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Hello, my name is Christian, and I forget to pray. Why is prayer not as automatic as starting the coffee maker, fixing the toast, and turning on the computer?

I gloss over my need for prayer and Bible reading to block spots of time for my other responsibilities. Then I wonder why I have a gap between me and my Lord. I need a serious wake up call, louder than my blaring alarm clock and immune to the push of a snooze button.

A few Sundays ago, I drove along Garrett during the evening rush. So many angry drivers honked at one another and a siren wailed in the distance. Where? Why? What had happened?

My wake up call. Since that time, I’ve begun to use the wail of a siren as my personal call to prayer. I make it a point to pray for the people involved in the rescue efforts, conviction for the person in the wrong, and comfort for the victims and families affected by the events leading to this moment.

I’m still lost in the morning. I still gloss over what should be my first task to reach my morning cup and email. Yet, the small progress I’ve made has me in the habit of one thing now.

I respond to a wailing siren as a call to prayer.

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The Blanket

As a toddler, my little boy often ventured just outside his familiar world. He would forget about the comfort of Mom as he played with one toy, then another, and another. At some point he would suddenly feel alone or decide he needed something. Then his head would turn to look for his blanket--his symbol of security.

Suddenly, his face would light up as if he were returning home after a long trip. He would run to me and climb in my lap, clutch his blanket, and signal to nurse. As I held him close, I began to see see a greater truth in my relationship with God.

In a spiritual sense, I too am a toddler. Like a little girl I, often venture beyond my familiar world. I forget about the comfort of my Heavenly father. My eyes look to the "toys" of this world. I become involved with one thing, then another and another, drifting away from God.

Whether I merely stop reading my Bible or forget to pray, damage my Christian witness with a "small sin,” or make a conscience choice to toss God’s will to the side and jump wholly into the pool of ME, I stray from the spiritual closeness I once craved. My relationship with God becomes nearly invisible.

Eventually I realize something is missing. I cannot put my finger on it, but I know I have a need. I search the world I entered for the comfort I once enjoyed. What could have happened to me? Where did I go wrong? Why do I suffer this way? I flounder in my backslidden misery and ask where my God went. I call out to a dead space. At least it seems that way to me. My ears are God-deaf and my eyes are blind. How does God get my attention?

He uses my children, finances, or whatever else pulls my eyes toward Him. When I finally see my spiritual blanket, I realize it was there all the time. That blanket is God’s Holy Spirit, which never left me. He kept me wrapped in His protection even as my eyes turned away from godly things. He waited patiently until I was ready to look up, listen for His voice, and return home.

My little boy continues to remind me of what it means to trust God. He reminds me of the attitude Jesus requires of us when we approach the Father—to come as a little child. Just as my son wraps himself in a blanket and climbs into my lap, I need to let the Holy Spirit fill me, surround me, and comfort me. I need to climb into my Father’s lap again.

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Kathy and Me

The donut didn’t look like much, but I was starving and only had five minutes in which to enjoy it.

“Cute kid,” the girl said, handing me a napkin, then added, “but nobody beats my niece.”

“Hah!” I took my sister’s hand in my free one. Who was this twirp? And how dare she think my sister was less than the most adorable toddler in the universe?

“It’s true. Look!” She whipped out a picture and said, “Isn’t it obvious this one is prettier?”

“Sure she is to you, oh Biased One, but I have expert knowledge on this matter, and my sister is the cutest, even the prettiest, in the whole world. Hands down. Don’t even say it isn’t so,” I insisted.

I walked to the other side of the room, determined to clean my crumbs gracefully. I prayed hard that my sister wouldn’t turn ugly like me.

Two minutes later, our fathers came into the room, and introduced us.

“Kathy, meet Wanda. Wanda, meet Kathy.”

“Hah!” I glared at this dark haired girl, and she glared at me. Two minutes later, we left on the various bus routes to pick up churchgoers in need of transportation.

That first day, and every week thereafter we reported for bus duty with more evidence to use. We debated the “cute kid” issue during Saturday activities as well, until one girl finally said to us,

“Both are precious. This one is a china doll you want to admire and that one is the one you want to hug.” We looked at her, looked at each other, and shrugged. Finally we laughed and accepted one another as friends.

