The Doorway Into Thanks

Yes, it’s really 3:25 a.m., and yes, I’m really awake. :)

I just got back from our church’s 24-hour prayer vigil, and I wanted to write about the experience before I conk out for a few hours.

Several weeks ago, we created prayer request cards and handed them out to our congregation. Then we relentlessly nagged people about filling out the cards and turning them in. I know I filled out at least a dozen; it’s an unfortunate fact of life that I know so many folks who are struggling in one way or another and could use some extra help.


When the sign-up board went up for the vigil, I picked the hours that I figured would be the least popular---from midnight onward. I signed up for the 12 am to 2 am block because I know my limits (I get extra cranky when I go without sleep), plus I have this superstition-thing about 3 am after seeing The Exorcism of Emily Rose. *shudder* Anyhoo...

After a long after-work nap, I got up at 10:30 pm and headed for church by 11:30. A clear night and light traffic made the short drive enjoyable. Our church was well lit, and the number of cars in the parking lot surprised me.

The warm lights in the sanctuary were complemented by soft instrumental music. Our pastor loves instrumental versions of hymns, so he’d set up a portable CD player and supplied a stack of “Our Daily Bread” CDs. I settled into a pew and opened my copy of The Night Offices - Prayers for the Hours from Sunset through Sunrise. I’d hoped the set of prayers for midnight would be a good way to settle my mind and focus on praying, and sure enough, the graceful rhythms of the prayers, hymn texts, religious poems, and readings did the trick. I could feel the day’s tension and generalized crankiness draining out of me.

I’d participated in the last prayer vigil our church held, so I was sort of prepared for the experience. What I wasn’t prepared for was the tremendous feeling of tenderness and humility that filled me as I read through the prayer cards I fished out of the box and offered up prayer after prayer for the people who needed comfort, healing, direction, a new job, a home. There’s something amazing about praying for others; the practice can lift you out of your own life, your own troubles. I’m fully aware of my own self-absorption and tendency to stew about silly crap, yet tonight, I stopped thinking about my stupid stuff and concentrated on adding love and positive energy into the universe on the behalf of people who were struggling with real problems. Several cards moved me to tears, and I was kind of glad that I was alone in the sanctuary so no one would see me wiping my nose on the hem of my shirt.

I had one of those moments that’s hard to describe without sounding (a) crazy, (b) self-indulgent, or (c) woo-woo new age-y. I had a stack of cards in one hand and our Lutheran service book in the other, and I was praying for someone I knew, someone I’ve worked with who has given me more than a few gray hairs, sleepless nights, and too many opportunities to abuse Maalox. Despite all of this, I like this person, even though 9 times out of 10, I could easily hang him on a hook (as Pastor likes to say). And as I prayed for him and pictured him in my mind, pictured him healthy and grinning and causing trouble, I felt this odd sensation in my chest. Not pain, not pressure, not trapped gas. It was like I was being filled up with light and warmth and peace, and I felt connected, like I was part of something bigger, something with purpose, something Good with a capital G.

This has happened several times in my life, most recently at my goddaughter’s baptism. I don’t know if it’s grace, God, the Holy Spirit, or all three. I don’t want to over-analyze it or tie it down with too many words. But it was awesome in the real sense of that word, and humbling and beautiful.

I sat and prayed for a long time, alternating between our service book and praying in my own words (something I struggle with because I ramble and digress and lose my train of thought, and I imagine the Good Lord leaning His head on his His hand and sighing "Oy, this one again..."). I could hear night-sounds outside the church window: the intermittent white noise of passing traffic, the sleepy, high-pitched call of nightbirds. These sounds mingled with the soft music on the CD player, yet the sanctuary was still somehow quiet, expectant even.

God was listening. I just know it.

I’m closing with a poem by Mary Oliver. She wrote this while she was struggling with the loss of her partner of 40 years. During this difficult period in her life, she discovered her faith.

Praying

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or
few small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and silence in which
another voice may speak.