In the atrium, my brand-new three-year-old sings her favorite song: "Knock, knock, Jesus, who is there? This is Karoline and here's my prayer." And then, she launches into a litany that always begins, "I wish..." Try as I do to impress upon her that praying isn't wishing, she insists on telling Jesus what she wishes.
And so do I.
Lately, it seems that all I have for Jesus is a laundry list. "I wish you'd right this wrong. I wish you'd bring justice and mercy to this hurting friend. I wish you'd win one for the good guys. I wish you'd heal a mother's grieving heart. I wish you'd protect these children from harm..." And on and on it goes, my list on behalf of the people I love. The wishes of my weary heart. The answers are slow to come. So I begin to yell a little louder. Knock, knock, Jesus! Do you hear me? You said to ask. I'm asking. Where are you? Read the rest here, please.