I’m a runner and often while running I pray and meditate on scripture. I usually follow the Lord’s Prayer as the pattern for my petitions.

Inevitably when I reach the portion, “Give us this day our daily bread,” I am struck by the request in present tense.

Our Father is a present tense God. He is the now in our lives – and in His words, the “I AM.”

As I run and pray this portion I ask God to help me live in the moment. I pray that I am not tempted to worry about tomorrow and fret over yesterday.

“Father, bring what I need for this day: provision for practical needs, guidance for today’s decisions, and grace for each moment.”

We women, especially, are often tempted to try and control our world. We sometimes believe that if we are good enough, do enough and follow some kind of magical religious formula that our lives will be nice and neat and perhaps we can even ward off trouble. But this kind of living, rather than freeing us, actually leads to a kind of white knuckle lifestyle. We’re hanging on for dear life hoping we do not lose control. The idea that we even have that kind of control is a fallacy anyway. For if you live long enough, trouble is like a bad houseguest who arrives uninvited and stays too long.

Our family has faced one of the worst things in life. We lost a child. Our son, Andrew, was twelve years old when an odd symptom caused me to take him to our pediatrician. After an mri on that same day, a phone call came that changed our lives and left us in despair. Andrew was diagnosed with stage 4 brain cancer. No cure. Little hope. Only God.

This past Christmas was our 3^rd one without our boy. He went to his heavenly home 10 days before Christmas 2009…less than 4 months from the tragic diagnosis.

I share this with you to tell you that I know how easy it is to worry and fret. It would be very tempting for me to worry that something else terrible will happen tomorrow.

But as I pray, “Give me this day my daily bread,” what I’m really asking for is the empowerment to live faithfully unto God this day. I know that I need daily sustenance to live unfettered from ruminations over the past and anxiety for the future. My Father in Heaven knows what I need before I ask, yet He still instructs me to ask for what I need. And just as Jesus prayed, “Father, I thank you that you have heard me. And I know that you always hear me…” (John 11:41-41), I also believe that my Heavenly Father hears me when I pray and I trust that my needs for this day are met.

A single scene replays in my mind. It moves in stealthily while I’m doing dishes, walking the dog or on a run. Like a shadow it hovers in a corner of my cognition and waits for its moment to take center stage. No throat clearing for attention, no courtesy cough for recognition, it just waits there in all its vulnerable beauty until I stop and notice.

The setting is a small bathroom in a small house in rural Mississippi. In this unassuming house with its front porch home to a fish fryer and a box of preacher books, there are lives that once lived large and expansive. Their impact on the souls they blessed, fed, taught and loved I still hear about today.

One day it struck me that my penchant for change and life makeover was not original to me but a genetic legacy from my father. He was not one for sitting still long and moved our family around like a pack of Pentecostal gypsies. Led by the Spirit – a fine match with his own adventurous spirit, he canvassed neighborhoods inviting families to come to the new church.

A stranger to them, he shook hands, inquired of needs, prayed and left as their friend.

His sermons were weighty and fervent yet sprinkled with funny asides and stories – a balance of deep theological insight and humorous idioms learned growing up in the Deep South, a Louisiana boy who sold pecans to buy himself a new pair of jeans.

Louisiana Boy met Mississippi Woman as he was traveling to hold a revival. A month later they held each others hands and said, “I do.” And just like that they were off on their big adventure with God and each other. He preached. She played – accordion and organ. They sang. Her soprano voice was limited to alto because he could only “hear the lead.”

Growing up, I heard my mother’s prayers from behind her bedroom door, at the stove stirring pots, from room to room with dust cloth in hand smoothing over bedside tables and bookcases. It may not have been 5000 that she fed her home cooked meals – pork chops, peas and cornbread, but it is one of the things people still remember. It’s the love she put in caring for her family that inspires me to lovingly care for mine.

Mother followed Dad at every turn and now he follows her, tending to her needs. He fills the bags and sets the pump for the feeding tube. He helps her after her shower.

He waits on her and she waits for him. Big lives living in a small place now.

I walk the dog. I wash a dish. I run and watch the sky. The scene in the small bathroom in the small house revisits me.

I hear their voices from where I sit on their couch – Louisiana Man and Mississippi Woman. He’s helped her in the shower. Hair washed. Body soaped and rinsed.
Back in the wheelchair. Towel around her body and one in her hair.

He walks from the bathroom to the living room where our eyes meet. It’s my turn. I rub the dampness from her hair and note the dryness of her skin.

 “Let me put some lotion on you, Mother. Do you like this scent?”

She pauses from drying her body as I smooth Oil of Olay on her legs, her arms, and her shoulders.

“Thank you for everything,” she says.

These lives lived big, not because they traveled many places, not because they built big churches, and not because they knew some big names.

These lives live big because they live lives of blessing. A blessed life can not be contained in a small house in a small place. A blessed life is a big life even when it’s living smaller.

Preacher Dad calls to me from the kitchen now.

“How about I fry us some catfish?” he asks.

“Sounds good to me,” I reply as I help Mother dress.

I’ll make the hushpuppies.”