I had to stop
In the middle of prayer, my friends and I huddled holy around that old table, I hear Riley on the stairs.
“Yes,” she says, her pure voice rising sweet with ours, her assent like a clasping hand, an enveloping arm. It’s as though she’s come upon our group hug and wrapped herself around us. And I can’t help it, my mama-heart bends back. I remember nights when Kevin and I finally sighed in a slump on the sofa, and Riley stood on those stairs, pressing her round baby cheeks against the spindles, curling her squat toes over the edge, her glistening eyes reaching for us. The only defiance Riley has ever shown has been a fierce assault against the stereotypes of Autism.
She’s not supposed to understand how to connect, but tonight, she happens upon the most powerful connection of all–prayer, the unity of faithful friends engaging all three personalities of the Trinity at once–and she can’t take another step. I don’t have to open my eyes to see her sitting there, some routine thing dangling from her hands, her golden hair swinging long as she leans forward to listen. My friends and I, we keep right on praying, spreading life before the throne of God, and somehow our words tumble even more freely as Riley enters that thin space and murmurs her agreement.
When I was a child, my dad used to finish work days stretched out in the living room floor with his eyes closed, and delighted, my brothers and I would pile right on top of him, giggling, jostling for position, waiting for Dad’s long arms to drift up, for those big, dependable hands to clasp around our waists. Group prayer is just the same; God’s kids plopping down, waiting for the reach of His hands, and right now, Riley’s just one more child climbing on, laughter the joyful rise in her voice. I smile because God’s got space enough for all of us, no matter what we need or what we’ve broken or when we just want to be with him.
When my friend says the last amen, we lift our heads, grinning happy. I let my eyes slide to the stairs, and catching my glance, Riley laughs, the sound rushing. “I’m right here, Mom Jones,” she says, as though we didn’t know before this moment. “I know,” I say, grinning wider still, thinking how God’s greatest desire–to be with us–has always been Riley’s greatest desire too. We open our half blind eyes and catch a glimpse of God’s glory, and doesn’t He also gush His “I’m right here”? Doesn’t He take joy in the moments when, eyes fully opened, we really see him with us? What is prayer if not the solid feel of God’s dependable hands holding our vulnerable flesh?
“I had to stop for prayer,” Riley says, and I wonder at that heart, the way it beats near God. Of all the things that stop me in my tracks, has it ever been prayer? Because that thing that makes you stop; that’s where your heart lives. It took such a long time for God to convince me to stop what I’m doing to pray, but now here’s this one, more harassed by schedules and time than I’ll ever be, who already knows nothing more important than that relationship. I had to stop for prayer, she says, and now I think, so must I.
