RED WINE, HUGH GRANT & CRUSTY PAINT.

As I stepped into the stale old church, I was unsure of what to make of this whole situation. Another week of prayer. Another week in Scotland.

The first couple days seemed normal. Setting up another prayer room. The same old thing. The room had been nicely sectioned off with various focuses. This was a ‘true’ 24-7prayer room. Sense the sarcasm. What began as a creative prayer movement has seemed to form cookie-cutter prayer rooms. But, enough on that. I had become used to this and wasn’t in the least bit surprised.

By Sunday evening, I had once again been thrown into Scottish culture. Maybe a bit different than hiking through the highlands, nibbling on the endless peanut butter ‘sandwiches’ and microwave meals. This time there was a warm bed and shower alongside an endless supply of wine at every meal. The second afternoon I found myself walking onto the lush grass of what appeared to be a movie set. I waited patiently to see if Hugh Grant would walk out the doors of his mansion and into the garden to greet me. Unfortunately, the only excitement was a double baptism in the poolhouse. That was enough for me.

Back to Sunday evening. The preparations were crammed into the last hours before the launch. As usual. And the room was now ready. In walked a couple middle-aged ladies. Doubts once again overtook my mind. But, before I knew it, the room was filled. With the elderly. With young children. With families. This was going to be a place of meeting with God. Holy encounters. Before I knew it, the silence had been sliced and I saw the hearts of these people. This tiny little town in the hills of Scotland was shouting up to God. And they were excited. It was like Christmas morning. A gift had been given to them. They couldn’t wait for their hour that was penciled in on the timetable outside the entrance.

My eyes were opened. As people flowed into the room throughout the week I was constantly encouraged. Challenged. Individuals came with broken hearts. Broken lives. They came with prayers on their lips and tears in their eyes. And they were drawn to their knees. A first experience for many. A call back to prayer. A call back to God their Father.

Soon, nothing much mattered. The format of the room. The paint-filled brushes that had been left to dry overnight. The sand all over the floor. It didn’t matter. God was meeting with people. As they took time out of their days and nights, their Father cradled them in his arms.

And I was refreshed. Over the last months I’ve been bogged-down by prayer. I’ve taken prayer rooms for granted. I’ve lost the excitement. I must constantly return to that place that I did this week. I must talk with God. I must shout to God from the depths of my heart. I must sing with Him. I must enter into that dance with Him. I must be a child again.