Mary Had a Little Lamb

 

Photo by Kat Jayne from Pexels

I remember her in black, though offhand, this memory may do her an injustice. Though dark her clothing, her countenance shone kindness, gentleness. Life.

This was Miss Mary. Long time supporter and encourager of the children’s ministry God led my Daddy into as a young man.

         

At her call to come in, Daddy and I stepped over the threshold into her kitchen. Her back turned, Miss Mary bustled about, readying refreshments. A tea kettle spewed steam. A random assortment of dishes lined the counter. Over the sink, vines trailed a sunny window. Cats, so many cats, curled in and out of her stocking clad legs. Somehow, she managed not to step on them with the thick heels of her black shoes. The laced ones worn by older women in the 1960s. A bun loosely twisted at the back of her head appeared as a cotton puff. Wisps of white stuck out here and there. 

When she pivoted with tray in hand, she smiled, and with a nudge of her head, directed us to follow her into the living room, cats and kittens on her heels. What a strange mix of scent—the spice of pumpkin pie with the strong odor of cat. Made me wince. Yet, her storybook house and demeanor held such fascination, I was caught in their spell.

We moved into the adjacent room, shadowed by drawn blinds with only a flicker of sunlight creeping through an open slat. She set the wooden tray on the antique coffee table. Formality otherwise cast aside, for we were frequent visitors, Daddy and I settled on the sofa, a burgundy velvet with wooden trim, richly oiled, but whose seat was anything but comfortable. I inwardly yelped when I shifted, and a spring dug into my bottom. Still, I reveled in the intrigue of the room as I nibbled on my pie, Daddy and Miss Mary chatting to the backdrop of a ticking clock. I loved making ministry calls with my Daddy, especially when he did all the talking and I could simply enjoy the ambience each visit presented.

However, on occasion, Miss Mary would pause, focus on me with twinkling eyes, and ask a question. Like grownups do who are trying to draw out a shy child. Which I certainly was around adults. I’d burrow into Daddy, and he would pat my knee. Words froze on my tongue. Still, Miss Mary, like most adults, would smile and laugh, and pass off my reticence with some reassuring excuse.

Yes! Back to my pie in peace.

Then, as if seeking to win me over, Miss Mary sprang something on me, something I’m guessing she knew I couldn’t resist.

“I have a little lamb,” she said, smoothing a hand over her lap, signaling several cats to hop aboard.

My eyebrows shot up, and I scooted to the edge of the sofa.

“That’s right.” She glimmered at me with cocked head. “And I sure need help feeding him. Sadly, his mother died. He’s so little, he still needs to take a bottle. Would you like to give him his bottle?”

Would I! I’d never fed a lamb before. Would I do it right? Would he eat for me? But here was Miss Mary inviting me to feed her little lamb, so she must trust me, at least enough.

I looked up at Daddy. He nodded his head, a signal to go for it.

Beaming, I followed Miss Mary out to the barn where she gathered up the little lamb into her arms. “Sit down on the ground.” She motioned to a soft grassy spot. I obeyed, and she lowered the lamb into my outstretched arms. A milk bottle followed. The lamb instinctively lunged for the nibble and started sucking. The power in that suckling infant overwhelmed me at first, but I held fast to the tiny creature. I felt at peace. For those few moments, the world stilled, and the only creatures who existed were that little lamb and me. Years later, I experienced a similar phenomenon with my own suckling infant girls, so vulnerable, so dependent on me for nourishment. I don’t remember ever feeding Miss Mary’s little lamb after that day, but the memory remains of a kind lady who loved her animals, my Daddy, me, and a host of other children in Johnson County. One orphaned child she took in and raised as her own, though she was a single woman.

Undergirding her life was her love for Jesus, presented more in action than in words. Her kindness and gentleness for all creatures showed me the Good Shepherd who also became the Lamb of God who took away the sin of the world, my sin, and welcomed this little lamb into His everlasting arms.  

                   

Your Favorite Prayer Posture

 

         Prayer postures. Been thinking more about that lately.

When I reflect on my childhood, I can visualize Mama faithfully kneeling by her bed after breakfast, door ajar. I now wonder if she left the door open in hopes that I would see and model her prayer life.

Daddy, on the other hand, prayed in solitude, either in his home office or I suspect on the long morning walks he routinely took around our mountain. I chuckle now, but I sometimes wonder if he was talking to the Lord in the bathroom at times. For Daddy, prayer truly was a continual conversation with Jesus.

Bible characters prayed in a variety of ways, too. I think of Abraham who enjoyed such a rich friendship with God that he walked and talked with the pre-incarnate Christ (Genesis, chapter 18). Consider Daniel who in Jewish fashion, prayed three times a day while kneeling before an open window which faced his beloved Jerusalem (Daniel 6:10). And David, shepherd boy turned king, who wrote and gifted us beautiful, meaningful poetic prayers and praises, many of which I suspect he penned with back braced against an olive tree while gazing at God’s creation (see the Psalms). Later, Jesus models a lifestyle of prayer with frequent trips to the mountains for alone time with His Father (i.e. Luke 6:12). At Lazarus’ tomb, He lifts His eyes toward heaven and talks with His Father in the hearing of the mourners (John 11:41-42). Paul writes that he bows his knees to the Father of the Lord Jesus Christ (Ephesians 3:14). To Timothy, he exhorts all men to pray, lifting holy hands (1 Timothy 2:8).

Prayer posture is not the emphasis of Scripture, however. Heart posture is. Clean hands and a pure heart are prerequisites to engaging God in the holy of holies, which was made possible through Christ’s atoning work on the cross (Psalm 24:3-4; 1 John 2:2). Praise the Lord for that torn veil that provides 24/7 access into the very throne room of God (Hebrews 10:20).

Prayer posture can vary according to individual preferences. If I come with respect, awe, and wonder before God, I may do so with any posture.

At times, I like to kneel and gaze up through the window at the sky. In my mind’s eye, I’m kneeling at Jesus’ feet, holding His hand as I look into His gentle, reassuring eyes. At other times, I like to write out my prayers and praises in my journal. One of my favorite prayer postures is talking to Jesus while walking or jumping on the rebounder which, yep, faces the window. I wonder if Enoch who enjoyed such intimate fellowship with God also liked to literally walk and talk with Him, and one day just kept right on walking into heaven. Sometimes, I stand in front of the window, raise my arms in prayer and praise to my Father. On rare occasion, I lie prostrate on the floor, arms outstretched, but not that often, since I don’t like the way the carpet smells or the kink I get in my neck. Hey, that’s just me.  😊 Sometimes, I sit down at the piano and pour my heart out to Him through music. Still other times I type out email prayers to encourage others. And I join in corporate prayer with other ladies (that’s you gals!). So many possibilities!

Perhaps you’ve read this or a version of this: The story is told of a man who placed a chair by his sick bed. Day after day, he imagined Jesus sitting in that chair while the two of them talked together. One person who didn’t know of his practice thought he was talking out of his head (think Hannah in the O.T. whose mouth moved in prayer but with no sound. Eli thought she was drunk!). One day, the man’s caregiver approached his bedside. The man’s body still lay in the bed, but his head rested in the chair. He was dead. But oh, so very alive in Jesus, as he possibly laid his head in Jesus’ lap, then was safely ushered to heaven.

Yes, indeed, so many ways to pray.

What’s one of your favorite prayer postures?

How does this posture help you sense the reality of God’s presence?

Share your thoughts in the comment box below to encourage others.