Praying Breaths

For the past year (at least), I have been unable to pray. It hasn't been for lack of trying. I've stood. I've sat. I've lain on my face. I've knelt. I've walked. I've climbed trees and gone on hikes and stood on mountains and beaches and beside brooks. I've watched storms, sunrises, sunsets, embraced the cold and the heat. I've begged all of these phenomena to help me, to find the prayer in me and to draw it out into the light. 

It isn't that I don't think about God. In fact, most of my thoughts are consumed by God. Somehow, everything I do relates to God. My thoughts are in constant communion with God. But when I would sit down (or wherever), planning to pray and meditate . . . nothing. No words. I have had nothing to say to God. 

When I was younger, I prayed such lengthy, wordy prayers. Praying was the time when I made sure God knew all the things I needed help with and all of the things I desired and all of the things I thought the people around me needed, too. The longer the prayer, the better I was at praying. The more flowery my language, the more I had to say, the closer I was to God. I was doing my prayers the right way.

And then my own heart finally caught up with my head and with what I grew up learning in church. Life caught up, too. I've seen more things, met more people, been on my own, failed at some things, had some successes. I've learned. Oh, I've learned so much. I've learned how beautiful simplicity can be. I've learned that long conversations with God and lots of things to say are, often, good. I've also learned that if I am walking through a valley and my mind can't produce the words, it does not mean that I am far from God. It does not mean I am praying the "wrong way." 

Piety and righteousness are not determined by the technicalities of the way that we pray. Think about it. You know there's always that one guy (or girl) who prays at communion during church who you judge because his prayer is simple. You might even think little thought went into it, that he wasn't prepared, that he is so ignorant in his faith because of the way he prayed. I know we've all thought something like that about someone else's prayer at some point. The thing is, God meets us where we are. Does God stop desiring to be with us, to know our hearts, to bless us, if we don't have much to say when we come and meet with God? Of course not. 

For the past year, many times I've sat down to pray, and I've only been able to come up with one of the following:

"Lord Jesus, have mercy."

"Show me the way I should go."

"Let the morning bring me word of Your unfailing love."

"Guide my steps, O Lord."

"Break my heart for what breaks Yours."

"Thank you, Lord, for hearing me."

"Forgive me."

The most profound moments in prayer that I can remember in the past year involved some of the phrases above. I remember going to the park one night, seeing a small clearing of trees. I mapped out a path from tree to tree for myself, and I started walking. One step: "Lord Jesus." Next step: "Have mercy." Repeat. Over and over again, until I was in tears, on the ground, hugging a tree and saying over and over, "Lord Jesus, have mercy on me, a sinner." I believe the Lord heard and accepted that prayer. I believe the Lord knew what my tears meant and what my heart song was singing in that moment, even though I couldn't communicate it the way that I wished that I could.

In those times, I could have become frustrated. I could have listened to the people who told me that there was something wrong with me because I couldn't pray the way that I was accustomed to, the way that I used to pray. I could have given up and stopped praying altogether. But if there's one thing I know, it's that you have to keep praying. 

In an article by theologian Henri Nouwen, he says: "Now this is not easy. Jesus spent the night in prayer. That's a picture of the fact that prayer is not something you always feel. It's not a voice you always hear with these ears. It's not always an insight that suddenly comes to you in your little mind. (God's heart is greater than the human heart, God's mind is greater than the human mind, and God's light is so great that it might blind you and make you feel like you're in the night.) But you have to pray. You have to listen to the voice who calls you beloved, because otherwise you will run around begging for affirmation, for praise, for success. And then you're not free."

When we choose to embrace our freedom and just pray, we are claiming our belovedness, no matter how feeble our prayers are. Don't stop praying, even if your prayer is merely praying breaths. Or steps. Or tears. Keep praying, keep trying, so you can remember who you are: God's beloved. 

Lord,

Show us the way. 

Guide us to the belovedness that the life of Your son invites us to claim.

Thank you for loving us, and for hearing the cry of our hearts.

Amen

Erin Daugherty

Abilene Christian University