A Glimpse Back in Time: Part 4

Sophomore year started off much differently than I anticipated.  All summer, I envisioned a glorious return to the Prayer Room where a crowd of students would gather to lift up harmonious worship to the Lord.  I thought it'd be like Spring Term of the year before, where the musty basement had come alive, with 8, 10, and 12 students attending each night.  But the excitement had died down, and one of our faithful prayer warriors transferred.  School got harder.  Everyone got busier.  And after a few weeks, it was back to just me and Chris. 

That semester, I entered a season of loneliness.  Suddenly, the things that had once brought me pleasure were no longer appealing.  I began to desire God more and more, and that yearning to know Him consumed every other desire in my heart.  And not just the bad things.  Hanging out with friends, watching movies, and even reading novels no longer seemed worth pursuing in the face of a relational God of the Universe that I could get to know.  God was answering my prayer for more of Him, but it was difficult because few could relate.  People didn’t believe that I would actually rather sit by myself and read my Bible than attend a game night with friends.  But that's how I felt, and at times, normal, everyday conversations seemed so shallow and pointless that I wanted to explode.  Although my lips stayed sealed, my heart would cry, "I don't want to talk about homework anymore!  I want to talk about Jesus!"  He was drawing me away, and I think He really enjoys such seasons, though they may be painful for us.  (If you’re really interested in this, check out The Saint Must Walk Alone by A.W. Tozer or Apostolic Loneliness by David Sliker.)

So I was lonely.  But that didn’t mean that I was disengaged from what was going on around me.  God was really moving on campus and I was not blind to that.  Three of my friends got baptized in September, and one of them hadn’t even known about the baptism.  She’d been praying for over a year about getting baptized, though, and happened to run into us when we were on our way to the river, to a spot appropriately called “Jordan’s Point.”  Just a few weeks later, another girl who I’d been talking to and praying for accepted Jesus as her Savior.  She's from China and didn’t know much about God before coming to W&L, but now she loves Jesus, and I’m so thankful that I’ve gotten to be a part of it.  These events and others made it impossible to believe that God was ignoring our cries.  But at the same time, I struggled with understanding why no one would join us in the place of prayer.       

I think this piece that I wrote during Christmas break of that year helps explain what we were experiencing.  It describes a detailed vision that Chris received during that fall semester.  In the vision, the Prayer Room was like a prison that God had put us in.  But instead of breaking down the walls by our own strength, we needed to dig deep into God.  Check it out: 

Darkness is closing in.  Deep, deep darkness.  It’s all around.  You can almost taste it.  And with the darkness comes despair, anguish, and wickedness.  It brings great blindness and confusion.  The darkness has reigned for so long in this place that many people have forgotten the Light, most people even. 

They don’t realize what they’ve lost.  Some of them have actually come to love the darkness.  They embrace it and relish it with every breath, and the mere thought of the Light is completely unappealing to them.  Others are deceived.  Wielding a lamp or other cheap imitation of the Light, they think they are clinging to what is good.  But they have forgotten what the Light truly is. 

My heart breaks for these people.  Their satisfaction is counterfeit and they are missing out on true joy. I suppose it doesn’t look like joy, not while we’re in this cell, at least.  But it will one day, when the Light suddenly bursts forth to reconquer this place.  Then they will see.

I can’t blame them for losing sight of the Light.  The darkness is powerful, and it seems to control everything.  I hate it down here, often longing to return to a life where everyone loves the Light, or at least pretends to, a life where the darkness cannot parade before the people but must instead hide in the shadows.  I ask myself all the time why God sent me to this dark, dark place.  Yet part of me loves it here.  Because I’m being changed.  For the better. 

Even while the darkness seems overwhelming, every now and again, a tiny ray of Light slips through the cracks of our prison, reminding us that the hope we cling to is not in vain.  I love those tiny rays and the encouragement that comes with them.  When everyone else abandons the Light, forgets it, and gives up hope, we hold onto those little bits of sunshine, and we keep fighting.  Well…sort of.

In one sense, we’ve stopped fighting.  At least, the physical battle.  But believe me, war is still raging.  The battle has simply changed.  We used to pound the walls, beating the cold, metal bars until our knuckles were raw.  Our goal was the same: escape, returning to the Light.  But beating metal bars with fists of flesh never did a thing.  We'd eventually collapse, exhausted, without an inch of progress or a dent in the bars to show for it.  We’d get up and try again the next day, but still nothing.  And the darkness kept closing in. It thickens even now.

