pastor prayers

Creator, protector, lover of all life. I come to you today more aware than usual of a peculiar kind of vulnerability, and a remarkable sense of connection that comes with and from it. A terrible accident has struck a family I care about. Another tragedy has befallen a family I don’t know.

A father is struck by a storm grate while driving along his morning commute, and a family is sent reeling with questions about his health and their own future. A mother is found with stab wounds and her two children stabbed to death not long after she lost her job and reported wanting to end her own life. These are the dramatic ledes that bring to surface the tenderness of all our lives, the delicate dance we do to keep them going, to keep ourselves together in the midst of circumstances within and more often beyond our control. When there are people we’ve brought into the world whose care is our greatest vocation, we do well most days not to dwell too much on how great a responsibility it is. We couldn’t really get through the days if we let ourselves take in its depth each moment. But it is there, in the shadows of our awareness, palpable if usually unspoken.

Help us to hold our own places in this fragile web, and to keep faith in your care for us and to feel your presence with us even when the twists of fate make it seem comically absurd to believe it. Let us feel your presence in the community of human care. Let us be attentive to our everyday movements of grace, that we might come to our times of crisis with ample touchstones of sacred presence. We need those memories in our bodies and souls when when our lives seem as precarious as dandelion tufts balanced on the razor-thin edge between divine and doomed. Let ours be the breath that, when we fall, blows our lives toward the divine.

Amen.

When I have a little more time than usual to devote to prayer (which is always just a little, but as they say every little bit counts), I’m often struck by the fact that after a few days of regular prayer that lasts more than 10-15 minutes, up come truths that are really hard to face, that make me want to go shopping or eat something or watch an E! True Hollywood Story rather than return to prayer and be vulnerable and stay with it.

This week it has been the return of a keen awareness of the distance between the god I preach and teach about and the internal god whose voice judges (or blesses, but really mostly judges, and not happily) my daily actions. So I sit in quiet and attempting to meditate and am met with a litany of things I probably didn’t do right, things I could have said better, people I should have called or if I did call them I should have called sooner or said something more smoothly, times I should have been more playful with my son and less in a hurry. Because my meditation time has been on the fly for months, there’s a backlog of errors and grievances against myself and others and even the planet (why can’t I ever remember to put the re-usable grocery bags in the car when I go to the store?) that have to be spit out before I can even imagine listening for the spirit. And all I can do is sit there and hope that the great loving heart I tell people creates the pulse of the universe can help to mop it up, and maybe tell me that I’m forgiven and always was, and how to live from that awareness and genuinely spread that love a little more in the day to come.

I rise from prayer with no great previously un-heard nugget of wisdom, no gospel passage illumined with brilliant new meaning, just an awareness of my need to rest in a loving embrace I don’t have to earn (and couldn’t if I tried). And then I’m called back to my need to learn to live that truth in a world that wants me to want to be more thin and wealthy, less content with what I have and who I am, and certainly less apt to ask about the meaning of it all.

So, what do you think is going to happen next with Lindsay Lohan?

The town I live in was just listed as number seven on Money Magazine’s list of the Ten Best Places to Live in the U.S. The magazine offers all kinds of facts and figures which together form the basis for their decision. There are strictly financial factors listed, like median home price and household income levels, property tax rates and such like. Other typical “quality of life” measures are also listed: proximity to green space, a large city, institutions of higher education, and so on. They even have a whole section addressing the health of people in the community: average BMI (body mass index), and rates for things like diabetes and hypertension. The whole thing is the talk of the town this week, of course. Some are amazed, some feel it’s an overdue realization, most are at least a little proud.

I like this town very much, but the whole notion of living in one of the “10 Best Places” to live has me thinking about what, beyond reportable data, makes for a good place to live. I have lived in 23 different dwellings thus far in my life, in 11 different cities and towns, and spent most of my childhood and early adulthood moving. I loved most of the places I lived, for different reasons, and aside from a particularly traumatic move when I was 13, I rather enjoyed the changes.

When I was in seminary I was talking with an acquaintance who began to complain with some drama about how she hated Boston and couldn’t wait to leave. I hadn’t really given a lot of thought to whether I particularly liked the place or not: it was the place I was living, and that made it home, and it was fine with me. In my mind she hardly qualified as having “lived in Boston” since she was a grad student in Cambridge who rarely ventured further than neighboring Somerville, and had made it a point to prove herself too good for Boston for as long as I had known her. Nothing was spared: the people were rude, the buses were late, the weather was terrible, and there was no redeeming culture or nightlife. I was overcome by an almost overwhelming desire to slap her.

I surprised myself by feeling a loyalty to the place I was living, which I hadn’t realized had become my home. My acquaintance was asserting her own rejection of the place and in so doing was also stating clearly that she intended only to be a passer-through, while I had been busy establishing my life there. I didn’t think it would be permanent, but what did I know of permanent anyway? Wherever I was living was home, and I then realized was worth defending and protecting from someone who wanted to take a crap all over it just because they were unhappy with how things were turning out for them.

