Here’s my idea: what if on my birthdays I were to re-pray the prayers of my life? What if I were to bow my head over the dinner meal and list my ten year old worries in the hopeful entrusting way I did back then, the way I learned in Sunday School? “God is good. I’ve been selfish. I shouldn’t have taken that. I don’t want to be punished. Please. Don’t be angry with me. Bless this food. Amen.”
Or, the prayer I ran upstairs with, in a rush to get to my bedroom and kneel at the side of my twin bed, the one where I asked God to take care of my dad who was in trouble. I was scared he would die. I begged God to take me instead, a less-significant loss. We needed my dad. The neighborhood needed my dad. His work place needed my dad. His brothers and sister, his Dutch “Ma” who had lost two other children, she needed my dad. His stoic “Pa.” And my sweet-faced, mischievous sister with her soft blonde curls, who, I thought, was his favorite, she needed him. And, especially, my mom. I cried. She would be heartbroken either way, but I’d have to give her up to him, for him. That’s the painful prayer that taught me about the blessed relief of being spared.
Or the let-me-slip-unnoticed-past-the-bully-crossing-guard-today elementary school prayer I prayed as I climbed Havana Street hill with heavy steps not entirely due to my clunky boots.
What if I shook a little today, like I did when I made confession of faith as a sixteen year old girl standing in the front pew of an impressive church in the presence of a large number of powerfully faithful adults and none less than God’s own self? What if I said here today, not what I recited aloud then, but what whispered under my breath at that moment? “Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief. I believe in you Father God, but I’m not so sure I’m as close to Jesus as I should be. I really hope it’s OK to profess publicly a so-far/so-good faith. I promise to keep working on it. To be a learner.”
Or my absolutely stupid prayers, for our team to win just this once, for him to be at his locker when I walk past, for enough time to make it home before curfew.
Do people in sunshiny states pray while driving? Nothing fair-weather-friendly about the prayers I’ve prayed with my hands gripping the steering wheel during a blizzard, instead of politely folded in peaceful rest. I remember those desperate prayers followed by my weak, breaking voice singing “Lead me gently home, Father. Lead me gently home, Father. Lest I fall upon the wayside. Lead me gently home.” “Fall” rises to a wailing high note in that refrain. I think it was composed that way on purpose. I’ve sung it by heart. I do even when I'm not on the road.
I remember unbelievable prayer situations. Timing that is too coincidental to be coincidental. Surgeons’ untiring and unerring skill. The sound of the garage door opening, finally. Decisions that were irreversible, and yet, somehow survivable. A time when I just knew.
I have a big file of prayers.
Sometimes I think, what if, instead of a manual on how-to-pray, some church study group members publicly swapped old, used prayers? What if our kids overheard us? What if they heard us say that’s how this works?
Here’s where I am guessing I’ll catch up with objections or corrections. Not closeted enough, I suppose. Yet, on occasion doesn’t Jesus himself pray with eaves droppers in mind? He even says that right out loud. (John 11:42). And when asked how to pray, he doesn’t explain different styles or outline parts. He gives an example. “When you pray, say: Our Father…” (Luke 11:2). Maybe we hesitate because putting our prayers “out there” seems radical, attention-seeking, embarrassing, or needy. Yet, when our claims of God’s help are disconnected from pulse, muscle, skin, and bone, how are our beliefs anything more than lofty ideas, debatable, or selectively dismissible as opinions or theories?
And some will take and run with this next critique, I’m afraid. Once when a friend dropped off a canning jar full of get-well-from-cancer-soup, she told my husband who met her at the door that she was praying for me although she knew my prayer practices were unusual. She was alluding to my lack of warriors. Caring prayers welcome, of course, but I don’t honestly get the quota system. I didn’t have time then to introduce myself to a new squadron and I didn’t want to put words into months that didn’t come from their hearts. I have a few friends on speed dial. They also have my number. We keep confidential files on each other’s concerns, crumpled pages with lots of margin notes including multiple exclamation points alongside of God’s answers. And then there’s a church (or two) who have chatted me up enough on my good days to get to know me inside and out and who legitimately want to hold me up as well as hold me close and hold me together.
If you’re nodding at this point, I’m afraid you might be reading this over God’s shoulder. Prayer is meeting up. One of us —God or I—always seems to be waiting for the other. I’ve muttered to God as I waited in miserable places and murmured with hushed awe in quiet, beautiful places. But I don’t appreciate unsolicited breezy explanations of where God’s been or what God’s doing. I can’t hear through that well-intentioned, cheery noise. It doesn't take away the pain. Or allow me to discover marvels myself.
So, cautioning me to remain cautious and reserved, or to go all-out public, or to take consolation in God’s great reputation, that flies like a banner ahead of him — those weary me. I simply want to pray and remember when and why.
Maybe my friend spoke truth.
Maybe my praying practice is unusual.
But I don’t think so.
Prayer is God’s gift.
Recalling our talks and remembering is my thank you card.
SH
