stand up and walk.

"Now a man crippled from birth was being carried to the temple gate called Beautiful, where he was put every day to beg from those going into the temple courts. When he saw Peter and John about to enter, he asked them for money... Peter said, 'Silver or gold I do not have, but what I have, I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk." Acts 3: 2-3, 6
If I had all the money in the world, I would fly to see you. Every one of you. 
I'd leave all responsibility behind, and I'd come to your door. With a bag full of presents and chocolate. And we could just wander. We could just wander around your city until we feel a little less lost, and a little more found. 
If I had all the time in the world, I'd invite you over. Every one of you. 
You could sit down at my table. You'd have to move the binders full of complicated, scribbled notes. You'd have to push aside the fifty pound textbooks and look past the neon notecards used in an attempt to somehow memorize dozens upon dozens of medication dosages and side effects. But I'd close my laptop and we could just sit there and hash it all out. 
We'd stop only to eat, go for a brisk autumn stroll, or browse through target. Not so much to buy happiness itself, but at least maybe the $24.99 winter dress version of it. 
... Do you ever just wake up and feel like you're all used up? Like you're empty and tired, and don't have anything to offer anyone anymore. Like you're a shell, and whatever used to be alive and thriving in you crawled away to find a new home. 
In the early morning darkness, especially on an exam morning, I am so aware of my limitations. The dark great need of the world closes in tight, and it just feels heavy. I stand and hold the brightly colored information written in my scrawly script that needs to be poured out onto a scantron, pacing back and forth, because I'll cry if I stand still even just for a moment. Man oh man, I'm so tired. I feel like my legs might crumble beneath me if I keep at this... this stand. this pacing. But I just keep going. 
I realized that I get it. I am beginning to understand where you are coming from. I can feel you all, pressing in against my heart. You are hungry, starving even. You are dying from ruthless disease, dying in guilt. You have been abused. Wounded. Lied to. Hurt. Or maybe you're just tired. I want to rent out a spa for an entire day and just get every single one of you massages and pedicures. I want to make you feel precious. Wanted. 
You are adoptive parents and orphaned children. You guys, I'd fund the whole deal if I could. I know the process is so gut-wrenchingly long and hard. and if I could, I'd pull out my checkbook and write you a big fat check. So you could stop waiting. So you could start letting your lives intertwine into each other in all those challenging, worthwhile, beautiful ways. 
Or maybe you have parents, but they are absent. Oh, how my heart is with you. If I could, I'd snatch you up and put you in a home where you are valued. where you are loved. where you are irreplaceable. 
You are sad in your own hard, real, particular way. And if I had the time, I'd sit on the phone with you all day long and just let you cry. Not say anything, just be there... on the other end of the line, breathing in and out. 
There's not just one cripple begging at the gate anymore. I know this. The whole wide world is broken and waiting for the miraculous. and sometimes, the healing just takes longer than that one binding moment: In the name of Jesus... Walk. 
In this season of intensity, of transition, of loss, of speaking up... I am learning. 
Actually, relearning more specifically. 
Relearning how to pray. 
For a long while I stopped believing that my voice mattered. I imagined it bouncing around in the heavenly realm, then forcefully smacking right back down. 
See, prayer is mysterious. and mysterious things sometimes scare me. It doesn't work like a math equation, where you plug in all the right names and needs and suddenly the answer appears on some cosmic screen. 
But that doesn't mean it's not working. To believe this, even just a little bit, is faith. It's glorious, frustrating, sweet faith. 
So I started writing down the names of everyone I knew. I put them on the big calendar in the hallway. 
Remember. Pray. Watch. Wait to see what God does. 
Every day, multiple times, I walk by those names, and I remember. I speak your name out loud to Jesus. and this is what I have to give. Not silver or gold or plane tickets or even a great big hug. Not always a listening ear or an afternoon uninterrupted, drinking tea at the kitchen table. I am so limited. I am a shell. Sometimes, just an echo. 
And Jesus knows (oh, how He knows), if I could, I'd be with you. We'd prop each other up like a couple of wounded, sleepy soldiers limping home. We'd go read or laugh or see a movie or all of the above. We'd recharge. Then we'd gear back up and hit the battle field again. 
Instead, I have this. Jesus. 
I have this confident, fragile hope that somewhere my voice and His love will divinely collide. 
and it will bring grace. 
and it will bring joy. 
and it will bring life. 
I have hope that it will help you get your footing, stand up, and walk.