I have written a lot about prayer, attempting to put into words that which is difficult to describe. Today’s post is one of those writings.
The Gift
I sit down to pray
in the least distracting spot I know,
and I quiet myself before the Lord —
or anyway, I try.
A moment of silence,
then various concerns
quietly surface and begin to circle me.
From the mundane,
such as how will I do all I need to do
before company comes,
to profound remembrances from the past
that still bear sharp edges
and leave scars.
Again and again,
I come before the Lord,
bringing these concerns and laying them down,
feeling somewhat apologetic
for even caring about the mundane
and for not giving the profound more time.
Over and over,
I quiet my soul,
remind myself with whom I am communicating,
try to cast away the shadows that keep me from seeing,
bring myself back to where I am,
again
and again.
But,
in the middle of this process,
as I settle myself once more,
trying not to mind
the milling crowd of thoughts and memories . . .
my heart,
a child amidst a throng of serious adults,
spots the Gift,
and the tag with my name on it,
and comes racing out for a moment,
despite the many hands that seek to slow it down —
crying out in joy and excitement,
beaming up at the Giver
with pure adoration and gratitude,
arms flung wide to accept all that is given . . .
love pouring forth
meeting Love pouring down,
filling all space
for just a moment,
leaving room for nothing else.
***
My heart returns to me,
smiling and clutching the Gift,
and sits quietly. . .
a weaned child,
holding in its arms
all it will ever need.
Lindy Thompson 