Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Wet Noodles

It was the day of the biggest speaking event of my life. And I was in tears.

I had submitted queries, brochures, phone calls and letters for nearly two years to the largest church in town, hoping and praying for an invitation to share the joy of the Lord - and my new book, Mom Needs Chocolate.

It finally came to pass in the form of a huge women's event for which they expected 450 attendees. I was thankful, of course, and thrilled . . . at least at first. Then I realized my tried and true speech would not fit into the unusual format of the program. What to do?

Three days before the highly advertised program, I was assaulted by a nasty head cold which descended into my chest in record pace. Two hours before the program, I was sniveling and snorting all over myself, hacking my lungs out after every five croaking words.

The gunk in my throat was thick enough to caulk a battleship.

My brain seemed to be encased in quicksnot as well, for I could not, for the life of me, figure out how to piece a workable speech together. My outline just wasn't right but I didn't know how to fix it. Curled up in a ball on my bed, all I could do was whimper. I was about as lifeless as a wet noodle, and nearly as intelligent.

"Papa God," I prayed, "I'm in a mess here. I REALLY don't know what to do. I feel totally helpless . . . hopeless. Won't you please, please help me?"

Like a soothing cup of hot tea with honey, 2 Corinthians 12:9 poured into my mind: "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." I could almost hear His still, small voice whisper, "I was just waiting for you to ask, dear child. Wet noodles are my specialty."

Almost immediately, my thoughts began to crystillize and I sat straight up, suddenly seeing exactly what needed to be done to my speech. Rushing to the computer to delete, add, and adjust my outline, I realized that my throat was clearing up and my voice was returning to normal.

Later that night, tears flowed again. This time they were tears of gratitude that if the pasta will only recognize its limitations and submit, the Master Chef is more than able to turn limp, useless, wet noodles into the finest of gormet cuisines.