Our Father...

God the Father... while driving home from Birmingham the other day I found it so hard to keep my focus on prayer. I wanted to pray. Not a broken prayer, interrupted by the other thoughts and distractions of the day, but something whole... something coherent... something audible. I started praying... before the end of the sentence I was singing the worship song playing from my iPod. I turned the music down really low. Determined, I started praying again... a thought crossed my mind, a daydream, I floated off on it. UGH! I snapped back. OK! I decided to try something I read in Jean Guyon's book "Experiencing the Depths of Jesus Christ". She says to pray an Our Father, out loud, all the way through, slowly, interjecting as you go, using it to bring in God's presence. I thought I might be able to focus my brain if I prayed a couple Our Fathers first. "Our Father," I started, "What does that mean anyway, God? Father. Father like…? Like what? What is a father? What does a father do? Like what would YOU be like as a father? I don’t understand, Papa... Papa! I can't help but call you Father and Papa and I don't even know what it means! I'm a funny creation, Papa! Please... show me what You mean by Father. Show me how that looks, because all of my examples fall short. I know You aren't like that. What do You really mean by Father?"
…
My dad isn’t perfect. And when my mother and him separated I didn’t see him much. He wasn’t always as capable of being open emotionally as he has become in the last couple years, but he had his wonderful moments. My favorite memory with my dad was when I was 9 years old. I was lying on his lap, my head against his chest, while he watched tv in his big giant gray chair. I wasn't feeling good and he was rubbing my back. After a while he figured I fell asleep and he stopped. And I just sat against him while he breathed, pretending to sleep but secretly trying to breathe in and out at the same time as him. With every breath I would breathe in his scent- vanilla pipe tobacco and sweat. I can still smell it when I close my eyes. He still smells like that too. And I remember it was hard to keep up with him. His lungs were bigger of course and he took longer to exhale than inhale. My lungs ached with the task. But I did it for hours... I did it until he carried me to my own bed.
God… Papa… Father… I want to sit with you and breath in and out with you... forever. Until I don't ache with the task. Wrapped up with You. Is that what kind of a Father you are?
It’s a start.
…
I can’t wait to see what else Father means…