 |
 |
 | |
 |
Each week, someone from the meeting offers a "First Word." The speaker takes 3-5 minutes to reflect on his or her spiritual journey. Please email us your comments and questions!
|
|
Life of Prayer |
||
|
 |
|
|
|
|
Sometimes when I pray, my prayers seem to hit the wall and fall back in pieces. Tiredly the bits lift into the air, only to break and land below with a sigh. Maybe a pillow or couch absorb my heart’s call as if to bolster the sagging springs or uphold the upholstery. The roof which keeps out the rain keeps in my prayers. They settle like dog hair, heartless things on the floor. But here, with others also in the silence, my thoughts rise to the higher peaks on the updraft of the gathered meeting . Words of my soul’s speech may whisper from the mouths of others. Remnants of my requests shuffle out on the soles of your shoes, out into the open, the world, and God’s own breath of air. Sometimes when I am outside, there is no building to trap my thoughts. The prayers may lodge on ledges or eaves of roofs and on windows. Or, like smoke diffuse in the wind, little particles of petitions and praise settle unseen on tall weeds, on the leaves of bushes and tree bark, or are inhaled by birds and the neighbor’s cat. The sky may be bright and wide, or clouds may catch the orations in flight. No matter. I fling out my thoughts, and they find the heart of God. God’s heart which holds my heart. Beat to beat, breath to breath. Seasons are different. Winter prayers may wash away, beaten down by steady grey days. Nights are long and wet. My feet are never warm. Depression drops like low clouds. Rain and dim wind keep my head and eyes down, my soul hunkers into itself. With only the thought of coming winter, my cries to Christ choke in my throat. I cough them out, sneeze supplication on my sleeve, lest the germ of depression disturb the congregation. It is an effort to breath the cold outside air, the inside air which is stiff and stale. Breathe on me, Breath of God, lest I, fevered and fearful, forget Thee! Spring prayers may grow like seeds in the soil. Summer prayers sometimes float like thistle-seed fairies on the wind, wishes and dreams, fears and hopes hovering. Heaven touches them and me. But even in winter and fall, all may be well. I may sit in the living room love seat, wearing warm socks, comfortable pants, and a soft sweater. While I am holding my favorite brown mug, I sip rich coffee. Jesus joins me. All I have to say, he hears. With each beat of my heart, I hear his voice. My breath is full of him. My cup overflows. | |
|
email us : 503.246-7654 | ||
|