I don’t know about you, but I get worn down praying. I’m maxed out on prayers for pandemic relief, for the people (especially women and children) of Afghanistan, for equal voting rights for all citizens, for Ukraine to be free from violent assault. Add to that a lengthy list of personal requests
…followed by the three blinking dots of a God text message.
I’m worn with waiting and with continued, determined hoping. We’ve entered the Christian Lenten season: a time of introspection and asceticism in hopes of deepening our relationship with God. This season, I’m struck by the number of Scriptures begging God to remember, to help. I think we need to beg God to save the people of Ukraine, to help us vote in leaders who serve the public good rather than themselves, to empower those fighting in word and action for the God values of justice, equality, freedom, and love.
I once read a thinker who suggested the only purpose of prayer was to align our minds with decisions God already made. Okay, sometimes, yes. To that, I also offer the example of Abraham praying for Sodom, Moses praying for the Israelites, and the psalmists turning all their creative powers to snag God’s attention and beg for help.
We may not have considered prayer, or God, in this way. I think it’s worth a look, even if it discomforts. Lent is an uncomfortable season, because faith grows when challenged. And we sorely need a growing faith now.
Join us at A Spacious Place in praying that God, by whatever name you choose, attend to the pain and violence in the world, and then to act as only God can. We may feel maxed out, but let’s keep on trying. It’s what we can do in a world of hurt.
What are your beliefs on prayer, on God, on faith? We would love to hear from you. Share your Soul & Solace thoughts with us at contact@aspaciousplace.com
Tag Archives: Love
March 2013 Soul and Solace
Numbness Cure
We’ve seen the word, heard the word, said the word, felt the word so much that our natural defense mechanisms seek to sap us of feeling. After all, we can only feel horrified for so long before we go numb. Unless we act. And that’s our invitation to you this month.
Whether it’s someone elbowing in front of us in the check-out lane, giving us the one-finger salute, or opening fire on a crowd, violence tears at the fabric of creation. Some acts make small rips, others open gaping gashes. Each one destroys. Each one matters.
What can we do to make a difference—for ourselves or for others? We can take violence seriously, ponder its consequences—potential or real—and then roll up our sleeves and get busy creating. With creativity as our needle and love as our thread, we can stitch beauty into the tears made by violence. We won’t erase them—Jesus still bears His scars—but we will transform them. The smallest act of love and creativity bears more power than any act of violence.
So whether it’s penning a loving letter or email to a friend, planting flowers for others to enjoy, singing in the shower, or baking some cookies, the creative act bears meaning and merit, centering us and restoring our hope. Share your thoughts about violence, love, and creativity .
May 2010 Soul and Solace
Acts of God
Hurricanes . . . Earthquakes . . . Floods . . . Tornadoes: such phenomena are classified as “Acts of God,” meaning they exist outside human control. Even oil spills caused by humans drilling holes in the earth’s crust receive the moniker “Act of God.”
My mom, lover of yellow and especially of yellow roses, died early this year. Our family wrote letters in which we chronicled her expressions of love for us and in which we penned our hopes for her. We read them in the open air, then burned them, giving her and our love for her into God’s hands. I scattered the letter ashes around the roots of our back-yard rosebushes. Come spring, one rose bush boasted an opulence of blooms—yellow. An “Act of God?”
I think so.
What, for you, are acts of God? love
January 2010 Soul and Solace
In Relation to…
At 6 a.m. on our twenty-ninth wedding anniversary, my husband awoke with severe abdominal pain. The pain didn’t let up all day, and at 11 p.m. I motored him to the emergency room where my daughter and I tried to get ourselves out of the way of the medical personnel as they strapped on blood pressure cuffs, slapped on EKG monitors, and slipped in IV needles. Then it was up to the ward for the night, into a room for a day, surgery the next, and a couple more days of hospital recouping. David occupied the unwieldy, technological marvel of a bed next to my neat little Murphy, but he wasn’t there. David was wandering somewhere in a land of pain and pain killers and he was out there alone. In that season, I needed my daughters and they me. We wondered together at the strangeness of it all; we held each other’s hands—literally and figuratively. We smarted at the bad news and hooted at the good. The experience altered our relations with one another and our relations with our singular souls. Relationships. Their tenuousness and unpredictability invite me into risk, into change, into growth.
I imagine holding my relationships in a cupped, open hand: cupped to feel their preciousness and their intimacy against my skin, open to allow them to breathe, to alter, and, if necessary, to drift away—then to return, if they wish, of their own volition. I find the practice more than a little scary . . . but it feels like love.
Share your thoughts.