this vibrant circus

They have been saving and working for a long time to build a house...one made of block instead of strips of palm tree woven together. Their son helped, running a motorcyle taxi and buying one block at a time with his earnings, after all, he and his girlfriend and their son live and eat with Paucline and Yves, too.

We walked through the skeleton of that foundation and wildly-sprouting rebar to get to their home last night after dinner, Nora still sporting grains of rice under her chin and Ben, greasy haired. He's sure his little mullet is a napkin.

Paulcine and Yves have been praying for their son heavily ever since they became believers, one after the other, ten years ago.  They've prayed for his heart, they've prayed for his life, they've prayed for his choices, they've prayed for his protection.

But never have we all prayed for him so intensely as we have this last 20 days, since the night he was struck on his motorcycle by the trailer of a semi-truck in the village over.

The new home project has been abandoned entirely, because instead of a house, glory to God, Paulcine and Yves have a son who lives.  

Last night, after 17 days in the hospital and three surgeries, we got to study his stitches, screws, incisions, bars and fresh scars, the new investment the family will be making for a long time.

But nobody was talking about the money, or mourning the house, because we've all horrifyingly seen many young motorcyclists, hit softer than Blan was, lying on the street, no chance at 17 days in the hospital. You don't get back up again.

Somehow, though he has bars in his leg, arm, a broken hip and a hand that may never work again, he didn't hit his head. Though his motorcycle barely has parts whole enough to be sold, Blan sits on his bed and shakes our hand and smiles at Sofie.

As we all sit and Paulcine, Yves and Blan almost subconsciously tell the story again, this time with flesh on it, we all marvel together at the miracle God did of sparing his life...both the day of the accident, and the many perilous days after, fighting.

"MaPas," says Paulcine, "You don't even know how heavy my heart has been, what a miracle this is, how strongly I have been praising God and praying hard."

The twenty minutes we spent with this precious, praising family last night was sacred, because as Matt prayed for Blan in the dying light, his little son in the doorway, and my little son, too...as we all prayed together, I was reminded something I often forget.

Prayer is not the least we can do.  

It is not the last resort for our children. It is not the thing we can do when there isn't anything else to be done.

Prayer is not the pushing off of problems that break our hearts, it is not letting go of the precious people we are praying for.

Prayer is what lifts them up.  Prayer is what softens what is hard, prayer is what changes that which cannot be changed. Prayer is what draws us close to exactly Who we need when it's all a mess.

Prayer is not the least we can do.  Prayer is WHAT we do.

Carrying others to the Lord constantly, boldly, urgently, heavily, joyfully, that is the most precious, most powerful thing we finite ones can do.

At the end of the day, when the light is golden and the chaos feels suddenly simple, this is not my vibrant, hurting circus. These are not my precious monkeys.

I can trust Him then, whatever it looks like, I can trust Him with His problems and His people, His children and His Promises.

Because I am one of them.