This Moment of Prayer
Poem + Journal Prompt
For Phil, who encourages me to post what I write and not hide it in fear. Thank you.
This Moment of Prayer
Dusting myself
off while walking
through the door.
Shoulder by shoulder
removing the bag
of books and computer—
heavy on my back.
Eventually accepting
the clamorous silence
and subtle movement
in this spacious room.
There is a particular coolness here,
like the waters from Ellis Spring.
I wash my hands.
I see the sink full of dishes.
Then, I receive a blackberry
from a small, forgotten bowl
on the counter.
Bursting flavor consumes
this moment of prayer.
Journal with me.
Why do you pray? Where do you find it easiest to inhabit a prayerful posture?
Some thoughts:
There is too much writing about prayer. This makes sense: it is the central practice of the Christian faith. Yet, we all do it a bit differently, and, strangely, most of us have been taught to do it the same: hands folded, eyes closed.
I enter into prayer easily as I walk through the woods; eyes lifted to towering trees and sky. I contemplate God’s rapturous grace above and below.
If we should pray without ceasing, says Paul, how could we do that with hands folded and eyes closed?
In the poem, I describe the experience of walking through the door of my home and how it is like my entrance into prayer.
I’m worn.
I wince at the silence.
My mind is cluttered.
I remember the dishes piled high in the sink. ugh.
Then the blackberry.
The blackberry was a reminder of how tantalizing, refreshing, crisp, and deliciously complex prayer is on difficult, tiring days. I often think I don’t need prayer, but once I turn aside, a certain aliveness captures me—like my taste buds dancing to the notes of a berry.
We say, “I can’t pray. There’s no time. I’m too busy.”
What lies.
As you journal in this moment, consider when you are most weary. Could that be the time to pray? Prayer is not a performance that requires more energy, but more like tasting the delicious gift of the divine life offered to you each moment by Jesus Christ. It’s a paradox, but prayer doesn’t require more of me; it requires all of me. It is this necessity of my all that helps me sense the creative giving of a God who is complete and whole. Somehow God’s completeness is the antidote for my incompleteness.
He knocks on the door of your life.
Take an honest assessment: do you need to pray more, not because you feel religious guilt, but because you want to be alive?
Get specific: when, how, where?
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