Prayer (a poem)
& a meditation on faith, trouble, and God's making God's home in us
Prayer
Until I can splinter this out,
until I can face it squarely,
during this waiting, this solitude—
some answers must piece together
on their own, without
my ragged-cut questions.
The night after surgery wedges open and tears.
I think of Salinger, his Franny, and her prayer.1
I’ve never asked for mercy before.
Suddenly it is the only thing to ask.
Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
I shorten it, can’t breathe long enough
to say it through.
Me. Mercy.
*
I wish to be a person of uncomplicated faith who stands unwavering in the knowledge of God’s character revealed in Jesus. But so often, what I believe or don’t believe, what I have the audacity to hope for (or am afraid to hope for) centers around a particular outcome, event, or state of being. It is tempting to equate strong faith with certainty (or weak faith with the absence of certainty!) about particular, temporal circumstances.
Many years ago, a woman expressed this sentiment to me about her pregnancy: I know my God would never let me miscarry.
I had previously miscarried multiple times, and her confidence—her seeming “faith”—confounded me. Her God would not allow her to suffer this particular trouble, but my God would?
The God I know allowed me to suffer loss. And still, the God I know allows the blades of this world’s brokenness to pierce right through me and you and the whole wide world in a million different ways.
I’m older now, less tempted to confuse certainty about particulars with certainty of a faithful and loving God who holds eternity in God’s hands. The God we serve does not protect us from every trouble this side of heaven and the resurrection. And neither I nor you can triumphantly hype-preach ourselves out of this reality. To do so would be to deny what Jesus so clearly affirmed: In this world you will have trouble2—troubles maybe not of his making, but troubles all the same.
I pray my faith grows into uncomplicated trust that what God gives in the midst of trouble is mercy, peace, and the Spirit. The Spirit reminds us that God is with us, making a home—with all its comforts and warmth—inside of us.3 Think on this. Through a blustering night of the soul, God lays out afghans and pillows for a fort in the living room, puts the kettle on for tea, and draws us close to the fire—like a mother mercifully hushing children who are afraid of the storm.
Thanks for reading. I’m a book-obsessed pastor, seminarian, podcaster, and author. For essays and podcasts that come straight to your inbox, subscribe to this Dear Exiles newsletter in the subscription box above. Fun fact: I’m also the author of Dear Boy:, An Epistolary Memoir and the host of the Your Pastor Reads Books podcast.
Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger
John 16:33
John 14:23-27
Timely. I just learned of a young couple who are experiencing this grief and shared this with them in hope that it will provide them comfort. Thank you!
This was my favorite line:
“I shorten it, can’t breathe long enough
to say it through.
Me. Mercy.”
That’s it, isn’t it? Sometimes that’s all we can muster but he knows what we need before we pray. Thanks for this!