Otto and Bonnie Fox, my paternal grandparents, lived in a comfortable neighborhood of Downey, a distinguished suburb of Los Angeles. Their lovely ranch-style home--set midst avocado trees, groomed rose bushes, and olive trees--is probably not as grand today as memory evokes. (It's curious that the people and places of my childhood, when revisited as an adult, don't loom quite as large as they once did.) However, their home was my childhood citadel of tranquility. To this day, I've never slept as soundly as I when I stayed overnight within the warmth and security of their home.

The proper--even, perhaps, distant--relationship I shared with my grandparents was reflected in the way I addressed them. Ours was not a relationship defined by the casual inflections of Pop and Nona; no, they were Granddad and Grandmother. Although they did not take to the floor and wrestle or play, my love and admiration for my grandparents were profound. They made my siblings and me feel grown and sophisticated. Stay-overs might include Friday supper at Welch's, the elegant art deco restaurant in Long Beach, Postum "coffee" with breakfast the next morning, followed by a day of fun and adventure in what was the original, rustic Knott's Berry Farm.

Granddad and Grandmother Fox were generous to their grandchildren, but I never felt comfortable making supplication for favors. Instead, I would simply stay close and wait for an opportunity and an offer.

A weekend ritual will illustrate...  

The periodic Friday night at my grandparents usually ended with television in the den. Granddad would alternatively watch television and nap. Grandmother would read a novel from the pen of Frances Parkinson Keyes. My siblings and I watched television and played with my father's childhood toys. From time to time throughout the evening, Granddad awakened and made the slow walk down the long hallway to the kitchen. I wordlessly followed in his wake, joined in turn by my younger sister and brother, Colleen and Mark. Granddad never let on that he was aware of the quiet, hopeful parade that trailed him. Most often the procession ended with disappointment at the kitchen sink where he poured himself a glass of water. Occasionally, however, he stopped short of the kitchen, opened a hall door and descended the unfinished steps into the basement. He reappeared a moment later with several cool bottles of Hires Root Beer. Ka-ching.

The memories of those days come up from time to time in my own Louisiana home. On a rare evening at home, I'll often get up from my chair in the living room and walk to the kitchen. Most often it's simply to refill a glass of tea or grab a bottle of water. When I close the refrigerator door, my twin girls, Gracie and Lucy--real dogs, I might add--come into view, waiting patiently, expectantly, hoping that I've retrieved the vanilla ice cream from the freezer. They're staying close, waiting for an opportunity and an offer. I smile, remember the Hires, and occasionally give into their unspoken supplication.

So...what's the point?

Regardless of the disposition and accessibility of your father or grandfather here below, you have a Father, a heavenly Father who desires your supplication. Scripture testifies: "For you have not received a spirit of slavery leading to fear again, but you have received a spirit of adoption as sons by which we cry out,  'Abba! Father!'" (Romans 8:15); and, "If you...know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more shall your Father who is in heaven give what is good to those who ask Him!" (Matthew 7:11); and, again, Jesus told his disciples a parable to teach them that "at all times they ought to pray and not to lose heart" (Luke 18:1).

So...anyone else hungry for a root beer float?

What's your disposition toward supplicating your "Abba Father"?  

What do you ask for? What's necessary to move beyond "Santa Claus-style prayer" to real transformational prayer?