And though you believe you hold no hope, you just bought three pears and are waiting for them to ripen in the bowl.
These words are underlined in my journal, and I have chosen them to begin this column. I am a writer committed to sharing the fullness of my experiences, blessed to live a rich spiritual life anchored by prayer. I believe in prayer; I practice it all day and often through the night. The past few months I’ve been slipping and sliding around in prayer. That sounds almost slapstick, and perhaps it is. My heart has been broken, once again, by a loss. This one has hit me hard, and I’ve been shocked by the depth of it: I lost my sister-in-law tragically, and her death left me with a splintered mind to match my broken heart.
My sister-in-law Sue and I were intertwined for 37 years. She didn’t own much, but she was rich in faith. The truth is, I never knew anyone who had as much trust in Jesus as Sue did. As we cleaned out her condo after her funeral, I inherited a single box of tealight candles. Now, every day I take a fresh new candle and light it, then place it in my Sacred Heart of Jesus glass candle on top of the wax that has burnt far down.
Thicker than the usual tealights, they burn for six hours, flames flickering from within and illuminating the face of Jesus. Lost as I feel, I get comfort from this ritual. But what, exactly, is my prayer? Because I can’t seem to get any footing, not knowing where to begin, some mornings my prayer is wordless, just the clicking flint of the lighter under my thumb as the fire appears.
What’s been challenged in me is that I previously harbored a belief that true prayer is grand, sweeping across the horizon, bursting wide, and that any tiny scraps I’ve offered don’t add up to much. I see it as the opposite now, as I define prayer anew. My stuttering, my stammering, my slipping—it’s actually where Jesus is. Where he has always been. He never asked me for full sentences, or even words. He promised to hear my cries. And in these first seasons without Sue, he has.
The Power of Listening
In the week after Sue’s service, I reached out to Father Mike, emailing him of my anguish and asking for a bit of time. (In my book Gather the Fragments, I wrote about the transformation I experienced when I first crossed paths with him when I received the Sacrament of Reconciliation for the first time in 32 years.) He runs the Franciscan Center for Urban Ministry and also travels back and forth across the country several weekends every month. He responded, “Of course, grab me after Mass. Just an FYI: I have to be over at the HoB by 9:30 a.m.” That Sunday after the 8 a.m. Mass, I waited, wanting every second of time I could get with him before he had to go to the House of Bread. But Father Mike does not rush. I watched as he had a focused conversation with a lector at the altar, then he spoke earnestly with a choir member. I felt the clock ticking. Would I get what I needed, even though I had no clue what I needed? He came down the aisle and nodded at me, “Let’s walk.”
If you had passed by us on the city street that bright September day, who would you have seen? A petite woman in her 60s removing her glasses to wipe away tears, gesturing to a very tall, slightly stooped man with a mustache, and clothed in the medieval-style brown robe and rope belt of St. Francis.
You would have witnessed how, though different heights, they slowly walked together in tandem. Occasionally he answered her with encouragement, understanding, and hope, but mostly, as she faltered trying to find the words, he listened. All the way around the entire block, he listened. They circled back to the entrance of the church near the bells. “I have to head over this way,” he said, pointing to the street that led to the soup kitchen and shelter.
We parted, and he disappeared between the buildings.
And though I continue to wander through grief—as I write this, today is Sue’s birthday—my steps are steadier. I can see now that, as perfect as a pear ripening, all my longings for God are prayers, and all of my prayers are heard.
Prayer
God, even in our pain,
show us the beauty of the world,
how near it is!
Right here, perhaps as simple as
a bowl in the center of our table.
Help us know our grief will pass.
That even within loss there is hope.
Your love and grace always come and,
like fruit ripening,
you change us.