After that, Kathy and I enjoyed regular conversation. We discovered that we both loved to sing, and developed a routine. By the time we finished refining it, we turned heads by starting the same songs at the same time. Thus our friendship was bonded and sealed.

Before we moved to Houston, I had a reputation for being the girl with cooties, the untouchable who carried that disease known as Un-cool. If someone touched me, they became taboo also. I’d been called ugly and clumsy. I was the Geek From Outer Space.

Nothing changed at the new school, but at church, I found friends, Kathy foremost among them. She liked me, regardless of what others thought. Best of all, she ignored the hang-ups I used to create new misery for myself.

During my first mission trip with the youth, I learned that these people didn’t care if I was a geek. They complimented my solo, and accepted me as one of them. By the end of that trip I thought I might be one of them too.

The next summer, the youth group drove to Colorado. While I had always been friendless, Kathy had made many friends quite easily, but she thought every close friend would eventually toss her for someone better. In the middle of this trip, her boyfriend found his someone in one of her best friends.

Kathy rose from what seemed to her like a tragedy, and saw two friends who had stood by her with comfort, hugs, and chitchat. We had known too well how it felt to be slighted, and it hurt us to see her suffer as we had. But for her, a new light clicked on.

“You’ve been my friends all this time,” she said. “I’m sorry I never saw it before.”

Kathy turned to me, took my hand and said, “And you are my best friend. From now on, I’d like to be yours.”

I gave her the tightest hug I’d given anyone in my life.

A month later, Kathy sparked my light bulb moment. I’d been agonizing in front of the bathroom mirror, whining about how I looked. She took the comb from my hand, grabbed my head and said, “Look at yourself.”

“I’m looking,” I replied.

“You are not ugly. You look fine.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Really, you are. You—are pretty. From your freckled cheeks to your shiny hair, you are pretty. Stop listening to anyone that says you are not.”

“Ok,” I mumbled.

“Now say it. Look at yourself and say it.”

Kathy waited…and waited. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore.

“You win, I’m pretty,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Not good enough. Say, ‘Wanda, you are pretty.’ Say it like you mean it.”

Rather than let this miserable beast torture me with more evidence, I looked into the mirror to see what she saw.

“OK! Wanda, you are pretty. Hey! Maybe I am.”

“No maybe about it. You are.”

She took my hand and said words that changed my attitude forever, “You are pretty, but what makes you truly beautiful is what is inside, under the skin where eyes can’t see.”

I recovered from shock, and then thought about it. I was pretty. Maybe even cute! Adorable? Ok, Maybe not, but I wasn’t ugly. I was not ugly!

“Hey, you know something? I really am pretty. My freckles are okay and my hair shines. And highlights. I’ve always liked those.”

“Exactly.”

“You know something? Whoever thinks I’m ugly can stuff it. I don’t really need them.

“There you go,” Kathy said, then opened the door for the new Wanda. This Wanda would take on the world.

We did take on the world, or at least our corner of it. We created trouble, played innocent pranks, and plotted sweet revenge upon one another. When my family moved out of town, we called and wrote. We swore that we’d stand in the place of honor at one another’s weddings, and always stay in touch. We’d live happily ever after.

Unfortunately, we lost contact shortly after my marriage. I was broke, pregnant, and in another state when she married Gary. She missed the birth of my firstborn. Through six more births, fifteen relocations, and countless changes of address or phone number, we had intermittent contact over the next twelve years.

Shortly after my divorce and remarriage, I visited with Kathy’s mother, who updated me and gave me her newest address. I wrote her of my divorce and remarriage, and we called or wrote constantly until my new husband, Rodney was about to leave military service. The week before we were to depart, Kathy called.

“Wanda, we are moving again,” she said.

“Really? So are we!” I replied.

“Where?”

“Pennsylvania. Where are you going?”

“Georgia.”

“Oh, maybe I can come see you. I hope I can come see you,” I said.

We exchanged addresses again, this time including family numbers for leaving messages.

My family left Arizona, and while Rodney drove with our household goods to Pennsylvania, I took the kids on a detour through Texas. We drove through neighborhoods to visit family and friends, and on the second leg of our journey, pulled into the driveway of my longtime friend.

Kathy and her family kept me for the weekend. That Sunday, Gary took my son with their two boys to church while Kathy and her daughter rode with my baby and me.

“This world is not my home, I’m just a passing through…”

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