So we stop “fighting,” but now what?  We must get out.  We MUST.  This darkness CANNOT win.  Then what do we do?  We dig.

Now trust me, that wasn’t my idea.  I tend to go for quick and easy solutions, and digging our way out of this cell is certainly not going to happen overnight.  However, it’s the only way out. 

It’s hard to even start digging.  I look down at my hands, still clenched and a little bruised from beating the iron bars.  Inside each curled up fist, I feel all the things I still hold onto: the anxieties, the distractions, the fears, the pride.  I glance at my shovel.  Can I hold all this at once at once?  Perhaps I can dig with one hand and clutch all these other things with the other.  No way.  The shovel will be too heavy.  I have to let them go.  But I don’t want to.

I stand there for a while.  This is pointless.  We have to get out of this prison, and that means that we have to dig.  So one finger at a time, with some supernatural help, I pry open my hands, fixing my mind on the Light and letting everything else fall to the ground.  It’s harder than it sounds. Painful even.  As all these things I used to cling to hit the dirt and scatter, I resist the urge to snatch them back up.  I look at my empty hands and realize that I actually feel lighter, perhaps more free.  But I can’t stop here. 

After what seems like ages, I pick up my shovel.  As I press it into the ground and raise up the first scoop of dirt, I wonder how long this is going to take.  But I guess it doesn’t matter.  It’s the only way out, so we have to dig or let the darkness win.  And we’re going to have to dig deep.  Really, really deep.

It’s been about an hour, and my body is already begging me to stop.  The shovel is heavy and awkward.  My back aches.  My arms, which are pretty weak to start with, are screaming, and I’m hot and tired.  The worst, though, is my hands.  The blisters are emerging already, and I know that my palms will soon be rubbed raw.  I consider laying down the shovel and gathering all those things I worked so hard to let go of.  They were much easier to hold, much more comfortable.  But the Light keeps beckoning.  We can’t quit.

At least I’m not alone.  I give thanks for that every day.  Multiple times.  Yet even as I give thanks, it’s easy to complain.  Why is it just the two of us?  Is there really no one else who will help us dig?  There isn’t one other person here who’s willing to go deep? Lots of people think they’re willing, even say they are, but no one sticks around.  That took some getting used to.  We’ve had to learn to just keep digging. 

At first, I was really distracted by the others.  I still am sometimes.  First, it was excitement.  Someone would come into our cell, pick up a shovel and start digging with us.  I thought they’d stay forever.  I cried when they left.  Then, it was anger.  The first time some kid dropped by to tell us, “I love what you guys are doing!  Keep at it!” I wanted to hit him.  Really?! If it’s so great, why don’t you give us a hand?

After that, it was a bit of desperation.  Every time someone passed by, I tried to convince them to come dig with us.  I wanted to show them that it’s worth it even though it’s hard.  Maybe it was because I was lonely, but at least part of my motivation was wanting them, too, to experience the Light that we so dearly love.  Some of them showed interest, would even dig for a while, yet no one truly believed in escape, in the revival that we knew the Light will bring forth.  So they didn’t endure. 

Several times I was determined to make them stay.  I laid down my shovel to grab their hand, stopped digging to plead with them some more.  But they didn’t get it.  The darkness continued to cloud their understanding, and I couldn’t force them to stay.  I should have just kept digging…

We’ve been learning that we can’t pour our energy into these others if they’re not really committed.  We just have to dig.  And dig.  And dig.  Deep.  It doesn’t get easier.  Actually, it probably gets harder.  As we go deeper, the soil turns to hard clay, our bodies grow weak and weary, and our hands start to bleed.  Worst of all is the battle in our minds.  “Quit!” screams a voice within.  But we can’t.  What about the Light?

Somehow, though, as it gets harder, the digging also gets sweeter.  Our hearts are filled just as our hands were emptied.  We can soar even when we feel weary.  Escape is ever nearer.  Breakthrough is coming.  And we can hear, albeit faint, the river that lies beneath this prison, the river that will take us out of the darkness and back to the Light.

