A Call To Prayer

I spent a semester studying in Israel during college.  The first night after we arrived I was jolted from sleep in the dark of pre-dawn by the other-worldly sounds of what I soon learned was the Muslim call to prayer.  Being partially delirious from a long journey, I was at first startled, then mystified by the lyrical chants piping in through my open window.  For many early mornings, I lay there in the dark, fascinated, until gradually, I no longer heard the call.  I had learned to sleep right through it. 

The call to prayer, or Adhan, rings through the city of Jerusalem five times a day; a reminder to all faithful Muslims to turn their hearts to God in prayer.  I suppose it could be compared to Christian church bells on a Sunday morning, but what I love most about the call to prayer is it's insistence on remembering God not just on Sunday, but every day, throughout the day.  How many religions require that?  And can you imagine? 

It makes me wonder what it would be like if that call to prayer came even more often than five times a day.  A call to prayer every hour, every minute of our lives.  After all, the scriptures command us to "Pray always."  So, then, what would a Christian call to prayer look like, if there was one?

Last week, Abby and I attended the Christmas concert for the combined choirs at B.Y.U.  I sang in the Women's Chorus throughout college, but I don't think I've attended a concert since my graduation, so I was kind of excited to be there. The singing began and I was transported.  The sound was sweet and pure and beautiful.  And then the coughing began.

 'Tis the season.

A hack here, a hack there, throughout the audience.  But one man sitting behind me fell into a fit that progressed with each number. I figured he would resolve the issue during the intermission, but when the music started up again, so did his cough. 

And I got a little irritated. 

"I wonder if that man would have the gumption to just get up and leave..." I thought to myself.

He was near the front in the center of the row.  Still, it seemed like the most decent thing for him to do. 

But he didn't.  And the coughing persisted.  And I finally decided I had two choices: I could either sit there in frustration, launching mental darts in his general direction, OR.... I could send some love his way, and pray.  After all, his cough was probably feasting on the negativity of everyone around him. 

So I prayed.  But first, I remembered how many times I've been in a similar situation- front and center in the audience when that tickle suddenly surfaces deep in my throat.  Try as I might, I cannot stifle it.  My face is red, eyes are leaking and I'm breaking out in a sweat because I cannot contain it and there is no escape. 

I know that feeling!  I've been there!  It's awful.

My heart went out to him.  And then I prayed.  I prayed for that tickle to be soothed, for his cough to subside, and for his complete relief. 

And you know what happened?  I know you do. 

HE STOPPED COUGHING.  Immediately.  And did not make a peep for the remainder of the concert. 

And I smiled.

What if these little irritations and annoyances life throws at us, that other people throw at us, are really God's own version of a call to prayer?  A call to remember Him by being more considerate of those around us.  Especially with a prayer.  I honestly don't think we realize how much influence we have on one another; how connected we really are.  Even to the stranger in the seat behind us. We have so much power to bless and influence in seemingly hopeless, disconnected situations. 

It's interesting to note that for the Muslim pre-dawn prayer, the one that jolted me from sleep on that first morning so many years ago, the following phrase is added:

 As-salatu Khayrun Minan-nawm   (Prayer is better than sleep.)

I think we could say that prayer is better than frustration and annoyance and irritation, too.  In fact, I dare say there is a call to prayer for Christians.  A call that's going on every minute, every hour of every day. God is calling us to prayer through each other.

Are we sleeping right through it?

:)

Summer Snippets

The rest of our summer was filled in nicely with lots of outdoor play around home; our favorite kind of fun.  I finally pulled a year's worth of pictures off of my phone, including most of these.

Summer Snippets:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My good friend, Tina, and her family were our hiking and all around summer fun buddies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My brother, Todd, showing us the ropes...without the ropes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A very fine summer. 

 

Hammond Trip 2013: California

After Oregon, we had about a 12 hour drive to Portola, California, a small mill town in the Sierra Nevada Mountains where my Dad lived as a boy.  We broke the drive up with a stop in the Redwoods to see the giant sequoia trees.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Majestic.

Our drive through the Trinity Range began pleasantly.

 

 

The wildflowers kept me delighted, in spite of the weaving winding roads.

 

 

 

 

But we quickly ran into wildfires that lasted through most of the journey.  The mountains and trees seemed to moan, scorched, withered and weary.

 

 

 

We had a bit of a valley respite before venturing into the Plumas National Forest, which encompasses the Feather River Canyon, my Dad's favorite mountain pass on Earth (he will tell you so.)

 

 

My Dad grew up in a railroad family. His Dad was a train master for Western Pacific Railroad and my Dad followed suit, working for the railroad until I was in High School.  It was W.P. Railroad that brought them to the small town of Portola in the 1950's.  Wooden crates fabricated in mountain mills were transported by rail to the orchards of Central California.  Rails were built into the mountain side of the Feather River Canyon, making for a stunningly beautiful and unforgettable ride- one my father took over and over again as a boy for weekend trips to San Francisco. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I would love to journey through this canyon by rail some day.  In the meantime, we enjoyed the view from the car windows.

 

 

 

 

 

We made it to our final destination by nightfall- the towns of Quincy, Graeagle and Portola. 

 

We were up bright and early the next morning for a little family history tour beginning in Graeagle.

 

(Another peak at our caravan for your viewing pleasure:)

 

 

Graeagle is the cutest little mill town you ever did see. Back in the 50's, when business was booming, the mills built homes for their employees, cute red bungalows under a forest canopy.  Just as my Dad remembers it.

 

 

 

My grandma was one of two teachers in this two room schoolhouse.  It has since been converted to a boutique and antique shop.  We descended on these shops, all 35 of us, much to the delight/dismay of the owners.  

 

 

 

There were two school photos on the wall of the antique shop, both of which were miraculously the years that my Grandma taught there.  My Dad and his only brother were both students at the time and are pictured as well.

 

 

 

We stayed at the school for quite awhile.  My Dad has remained in contact with the antique shop owner, exchanging names and stories half a century old. 

 

We made several stops throughout the town, including one at the local tavern where my Grandma put on a school play of Hansel and Gretel which she spoke fondly of for the rest of her life.

 

 

While Dad reminisced,

 

the girls put on a play of their own...

 

After the tavern, we headed up the highway a few miles to the inn where my Mom and Dad spent their honeymoon. 

 

 

Lots of twinkle and sparkle in the eyes, reminiscing..



 

 

Next stop:  My Dad's home in Portola.  It definitely has a mountain feel, doesn't it!  The happiest years of his childhood, my Dad says.  My uncle Richard and Aunt Suzanne joined us on this trip.  He and my Dad are together, below.

 

 

 

Final stop:  The Western Pacific Railroad Museum.

 

 

 

 

The railroad years are such part of my Dad's life, his heritage, his self.  It became a part of me and my siblings, too.  Romping around this museum and train yard was nostalgic for all of us.  Finding documents with the names of my Dad and Grandpa on them dating back 40 years was priceless. 

 

We took a little train ride to start things off...

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then explored the various engines and cars, inside and out.

 

 

 

 

This fire engine ran during the years my Dad lived in Portola.

 

 

 

Luke had the time of his life collecting junk around the train yard

 

and testing out some of the old office machinery. ;)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Really a fun day.  It meant more than anything for my Dad to have us all there with him; to bring his memories to life and share them with his children.  I soaked up every bit of it, reliving those memories with him, seeing the past in full color, glimpsing those parts of my Dad that are now a part of me.

 

For a little while, we were all happily railroaded in these beautiful mountain towns.

 

The End.  Of this Hammond Trip.