be with me
I walk and let things go, whispered things, all the heavy and daunting things pressed against my shoulders like so much Winter weight, damp and thick and flat grey; things that cannot be at all what they seem. This weather inspires every kind of ache; all day the clouds have swallowed us. And if this groaning creation can threaten our perspective, how much more the bruising edges of reality? Bleak weak days can feel unanchored and lonely; those dead, shrouded skies lie.
“I can’t think; what do you want to do?” I ask, lifting my eyes.
Word says the prayers of God’s people are the incense of heaven, poured out by angels on the altar of God (Revelation 8:3). I walk on, wondering how it is that even the bitterest thoughts uttered heavenward become a holy fragrance. How do my withered words become a sacrifice? My prayers scatter, carried like elegant, early cherry blossoms, twisting down the sidewalk. Nature makes a bridal aisle out of the gritty path.
My phone interrupts, a text: Are you home? Almost?
Zoe. Home today, and sick. As independent as they’ve grown, my children still want to know I’m near when they feel weak. Be with me, they say, but in different words. I’m coming to the end of my walk.
Yes, almost; I stop on the sidewalk to text back. As a little girl, I wanted to spend sick days in my daddy’s lap, surrounded on all sides by his strength. And I realize now, standing on the Spirit-strewn way, that I still like to swath my weakness, yielding it to my Father’s embrace. Little did my dad know, all those years ago: His love; those strong arms, tight-wrapped and holding, taught me to pray. And isn’t that what prayer is really? Be with me, always that plea, but sometimes in different words. Maybe my children have outgrown my lap–they laugh now when I tell them to sit, but they do know the joy of love right with them, especially when they feel down; they are learning how to pray.
I walk home smiling, thinking of the way my daughter leans into me, resting her head on my shoulder. Could it be that our prayers rise as perfume in heaven because they lean us right into God the way love does, because they sit us right down in His lap? When my children need me, I’m as close as they’ll let me be. And when we need God–which is every single moment, he’s as close as we’ll let him be. Word says God draws near when we pray (Deuteronomy 4:7), that He’s always close to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18). I think maybe it makes Him smile just to know we want Him close. Our self-sufficiency is the seed that dies when we confess our need for Immanuel; sacred intimacy the resulting bloom. The “seems” of things deceive: vulnerability is not an empty offering. Zoe’s text is not an interruption.
What had I said before? What do you want to do?
I read her text and I know: God wants to be with us, as close as we’ll let Him be; He wants to love. And He makes us His arms, wrapped tight around the hurt, the weakness, the need; in our own homes, our offices, our neighborhoods, our world.
I look down at my phone; I hear Zoe’s I-don’t-feel-good voice, rising and falling in the curves of letters and punctuation, vulnerable and reaching for me. Be with me. And so, I turn the corner home.