I wonder yet again how much farther we have to go, how much longer darkness will reign over this place.  When will people realize the goodness of this life we’ve found?  Who will be first to take up a shovel and stay with us?  Will it be the girl that digs with us for an hour or two every other week?  Or will it be the guy that stands outside and laughs at our foolishness, insisting that we should come drink a beer instead?  I think they’ll both have a shovel when this is all over with.  But how long?

I keep asking that question, yet I know the answer really doesn’t matter all that much.  Because whether we escape tomorrow or next month or two years from now, what we do in this moment doesn’t change.  Either way, we keep on digging.  We dig deep, and we don’t stop until darkness is conquered.  Because our Light, our GOD, is worth it.  And He’s with us all the way, never once despising His beloved prisoners.

Even crazier than the fact that Chris had this vision, so full of meaning and relevant to our experiences was the fact that, the next day, he stumbled upon this verse “For the Lord hears the poor and does not despise His prisoners" (Psalm 69:33).  Even now, there are times when I feel like God has imprisoned us at W&L, but He has not forsaken us. 

To be continued… 

Sótano Santo

This post is really just for those of you that speak Spanish.  I wrote this story about the Prayer Room for my Spanish creative writing class last semester.  It's is very similar to my previous 3 posts but gives a slightly different perspective.  It tells both the true story of how the Prayer Room started and the story that I hope will be told about it in the future.  Also, in this story, the character named Cristobal really represents a combination of myself and Chris.  For the assignment, it just made more sense to have one character than two.  So keep that in mind. Gracias por tu tiempo.  

     Un sótano.  Húmedo, feo, y tenue como todos lo son.  Habitado por una colonia de arañas que se esconden en los rincones deslucidos. Y frío, tan frío en el invierno cuando el aire frígido entra a través de la grieta entre el piso y la puerta roja.  El silencio llora de la soledad.  Pero cada noche, por dos horas, el sótano se explota con vida.  Los estudiantes vienen, olviden sus preocupaciones y cantan con toda su fuerza.  Debajo de la iglesia vieja, los jóvenes levantan las voces con alabanzas y rezos, brazos estirados como ramas de árboles.  Después, se dispersan a sus varios dormitorios y apartamentos.  Cuando la última persona se ha ido, las paredes todavía resuenan con la música.  Y la energía.  Y la presencia. Aunque nadie está…solamente las arañas. Y Dios, por supuesto.

     El sótano no siempre era así, lleno de gente cada noche.  Años atrás, no había ningún estudiante que quisiera rezar.  Todos tenían tanta tarea, tanto trabajo, tantas tentaciones de la vida social.  Pero un año, hubo un joven con una visión de cambio para su campus.  Se llamaba Cristóbal y era soñador.  Se imaginaba un mundo en que los cristianos vivieran por Dios, y no solamente los domingos en los bancos de las iglesias.  Por eso, decidió orar.    

     Primero, buscó por toda la universidad un sitio donde pudiera tener las reuniones de oración.  Un aula…una sala de conferencias…cualquier lugar libre.  Pero no podía encontrar un cuarto que estuviera disponible todos los días.  Y él había decidido que las reuniones tendrían que ser todos los días.  Porque su campus necesitaba un montón de milagros.  Los alumnos estaban atrapados en adicciones, ansiedades y alcohol.  Estaban deprimidos, estresados y perdidos.  La oración era una necesidad.  Todos los días. 

     Finalmente, después de dos semanas de buscar, habló con un sacerdote de una parroquia cercana.  El hombre era muy alto, muy tradicional, y más que un poco sospechoso de Cristóbal. 

     —¿Todas las noches, eh? — preguntó, su tono rebosante de incredulidad.

     —Sí— respondió Cristóbal, sin explicación

   —Pues…supongo que no debería impedir a nadie que quiere rezar…pero, ¿de verdad? ¿Todos los   días?

     —Claro.          

     Aunque el cura todavía parecía dudar las ambiciones de Cristóbal, le dejó usar una parte de su iglesia para las reuniones de oración.  En realidad, era el sótano. El mismo sótano que, años después, estaría lleno de gente.    

     Al próximo día, Cristóbal se preparó para la primera noche de oración.  Invitó a sus amigos, y puso carteles en todos los dormitorios.  Varias personas habían expresado interés, y él esperaba a mucha gente: los líderes de los otros grupos cristianos, los que siempre estaban quejándose de la falta de unidad entre los creyentes en el campus, y los que le habían ayudado en su búsqueda de cuarto. 

