Sunday, September 23, 2012

I knew today would be awesome in church because, 1) I woke at four am and couldn't fall back to sleep until almost six thirty, then waking to get ready for church felt hard, 2) a trickle of the river commenced at Wednesday night prayer meeting with a promise of more, and 3) my youngest's dress didn't work this morning causing a tantrum with choice words, we left her behind. We were still a few minutes late. As we walked in during the first prayer, I started rocking with the Holy Spirit. Hearing a boy being held in his father's arms chime in loudly, "Amen" at the end of the prayer, I knew church would not be the same today.
Revival, long awaited, long prayed for revival, knocked on our door today and we opened that door. I had many thoughts of prophecy, what I have seen happen in this sanctuary in the past fifteen years and things I only hoped. Twelve years ago the birth of the idea for the Mt. Hickory novel grew. So all the more reason for me to ask you to pray that I can write about David and Mary, especially Mary.
The land owned by the church, especially south of the building, two hundred years ago belong to my ancestors David and Mary Thompson. Mary's uncle was James Satterfield(see D David built the back part of the house they call Mt. Hickory with poplars from the surrounding land. This is the novel I want to write when I can truly research. I think of it as my opus.
This land, rich in coal when David settled here, and natural gas found in this generation. General Pierce appeared to have vision too when he migrated here from New Hampshire in the mid 1800's, bidding the highest for the widow Mary's land. He died in the front bedroom of Mt. Hickory after a stroke.
I believe prayers were lifted to the heavens for souls to be won in this area. The Presbyterians settled this land, the frontier in the early 1800's  to evangelize the natives. As with all workings of God, our prayers are never alone. We never work alone. I think of James, Clergyman Satterfield, riding his horse with his long braid down his back, until he was ninety, planting churches in western Pennsylvania and eastern Ohio. I see the hard working Christian farmers praying for this land and their families. I envision the promise of these prayers from hundreds of years ago.
And today, my picture for the year of the yoke is more real. Out of the dustiness of my old life with the Lord's light, when we have no need of the sun or the moon for the Lord is the light thereof, shining through it. I have surrendered. The burden exchange occurred. The yoke is easy and light. I have given it all to Jesus.
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