Not every place is for everybody, and some people are genuinely unhappy in, say, large cities or remote rural areas, or have to be near the mountains or the ocean. But there is so much more than statistical data that make for a “best place to live.” Things like meaningful work, and proximity to family, caring community, and true diversity. In our seventh-best town, there are people who are struggling to pay the $3 weekly trash barrel fee; people who are overcome with grief; people who are spiraling in addictions; people fighting terminal illnesses. Just like there are in the town whose jumble of statistics puts it at #7 from the bottom.

Since the news of our high rating, I keep getting a vision of the great spirit looking upon this human endeavor and chuckling kindly and wisely at our struggles to understand ourselves. Shaking her head a little and saying: “Silly bunnies, all of creation is paradise if you tend it carefully. If you stop taking yourselves and your imagination of control so seriously and learn to live in rhythm with the earth and with each other and with the beating of your own hearts, you’ll see. There’s no competition, my sweets. The suffering that is part of being human will find you wherever you are, and so will the joy. Find out who your neighbors are, and how your home got to be as it is in human terms. Live as if where you are matters, and soon you’ll find that it does.”

God of the in-between territory, where human needs converge and sometimes clash, guide me through these tender times.

I’ve reluctantly gotten used to the referee role of parenting, mediating disputes over sharing and hitting, tattling and bad words. I already pray daily not to be too shrill, and not to be too indulgent, and not to say things that will come back and bite me when my son tries to apply the same rules to me, and generally not to screw my child up any more than is necessary. But now we’re in the emotional zone that takes it to the next level. We’re into the disputes in which no one is wrong, but the clash of differing needs can be devastating.

One child wants a hug and another doesn’t like to be hugged. One child needs quiet when another wants to have a conversation. One is feeling gregarious and goofy when another wants to concentrate. They happen to be getting together to play when any of these things occur, and the tears and anger are like every volcano in the world erupting at once while the deadliest tsunami and the most forceful hurricane batter our shores. Help me to know how best to communicate your love for each child and their bodily desires. Let me honor their need to be cared for and help them know their friend cares for them even if they don’t understand how to show it. Help me to convey in ways a four year old can understand that no one is bad for having another need, and that when we care about someone we can allow space without judgment. And we learn to share, when things are a little less hectic, what was happening for us, so that we may know each other better and thereby honor each others’ humanity.

I know it takes a whole lot more words and understanding than an upset four year old can muster. I still want to offer the clues now so when the mind is ready to get it, it will not seem like a stretch to believe: Sometimes no one is wrong. We’re all beloved. What we need is what we need and our job is just to communicate it respectfully, lovingly to the people we care about. Because that’s where we get to know you best, god, when we take those risks and learn how you’re present in the mysterious other.

I pray this earnestly, and wish I could be hilarious and clever about it. Most of the time I’m pretty tired, and a little harried, and far short of possessing the patience it all takes. As I watch this unfold daily for my son I see nothing short of a glimpse into the lesson the world of humanity needs to learn, and needs to learn desperately. If we can get it well, if we can start to get it a little more right than we’ve gotten it all this time, there’s this glimmer of peace that’s visible for our world. My yearning for it brings me to tears.

God on the narrow bridge between I and thou, help me follow that yearning, and hold on to hope, and offer examples of forgiveness, and kindness, and your eternal embrace to the people (little or big) in my care, for life or just for a day. Amen.

Each night at supper time, we say a grace that consists of each person saying what they are thankful for. I was introduced to the practice by my friend and then-roommate Jill right after seminary, and came to love it as a simple way to reflect on the day. One’s theology can change over time, but god help us if we ever lose the need to give thanks. Our 4 year-old son Kian rarely begins a meal without ‘thankful fors’, as he calls them, and often is our biggest enforcer, including choosing the order in which we will share. When we sit down to dinner everyone is hungry and Enrique and I are especially in a hurry to get to the brass ring at the end of the day: the window of quiet time for grown-ups after supper, bath and bed for Kian. Let’s just say that thankful fors can be a little rushed.

Now that we’ve reached the delicious evening and the house is quiet, my heart swells with all I have to be thankful for just from this one day.

As Emerson might say, we are in the midst of a “refulgent summer” and it is indeed a luxury to draw the breath of life. I give thanks and praise for the simple joys I have had the time to savor today. Noticing the progress of our garden: the height of the tomatoes, the broad leaves of squash, the preponderance of mint. Tossing the baseball to Kian, who loves tapping the bat against the base (a brick left over from the patio) and wiggling his butt vigorously much more than actually hitting the ball. The precious hours I got to spend alone, tending to my being with exercise, practicing congas, and reading. The reunion with the family at the end of the day. For Enrique who stopped at the farmer’s market when he could have just sped home, and brought us a scrumptious harvest of fresh peas, tomatoes, and beets. For the time spent shelling the peas, opening each pod to let its fruit spill out, smooth and round over my fingertips and into the bowl. For Kian’s earnest efforts to open the pods, and his companionship while we did the most delightful chore I can ever remember doing. And then for the taste of the peas, enjoyed in the back yard where we eat as many summer dinners as possible, with tabouli and veggie burgers and happy conversation. And the cherry on top: Scott Wells’ assistance with getting the kinks worked out of my blog setup.

Thanks and praise be to the source of all, whose presence felt so near to me in all these things this day. Amen.