     Esa noche, a las nueve, entró al sótano muy emocionado y un poco nervioso.  Empezó a tocar su guitarra, cantando con sinceridad de la bondad de Jesucristo.  Pasaron cinco minutos.  Diez.  Veinte.  Media hora.  Nadie vino.  A las diez y media, guardó la guitarra y salió.  Solamente las arañas oyeron su suspiro.  Y Dios, por supuesto.

       Varias semanas pasaron así.  Cristóbal oraba cada noche sin falta.  A veces, no le importaba que nadie viniera porque estaba tan contento en el amor de Dios.  Pero otras veces, sentía el dolor de la soledad, sus lágrimas empapando el suelo polvoriento.  A veces, quería salir con los demás.  Los que esperaban el bus a las fiestas, los que afirmaban ser cristianos pero quien pasaban los viernes borrachos con el resto de la universidad.  No quería estar solo en un sótano.  Sin amigos.  Sin nadie…Pero seguía.  Por Dios.  Su único amigo.  

     Al fin del semestre, algo empezó a cambiar.  Normalmente, Cristóbal comía solo.  Se sentía invisible, un fantasma que sólo aparecía en las clases cuando tenía que participar.  Pero un día, una chica rubia se acercó a él en la cafetería con una sonrisa amable y una cruz en el cuello. 

    —Perdón— dijo — ¿Eres Cristóbal?  ¿El Cristóbal que dirige la sala de oración en el sótano de la iglesia en la esquina?”

       —Sí— respondió, con sorpresa.

       —Pues, ¿a qué hora se reúnen? Quiero ir.

       —A las nueve. Todos los días.

      —Bueno.  Nos vemos allí.— Ella salió a comer con sus amigas dejando a Cristóbal solo pero con nueva esperanza. 

     A las nueve, la chica llegó al sótano.  Pasó todo el tiempo con la cara en el suelo sucio, con los hombros sacudiendo y lágrimas silenciosas mojándole las mejillas.  Cristóbal, incómodo, miró abajo y siguió tocando su guitarra.  A las diez y media, paró y levantó.  La chica también se levantó.

    —¡Él me ama!— exclamó, los ojos todavía relucidos. —Todos sabemos que Dios nos ama…siempre lo decimos…pero, ¡es verdadero!  ¡Podía sentirlo!

      Con los ojos medio llenos de sus propias lágrimas, Cristóbal sonrió. —Sí. Te ama mucho.

     La chica regresaba casi todas las noches después.  A veces, traía a sus amigos, quienes, como ella, siempre lloraban en sus primeras visitas.  Era como si Dios hubiera vertido un vaso de su presencia en el sótano, y por último, Cristóbal empezó a creer que él estaba escuchándole, poco a poco respondiendo a sus rezos.  En los meses que seguían, había noches con diez personas y otras cuando, como en el comienzo, sólo había Cristóbal.  Pero cada persona nueva fortalecía a Cristóbal.  Su semillita de fe ahora era más como un árbol, todavía joven y frágil, pero creciendo. 

     Al próximo año, después de las vacaciones, el conocimiento de las reuniones se extendía y asistían más estudiantes…cristianos frustrados, compañeros curiosos, y aun una chica adicta a las drogas.  Todos buscando a Dios.  Ellos pasaban tiempo en el sótano y cambiaban.  Descubrían el gozo.  Y el libertad.  Y el amor.  Y cada vez y más jóvenes oraban cada semana.       

     Al final de sus cuatro años, Cristóbal se graduó y se fue a otro lugar.  Pero las reuniones en el sótano todavía continuaban, siempre con estudiantes nuevos.  Hoy en día, nadie se acuerda de Cristóbal.  Nadie sabe la historia de las reuniones en el sótano.  Nadie sabe de la pena, la soledad, y la perseverancia que había aguantado Cristóbal.  Pero sus oraciones siguen sonando en las calles doradas de los cielos.  El campus todavía está transformando.  Hay luz que no había antes.  Hay esperanza. Fe. ¿Y de Cristóbal? Las arañas lo recuerdan.  Y Dios, por supuesto. 

