Sunday, January 26, 2014

GREY HAIR WARRIORS



Yellow, red, orange and indigo blurs of light seep through the curved window blinds, splashing on the walls the news of a new morning beginning. Heat has barely begun to push through the sixty year heating system in the old house. The clackety clack of pipes being warmed echoes throughout the apartment building, adding to the sound of boots walking in a hurry back and forth from the apartment below. The sounds of life seem to be the alarm clock alerting sleepy ones the hours is quickly passing and if we don't arise from the warmth of winter quilts on our bodies, we will miss out on what waits for us, outside the doors of this building, life.

Bearing with the hustle of daily beginnings, she uncurls herself to sit up on her bed, pushing cold feet through her black, fuzzy slippers and encouraging her fingers to reach out for her red, fluffy robe at the foot of the bed. Morning routines and the taste of freshly brewed coffee entice her to walk through the rooms that lead her to the kitchen, and she sets the pot to sing away, dripping black liquid into the coffee pot, soon to be savored.

Coffee in hand, her walk more in soft steps, she makes it to the table and sits by the window. For a few moments she admires the children, bundled up like snowmen, walking to school. She sees families rushing to the car, or to the train just ahead a few blocks. Life is happening and she is sitting.

Before her she opens her old, tattered, marked and favored old friend. Morning has placed in her heart praise, a thankful heart, and the book of Psalms. Fingers that once played forcefully and vibrantly upon the guitar, now tremble to move the pages, but she touches them, ever faithful words, dear to her heart.

Reading through the Psalms, a woman seen as ancient and past her days of having much worth, a warmth unable to be generated by the radiators in the apartment fills her entire body. She is flooded by love like rain, falling indoors, upon her head and filling her with strength, hope, and faith. 

Placing the porcelain coffee cup to the side, feet now feeling restored with newness of life, she keeps her heart focused on thanksgiving, faith, and what someone like her can do. Yes, the wrinkles on her skin carry years of stories waiting to be told. Yes, she is unable to do much any more. There is one thing she knows she can do where she is powerful, productive and full of strength.

Walking back to her bedroom, she finds her favorite orange throw blanket on her rocking chair. Today, she will kneel on the soft rug by her bed. She holds herself carefully as she kneels, folds her hands in prayer upon her forehead and begins her song of thanksgiving. From family to friends, she gives the God of her heart every need, every reason to be thankful, and every concern. 


Her heart, filled with love and gratitude, rejoices and sings to the Lord. Moments of seeking God's presence for those that need healing fill her with compassion and she is overwhelmed with tears. The ache in her spirit bring her to a place of deep weeping and at times she just prays as if led by the Lord to pray over neighbors, and people she doesn't know.

The warrior rises from the floor, takes off her red morning robe, and looks for a change of clothes, just in case company shows up, best to be dressed and out of her nightgown. Her heart is still worshiping, still praising, still saying, "Thank you, Lord." 

She is the warrior unseen. She is the power behind ministries, deliverance, healing and people coming to know God's love. Her prayers travel to the heaven's and demons tremble when she sing. She is fearless. In her shell of human weakness, she has never known to allow age or sickness to stop her from pursuing the presence of God. She is a woman of God, of prayer and purpose. She is the mother with counsel on her lips, power in her embrace and love for her grandchildren. She is unconquered, invincible, and loved by God. If our eyes were opened, I bet we'd see, thousands of grey haired warriors, interceding for you and me.

Dedicated to my mom, the first example of what a woman of prayer, a prayer warrior looks like. Thank You, Mom.