There is only one reason to pray, and it is not to petition or to please. It is, as it was in the beginning, to get a grip on our existence. Or to flag it down for a moment as it flies past. If we also win a little harmony from the human bedlam, that is serendipity.[1]
“Oh God its morning!” he cried pulling the duvet up over his head. Lighten our darkness we beseech thee.
Dressing gown and slippers adorned, stirring the porridge, caring for her soul, as the little ones stir awake.
The earnest believer opens his Bible, reads the prescribed text, and talks at God. God is courteous and kind.
Walking around the rocks, rod in one hand, as the day kisses the night adieu. The sea holds her other hand, and her heart.
The same, earnest believer tires of talking at God, and stops to listen. God does too.
The child runs, jumps into the double bed, and cries “I love you Mummy.” The warmth of uninhibited love floods her soul.
The warmth of the cup warms more than his hands wrapped around it. It is a moment of nurture and, today, a moment of contemplation.
They meet for breakfast every workday morn at six. It is a big breakfast, for big men, who lay big slabs of concrete for cars to park upon. It’s not the food, rather the jovial camaraderie, which feeds their soul.
They meet before breakfast. Gathered in the front room, today a chapel, they use a liturgy full of old words written by others about others. It doesn’t make sense. Just like the Church. But they gather anyway and leave feeling held.
The dog sniffs at nearly everything. It is curiousity incarnate. It is very sociable, indiscriminately greeting each and every early riser on the city streets. The woman enjoys being lead by the dog into the day, and into her soul.
In darkness and in light, in trouble and in joy, in season and out, knowingly and unknowingly, for our selves and despite our selves, we do it. Morning prayer.
[1] I have taken license with Maurice Shadbolt’s “reason to write” in One Of Ben’s.
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