be well
One way or another, the virus infects us all.
In conversation, we make lists without realizing it: lists of things we can’t do, how this quarantine limits, what it takes away, our disagreements with decision-makers. In place of the usual discourse about our venturing lives, in place of thanks-giving or our witness to excellent and praiseworthy things, we drift into rants about things beyond our control. Frustration builds, and it tears us down. We begin to wrap our fingers coldly around our prison bars, to swallow against the parch of desert, to tick off our days of exile. We begin to wonder how from prison Paul still exhorted the church to rejoice (Philippians 4:4), how all those captive years, Joseph still trusted God (Genesis 50:20). We wonder what Jesus meant about forever quenching our thirst (John 4:13)–could we ever not be thirsty? We wonder how God could tell people stuck in foreign lands to plant gardens (Jeremiah 29:5). We forget both the real enemy (John 10:10) we have and the real victory we live in Christ (Colossians 2:15). And meanwhile, the Word, the good news of peace, breathes the healing we seek.
From my prayer place, I drag things I’ll donate when I can go again to take them, trash bags and reused boxes full of cleaned out things we temporarily stacked away in here. Then I pick up the centerpiece that belongs on our dining room table, a giant conch that normally sits on the buffet, and an ocean blue bottle so big I have to carry it in both arms. I think of the vastness of God, what the psalmist said about how God “gathers the waters of the sea into jars (Psalm 33:7).” The conch, it overwhelms my hand.
Lately, I have heard God calling me to prayer.
Repeatedly, He reminds me that reliant people humbly pray, that prayer tops every “can do” list, that prayer comes with promises and power and is always about who God is. He says these things through scripture, slips the words into conversations with friends, leaves them in places I’ll see. I’d have to be completely obtuse to miss the whisper of that voice, the direction of that wind. Sometimes, I am. But today, I hull out this space that, over time–over holidays and distracted days and overflowing days, has gradually filled with our stowed stuff. This happens as often in hearts as in homes. But now, this community crisis, as crises always do, slows our lives enough for cleaning. We weed and scrub and toss out all the rubbish. I think of the condition of the Israelite temple when Hezekiah cleaned it, how some of the priests had even rented out rooms as storage spaces, how the word of God got lost in all their stuff. The tragic slicing truth, my sore confession, is that prayer gets lost beneath my stuff too. I confess it now, my hands full of clutter, whispering worship while I clear the floor.
In seasons, I take my prayers outside. The whole world becomes my closet; my intimate phrases dissolve into the blue skies. But these days, we take family walks, the five of us like a herd cluttering the sidewalk, searching for sunshine and fresh air. We share a different kind of communion out where the birds sing and flit through the blooming trees.
This is why, as I slide my toes on the carpet, as I collect the past in posted notes still curling from pins, still taped like tiles over the walls, I whisper, “It isn’t that I haven’t prayed,” as if in defense of myself, as though the Spirit has convicted me in error. But as soon as I say this out loud, I realize, as I often do in prayer, the exact reason God has brought me here, why He’s shown me I need to make space again for kneeling. Relationship has never been something to check off carefully, some task to do and mark done. And prayer, the awesome gift of conversation with God, whose love makes Him mindful of me at all (Psalm 8:4), whose grace makes it possible for me to confidently approach (Hebrews 4:16), has no borders and no end. It isn’t the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick (Matthew 9:12). By my defensiveness, the Holy Spirit shows me I have made my acts of love into a performance, that by them I justify myself. I have, as easily and subtly as this sacred space has filled with clutter, become the prodigal’s older brother (Luke 15:28-30). I have contracted self-righteousness; I have begun to fuss feverishly about my situation. I have stopped finding joy in the ever-present fact of my lavishly-loving Father. My breaths come shallow instead of deep.
And so, God calls me again to a heart-to-heart. He’s my dad; it’s like that.
Right here and right now in the place of prayer, I empty and He fills, and I realize it doesn’t matter if this place exists indoors or out; in limited or expansive times; in prisons, deserts, or foreign lands. It doesn’t matter, because the place of prayer is the place closest to God. His touch heals, restores, renews. I want to be well; I want to be here; I want to be with Him.
