tlanta rush hour traffic is the worst I’ve ever seen. Cars are lined up bumper-to-bumper as far as the eye can see. From one intersection to the next, a solid mass of red brake lights contrasts with the solitary green traffic signal dangling high and alone above the street.
Inside the unmoving vehicles, people are jabbering away on their Bluetooth cell phones, keeping in touch with the office, with their spouses, with their friends.
Atlanta—especially during rush hour—is a busy, busy place. Everyone seems to be busy. Every-body appears to have something to do, somewhere to be. And each one seems to need to have been there or have had it done 15 minutes ago.
What, then, could make this busy commute filled with harried people come to a complete standstill at a green light? There is no accident in front of them. There is no traffic for several car lengths before them. No sirens pierce the morning air, alerting people to pull over for an emergency. What could make several hundred commuters simply halt their morning routine?
My wife called me that morning to share the previous scenario. She was sitting in her car at a very familiar intersection near our house on her way to work. The scene she described to me didn’t need to include the “traffic explanation” I just gave—I had driven through it myself a few minutes before on my way to the office. But what she told me about next was, unfortunately, something I had missed.
By her account, a couple of Canada geese had decided that the side of the road they were currently occupying wasn’t suitable. And so, without asking permission, without taking into consideration the lives that would be affected, they proceeded to cross the street, completely oblivious to the dangers that accompany such a journey.
And what happened?
Everybody stopped. All six lanes of traffic—in both directions—came to a halt. Hundreds of people waited while these feathered immigrants from the North took up the same journey that the subject of that infamous joke did—the chicken that crossed the street.
What is compelling about this story is that the busy people didn’t become impatient. They didn’t honk their horns. They didn’t squeal their tires in frustration once the geese were safely out of the way. They didn’t inch their cars forward to try to hurry the geese.
Instead, they just waited. They waited because these little “insignificant” lives are actually important—important even to the wealthy, high-profile CEOs, business owners, and upper-management people of the Dunwoody section of Atlanta. They waited because there was something more notable happening right in front of them than what they themselves were doing.
After hearing about this incident, I began to imagine the busyness of heaven: angels hurrying here and there, all with very important matters to attend to. Crowded rooms filled with celestial beings discussing the best ways to build the kingdom of God and combat Satan’s latest tricks. Heaven, of course, is a wonderful place, “filled with glory and grace,” as the song says. And while I know that our God is a God of order, and that “business” in heaven happens in a harmonious way, I also envision it as being a busy place. There is, after all, a universe to run.
And yet, when we come to the throne of grace to pray, I imagine that all of heaven stops. Heaven stops to hear us pray.
I am frequently reminded that there is much I don’t know. But what I do know is that a couple of Canada geese can stop rush hour traffic in Atlanta, and that God stops to hear our prayers. According to Revelation 5:8, our prayers are so dear to God that He keeps them in golden bowls.
The privilege of prayer brings heaven to a halt.
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