My prayers for them became kernels of popcorn, popped up here and there throughout the day and rarely scratched the surface of my true desires for them.

“Help him understand love.”  “Give her the courage to fail.”  “Show him who You are.”

Generic.

A series of issues has brought me to a place of longing once again.  Longing for the morning.  The smell of life rising.  The glint of dew on green grass and the painted reds, oranges and yellows stretched across the sky.  Of darkness fading into morning light.  Of fatigue mixed together with anticipation, staving off the sleep that still lingers.   Longing stillness enough to hear.

To hear the wind blow.  To hear the birds sing.  To hear the Voice, still and small, waiting on the wings of love for my heart’s cry.

(How’s that for blending the ’80’s with prayer, eh?)

And my prayers are rising once again.  A new song, a new desire, a new longing.  I lay them down and wait.  Sometimes I fall asleep in the pool of desire and heartache that I’ve only just surrendered.  Sometimes I wait and listen.

For Sloan I pray Hebrews 10:19-24.  May he be free from the guilt that so often weighs him down and pulls him back, his tender heart torn over sin, yet wrestling with the flesh.  I pray Galations 5:22-23 and 1 Peter 1:5-6: self-control to make the right choices.  I pray for wisdom in mothering such a strong willed, lion hearted child.  I offer praise for being chosen for a clearly difficult task.

For Katya I pray 2 Timothy 2:10, that her heart would be turned toward the Savior and she would desire to know Him.  I pray Colossians 3:12, that she would be free from the apathy that her spirit seems bent toward and would be filled with compassion.  I pray 1 Thesselonians 5:15, that she would find more joy in kindness than she does in torturing her brothers.

I pray that I would have the belief that that last prayer could possibly someday be answered…

For Landon I also pray 2 Timothy 2:10.  I pray that even at a young age, he will know and understand how high and deep and wide and vast is the Father’s Love for him.  I pray Ephesians 6:1.  I pray that he will delight in obedience and that the mischief that brings that twinkle to his eye would be harnessed, but not snuffed out completely.  Because the mischief makes him oh so fun.

I pray verses over my husband that are sacred and are between me and God.

I don’t always give in to the call of the morning.  Though I desperately love it, sometimes the call of my bed is more tempting, more comfortable, easier and warmer.  But as spring is bringing change and decision, I find myself with a bit more urgency to reaquaint with the earliest hours of the day.  And to pour over my children in the quiet that comes so rarely.  I don’t whisper it in their ears anymore, as I am no longer cradling them in the rocking chair.  But I pray that as I release my pleas, they take off on the wings of love and settle within the hearts and spirits of the little ones I love so dearly.

When and how do you pray for your children?