A Glimpse Back in Time: Part 3

So after Christmas break, where I had an awesome experience at the Passion Conference in Atlanta (see “The Potter at Work,” my blog from March 2012), Chris and I once again discussed the idea of starting a House of Prayer on campus.  We wanted a place where we could meet every day and where anyone would feel welcome, unlike a dorm room, which can honestly be a little bit awkward if you aren't close friends with the people living there.  The most difficult part, though, in starting a House of Prayer was finding a space to meet.  But, as one might expect, we found that the most effective way to start a Prayer Room was with prayer.  We told God that we would gladly hold the prayer meetings if He would provide the space.

Yet we looked all over campus and couldn’t find a room that would be available every night of the week. After mentioning the idea to one of my Young Life friends, she suggested asking R.E. Lee Episcopal Church, which is literally right on campus, if they would be willing to let us use a space.  That week, Chris and I met with the pastor/priest/rector (I’m still unfamiliar with Episcopalian terminology).  Meeting with him was a bit intimidating, but he was perfectly friendly and showed us some potential spaces for prayer meetings.  We ended up deciding that the basement looked like the best option, and after talking to some other church leaders, he gave us permission to use the space daily. I still recognize was pretty much a miracle and am very grateful.  This man allowed us, two W&L students that he didn’t know, to use the basement of his church EVERY SINGLE NIGHT for free.  

Anyway…somewhere between October and February, Chris and I lost the 26 people that had prayed with us that first Tuesday morning in the library and even the others who’d prayed with us daily.  By the time we actually started the Prayer Room on February 7^th, 2012, it was just the two of us.  But we kept believing that, if we asked Him, God would transform W&L.  After all, He promises that, “If my people called by my name will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin and heal their land.” (2 Chron 7:14).

So we met every night at 9:30pm for the rest of that year in the church basement.  It was cold and kind of dirty with some creepy high-jumping crickets and few spiders here and there, but it was awesome.  (For me at least. Chris might tell you otherwise.  It’s hard to lead worship for a crowd of one.)  People came in occasionally to pray with us, but even when they didn’t, I loved to go and worship every night.  It was an escape from school and homework and hearing about the crazy social scene, and it was a place where, every day, I could meet with God free from distractions (which is especially key when you have a roommate!).  I began to catch a greater vision for revival at W&L and every night seemed like a thrilling encounter with Jesus.  Or at least that’s how I remember it in retrospect.  Perhaps in the moment it was more mundane in the day to day. 

Over spring break, Chris and I went to a conference put on in WV by the International House of Prayer before going our separate ways for break.  We were both really challenged to pray even harder upon returning to campus, but Chris was especially touched.  I still remember walking into the Prayer Room that first night after break.  The formerly plain, white walls were covered in about 50 sheets of paper.  Each page was full of names, several columns of them, and I realized that every single W&L student’s name was handwritten on the pages.  The staff too.  On the whiteboard, Chris had written his word from the Lord, “Write the names of the ones that I love on these walls.” It was powerful.  Hundreds of names.  Probably over 2200 when you counted the staff.  These were the ones that God loved.  Passionately.  More than I could imagine.  So we stepped up our game.  We prayed hard for salvation and changed hearts.  During those last four weeks of school, more people came to the Prayer Room each day.  Some even started coming regularly, and we saw amazing answers to prayer. 

For example, I still remember praying for opportunities to share Christ with people in the dining hall. Every time I went in for a meal, I’d ask God to show me someone to sit with.  On this particularly occasion, I specifically asked God for someone sitting alone so it’d be easier to have a deeper conversation.  When I didn’t see anyone sitting alone, I was discouraged and gave up.  But when I walked over to sit with Brandon and Daniel, they said, “Hey, we’re about to leave, but you should sit with our friend here.  He just sat down and we don’t want to leave him alone.”  So I sat with their friend.  And he immediately asked me about my experiences in mission work.  What an amazing opportunity.  And things like that happened every day.

But suddenly it was the end of freshmen year.  And I was off to Argentina, which is a whole other story.  You can read all about it and mt second trip to Peru with my sister in my 2012 blogs.  I spent that summer going on crazy adventures and learning to pursue God on my own, without the support of the Prayer Room.  When I returned, I expected our prayer meetings to be like Spring Term of my first year, exciting and well attended.  But unfortunately, that was not the case.

To be continued…