Tag Archives: prayer

A prayer for presence this Advent

Advent begins with early sunsets —
daylight retreats. The dark descends
like watercolor. Night after night,
twinkle lights appear, brightening
each block. Christmas trees shimmer,
candles flicker on Advent wreaths.

Holy One, let me reflect your love
like the lights shining in the darkness.

Carolers crowd a city square, singing
“O come, O come, Emmanuel…”
Jingle bell ring out, signaling charity
collection on the corner. An organ
rendering of “Silent Night” floats
from a packed sanctuary.

Holy One, let me harmonize with you,
making known your eternal song.

Advent is a time for telling ancient tales
and collecting wishes. For feasting
and giving. Warm laughter and hugs.

Holy One, keep me attuned
to your glow, your music — soon
angels will proclaim that the Light
of the world is dawning. May I wait
in wonder. Amen.

// This prayer first appeared in my Substack newsletter, Nourish, but I wanted it to have a home here as well. Wishing you a peaceful holiday season.

Evening prayer

God, you sculpted the heavens and the earth,
you painted the sea and the stars.
You made everything and said it was good.
Still, I have to ask…
Why did you make hurricanes? And tornadoes?
Why cancer? Why weapons? Why war?

Perhaps the question I should be praying is,
Why do humans hurt each other
— and our planet?
How do we fix what’s broken?
How do we care for raging waters and hearts?
How do we engender peace?
How do we stay afloat amid such heavy issues?
What will this world become?

And God, I have other, albeit lesser, queries:
Why does my two-year-old always resist sleep? When will the bedtime battles and tantrums end?
Also, why are groceries so dang expensive? And houses? Why wrinkles? Why neurodiversity?
Why depression?

How come I’m still in pain, even months after that trauma? Will these scars ever disappear?

O God, despite the sin and muck in my life
and in creation, why do you keep blessing us
with sunsets? Why is autumn so stunning?
Why does the Lakeshore never fail
to settle my soul?
Why honeycrisp apples?
Why porcupines?
Why snow?
How is it that, whenever I watch my children sleep, I get a lump in my throat? When did I get so lucky and how come I’m often blind to this grace when they’re awake?
How do I keep them safe?
How will I ever let them go?

How do I carry all these fears,
worries,
joys,
hopes?

That’s the wrong question again, isn’t it?
How do I stop grasping for control and start clinging to you, God?
Will you make me an instrument of your peace?
Will you grant me eyes to see your glory?

Keep Me Awake: Prayer as a Mother

“I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed”
 — Mary Oliver, from “The Summer Day”

I stand in an open field, watching for signs of rain. An hour ago, I hollered to my family, “I’ll be back later!” and strode toward the woods outside our neighborhood. I walked and walked until my legs ached and landed here—in the company of fading wildflowers.

Gray clouds coat the sky. Somewhere not far from here, leaves are burning. Their scent twists and lingers in the air like incense.

Walking usually soothes my nerves, but today my whole body feels restless. It’s been half a year since my husband and I pulled our son Jack out of preschool due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Months without childcare support have left me utterly exhausted, but I can’t go home. Not yet. A friend once told me she finds peace by grounding herself. I take her advice and collapse into a cross-legged position. Then, instinctively, I fold my hands to pray. 

Images clip through my mind’s eye. Another negative pregnancy test in the garbage. My son playing alone in our backyard. Another period come and gone. Why can’t I get pregnant again?

The calendar turning—my 35th birthday marching closer. When Jack asked, “Mom, can we get a baby?” Another pregnancy announcement. Please help me.

A breeze rustles through my coat, and I blink my eyes open, watching it wave through straw-colored prairie grass. I splay out my legs, roll onto my back, and shift my gaze toward the hazy heavens. 

God, I think, twitching at a hair that blows across my forehead, are you out there?

Read the rest of the essay over at Mothering Spirit.