Night Prayers

It's late, sometime after midnight. Made a mistake today and didn't say my prayers. Seemed unimportant--a change in schedule, too many things on my list, pretty soon it's the middle of the morning, then the middle of the day, then the middle of the afternoon, then it's evening and I'm tired. It's easy to say "tomorrow" and collapse on the bed. God will understand, right?

Suddenly, I couldn't sleep. One thing or another. Back out of bed. Watching some t.v. alone in the family room. What's bothering tonight? Did I have coffee by mistake or something? Just before midnight I realize how I'm not liking television anymore, even things I've seen before, things that were familiar. Have I changed to where I can't tolerate the junk, the bad jokes, the gunfights, the sad, mistaken attitudes? Turn it off. Try again. Surely I'm tired... sleep must come now.

But it doesn't. In bed, under the blankets, I reach beneath my pillow to touch the holy card I slipped there a few nights ago. Something comforting about the picture of the Saint there, the prayer in the darkness, remembering my family not far away, but near. What did I miss? What remains undone...?

Out of bed again, taking my prayer book to the family room. I know what I need to do, even if I can barely keep my eyes open. I agreed to this when I asked to be allowed to stay with the Franciscans. It's part of the life. Second week of the Psalter, Evening Prayer One. I settle into the rocking chair in the pale lamplight and begin again, walking among the psalms, hearing the promise and the hope. 

"Though I carry my life in my hands, I remember your law... I do not stray from your precepts. Your will is my heritage forever, the joy of my heart. I set myself to carry out your will in fullness, for ever." Psalm 119

That's the deal. We remain free. Our life is in our hands and God's law surrounds us. Over time we learn to rejoice and to do God's will. It's a journey. The Franciscans call it "The Rule". We pray every day, from the book of Christian Prayer. Skip praying and don't expect to be peaceful--in fact, don't expect to go back to the way you were. That door is shut. That ship has sailed. You're in God's country now, better learn how to do it. Carry your life in your hands. It's what he wants. Seek out his rules and his will, follow and do, then you will know joy.

"Enjoy" he says to me when I ask him what he wants me to do.

Enjoy. Bring joy into everything, every place, every moment, everywhere. It's a big job, but he's given us the tools...

Anything is possible

Every morning and every evening we pray the Liturgy of the Hours, or at least the morning and evening prayers. We have a small corner of our bedroom, with two chairs where we sit. We are working to take a spare bedroom and make a chapel for ourselves, but for now, this is enough. 

Sitting in my chair I notice how I fold myself into my prayers physically, with my fingers twined beneath my chin, my prayerbook balanced on one knee. This posture feels right to me; it feels like praying and I favor it because the feeling of praying is as important to me as the act--I'm not sure how it suits God. But as I sit and the rhythm and meter of our prayers wash over us, it seems my whole life takes on a different pace. This in itself is worth the effort, for the peace of praying is precious and healing. 

All that being said, the act of praying is only the surface. When the grace is with me, the prayers open and widen into a world of such vast dimensions as to make my whole spiritual life and all my experience seem but the first day in a new world. Moving into the territory of prayer there seems to be a necessary, almost automatic evaluation or scrutiny of the condition of my soul. We called it "examination of conscience" in high school, but back then it was only an exercise, and one I never understood. Now it is real, as real as the grace of prayer itself; it is the grace of understanding my weakness and imperfection, probably an affect of standing near to God. In the light of his love, we will see our poverty...

And in all this there is a great desire, almost a passion, to somehow share what I feel with you. I feel the truth of God, in depths and distances that preclude explaining. I cannot explain, only tell. And if it is true that God has wanted for a very long time that I should speak about him, then the agony I feel is grace too, if it gets me past my fear of being proud, or seeking glory and attention for myself. If humility is required for the journey, I've got a problem. But please be certain, I write because I pray and the prayer burns within me with the fire of heaven. This fire is for all that we might find warmth in Christ.


The prayers of the Hours focus on psalms and the letters of Paul. The Psalms are a tough blend of glory and poverty, the greatness of God and the weakness of humanity. It's an unfamiliar juxtaposition in a world that tends to overemphasize mankind's achievements and not even notice our dependency on God. Perhaps that's why I feel like a bowl of bread dough when I pray, pushed, pulled and pummeled into something nourishing for others. Almost every time we pray, something from the scriptures strikes me and I long to sit awhile and listen. But we are still caught up in the rushing world. Tonight, in his letter to the Romans, Paul himself seems to be praying. He says that everything was written "that we might derive hope from the lessons of patience and the words of encouragement." 

And we do derive hope. For patience and encouragement come from God with the purpose of making us one in the spirit of Jesus. Thus united, we are to glorify God. That's what lies ahead in the world that opens to us through prayer. I don't know how it's possible that I am to glorify God. But when I join my hands and close my eyes in prayer, I can feel that anything is possible...