“Get plugged in.”

The invitation was sincere and others were responding, but I had been plugged in for years? Half a century of Sundays and Wednesday nights in the same pew ought to prove something. And I’ve been more than a seat warmer. I’m involved. I am plugged in!

The challenge presented by our new pastor was clear. Yet, my mental picture of “plugged in” looked something like the dusty tangle of cords behind my desks, both at home and at work.

My answer to his plea (not to his face, of course), “No thanks. I’ve been thinking of getting unplugged!”

Am I the only one bothered by the tangle of vitally important electrical cords that create ugly clutter under my desk?

Has anyone else found themselves intertwined in a complicated mess of churchy personalities who make “plugging in” undesirable, if not impossible, even when you agree to connect through their dusty old mess? Where does your mind go when you think of getting plugged in?

Our pastor is a fine orator who practices, as far as I can tell, what he preaches. I’m just getting to know him, and I already like the man. I like his wife as much, or more. He wasn’t asking the unreasonable, or even on his own behalf, and I would have been persuaded had it not been for the heavy mental baggage I was carrying. I had yet to unpack it when the final “Amen” was said.

The best I could offer was a silent prayer of confession that I doubted this “plugging in” thing would change anything—in my corner of the world (or sanctuary) anyway.

I’m in a place right now where situations seem to be closing in on me. I feel it at work, at home, in front of the computer screen where I lay it all down in words, and now at church. My one hour a week of rest and rejuvenation was at risk with this call to “plug in.” For a month of Sundays all I could see was the image of those electrical cords. Unsightly, dusty, and a tangled mess.

All the outlets are taken. Not one more electronic thing can be plugged in. This mental picture was in every room of my life. And it wasn’t pretty, well framed, or blending in with the rest of my décor.

After about a month, my husband’s prayer before lunch nearly pushed me over the edge. I’d been betrayed by the one person who should have understood and been on my side when it came to the unplugging thing, and I knew that God had heard his prayer.

It was a simple prayer. He offered thanks for the crock pot meal, and “for our many blessings.” In a very general way, he asked forgiveness for “our sins,” and then before he said the “Amen,” he ask for God’s direction as to “how we should plug-in at church.”

“You do the untangling!” Yes, I know it sounds more like a demand. Yet, it was a request I made clear to God before I opened my Bible.

I go to the Psalms when I’m mad at God. This time I went to Psalm 102. You’ll never guess what happened – or maybe you’ve been in the place where I was and you won’t be surprised.

From my old King James, verses 1-2 say, “Hear my prayer, O Lord, and let my cry come unto thee. Hide not thy face from me in the day when I am in trouble; incline thine ear unto me: in the day when I call answer me speedily.”

Anyone who knows me well knows there were tears by the time I read that first phrase. Could there have been a better place for God to start? And He wasn’t finished. I found permission in those verses to tell God to look at me, to hear me, and to answer me quickly. The psalmist was begging for God’s attention. Oh how I understand that! Two short verses, and I had God’s undivided face looking into mine. Here’s what I saw:

It wasn’t God who had hidden his face. Between verses two and three, I realized that God was the one who had His hands firmly, but gently, cupping either side of my face — like a parent wanting a child to get the message.

I read the rest of the chapter like that small child, wishing for an alternative, but knowing there was none. And when I finished, another mental image came to my mind and gave me the rest and rejuvenation I needed for the coming week. Here’s what I remembered:

I had walked home from school in a heavy rain. Probably stepped in a few puddles intentionally, but with a block or more to our front door, my shoes were rubbing blisters on my feet. By the time I made it inside, my feet were bleeding, but I couldn’t get those snug canvas sneakers off. My socks were soaked, and the shoes wouldn’t slide off without tearing flesh. The shoe strings, now swollen and wet, had been tied and triple knotted since the beginning of the school year. Can I get a witness? I was in a terrible mess.

Mom tried to help, but I was wet, mad, and probably dreading homework. Too old for the traditional temper tantrum, I threw one anyway. Eventually, Mom got down on the wet floor, and used her hands to turn my face toward her. I don’t recall what she said, but I absolutely remember her using words to calm me before she could take her hands from my face and begin working to untangle and untie those nasty shoe laces.

So I’m telling you this, why?

Because we’re supposed to record and share God’s mercies.

I’ve decided to stay plugged in. If you live in the area, Liberty Baptist in Pekin, Illinois has a lot of rooms with numerous outlets if you need some space, or if you don’t mind a crowd of cords. God’s been doing some untangling.

One more thing. If you ever have the opportunity to help a child untangle shoelaces, or a wad of yarn, or any other frustrating mess, do it.

“Bless the Lord, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless his holy name. Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits: Psalm 103:1-2.