prayer for work

“I guess it’s about that time,” Kevin says, his morning voice soft as new day, whisper-light as that dawn blush warming up the quiet blue sky over the treetops, those trees, still unlit, wearing green as deep as night.

I hear timid pops in the joints of his rocking chair as he stands to go inside, to take his place beside Riley and pray over her day, and I am thinking that leading looks as simple as this, as gentle, Kevin’s voice waking me from my reverie, inviting me in, his words punctuated only by the sound of his body moving toward the door.

We feel thankful now that an early upending wave of side effects to Riley’s medication birthed these prayers over her work, this easy reaching together for God at the start of the day. 

I lift my coffee cup, slowing only to notice a curl of steam rising, dissolving in the morning air as I swallow and glance across our backyard at all the lines and colors gradually appearing, as though the world is a magic painting suddenly warmed by fire.  Then I turn to follow, feeling the solid planks of the floor beneath my bare feet.

There are all kinds of ways to pray, and K and I rely on a good many, from conversational prayer to scriptural prayer to liturgies and prayers written by others, God developing for our family a rich language for trust.

I began my prayer on the porch, beneath the glow of industrial bulbs, acknowledging God in stillness, the penned curve of my writing sprawling across a journal page:

We believe that you created work and called it good, and that you have planned our work in advance, masterfully creating us for the work, and so, we also believe that you deserve all the glory.  Help us work for you first.

Riley sits just inside at the bar, finishing her breakfast, a bowl of yogurt swirled with peanut butter, dotted with wild blueberries.  As we step across the threshold she grins, gushing with joy.  She’s learned to anticipate this time, her dad’s hand pressed flat in the valley between her shoulder blades, his voice low as he prays.

When we believe in work as an opportunity to participate with God in serving and loving others, that it is for His glory, we enter into our work as an act of worship.

I love a liturgy for work from a book called Every Moment Holy, and this often comes to mind as I slide my arm around Riley’s waist, depositing a kiss on her forehead when we draw near and begin to pray—Kevin and I still sleepy-rumpled in our pajamas and she bright and ready in her button-down logo shirt.  Kevin prays aloud, petitioning God to strengthen Riley’s feet, her legs, her heart, for the work, and also drifting through my mind, twisted around as a prayer for her, are the words of that liturgy—

Let her work and serve in this position with mindfulness, creativity, and kindness, loving you well by loving all whom she encounters.

This I know Riley will do, and I will say so later as she walks confidently out the door into an unknown day, that I know she will carry love to every patient along with their meals, that I know God will keep His promise to bless her that she might be a blessing.  And she will laugh, gracing me with her beautiful smile, as you do when you know that God is always with you.

So significant, so pivotal and contextualizing is this knowledge of God with us in all things, including our work, that the writer of one my favorite psalms writes into the music a holy pause, the word selah, instructing worshippers to reflect carefully each time they sing the phrase, Yahweh Almighty is with us.

Right now, though, Riley reaches for the napkin she has folded four times and left on the bar in front of her, briefly pressing it below each eye to capture her tears.  Prayers almost always make Riley cry, this the happy glistening of faith, her relief the audible sound of a smile.

I incline, planting another kiss on top of her head, thinking of something I read recently, that in the Hebrew language the word blessing comes from a primitive root that means to kneel, or, to incline toward each other. I have come to recognize the two as close relations, blessing and prayer, for whether we pray for Riley or speak blessings over her, we reach for God to do so, and He inclines toward us.  We fold into each other, embodying the sacred union, God in and around us, and us unified with each other in Him.  God responds to our inclination as part of His active love.

This, of course, is something Riley would articulate far more efficiently.  I imagine her explaining her tears by saying only, “I don’t know, honestly. I’m just happy because God loves us,” and as if she can hear my thoughts now, she laughs.

She carries you, I say to God, this more than the meals, and I don’t need to speak the words aloud to know God hears them.

I’ve lately recognized in myself a certain dread of the weekly return to work, a dread I never see in Riley, even at dawn just before the second of two back-to-back twelve-hour shifts.  She seems to know instinctively what I am always still remembering, that work is good, or, as she puts it, amazing, and that the shadier side of things—frustration and weariness and feelings of futility—are only symptoms of cracks in the foundation of the world still awaiting their repair.

Let her be a blessing to every patient today, Kevin is praying, bringing them your peace, your joy, as she does her work, as you protect her and keep her safe.

Selah

Amen and amen and amen, we say together at last, meaning only, according to your will, Lord, so be it.

And with Kevin’s words still spreading incense-sweet into the air around us, Riley rises, to go to work.