Come to Our Shut Down Places

I have loved, for a time now, the story of Hannah. There are so many secrets wonders in that story, the first chapters or so of 1 Samuel, that Jesus has whispered to me.

Just now, on a day that has been hard and full of tears as I faced some realities about myself again, after a week that began in this impossibly deep space, and carried through many incredibly challenging moments of life and prayer, I read another prayer by Walter Bruggemann. A prayer that the book says he wrote after reading 1 Samuel 1. And somehow, this prayer is touching raw spots in my soul, and soothing just a little.

Come to Our Shut Down Places

It does not come easy to us to imagine that you
closed the womb of mother Hannah
and thereby foreclosed the future for a time.
And yet, we can name in your presence
a myriad of shut down places around us...
those shut down in poverty and despair,
those shut down in fear and in rage,
those shut down by abuse and violence,
too hurt to speak,
too frightened to appear,
too scarred to dance.
And closer, our own shut downs:
in anxiety, in resentment, in pretense,
too weary to care,
too greedy to share,
too much of us for neighbor.
Those are not all your doing, we confess.
But you are the God who opens all shut downs:
by your power, you give futures,
by your goodness, you give hope,
by your mercy, you make new.
So we bid you this day come to our shut down places
and give birth anew.
We pray through the Easter opening of the Friday shut downs.
Amen

~~~

I thankful that Jesus is a God who comes to the shut-down places. Because today, I need that. And today, I'm praying for that for so many I love. For birth anew, in the shut down places. For resurrections promises in moments that feel like Friday burials of all hope and joy.

Not Knowing What to Say

There are a number of things in my life right now that are frustrating me.

Things that are up in the air.

Things that are confused or damaged.

Things where I just can't find the words to know what to say.

Things where every response seems equally bad.

I'm thinking about mountains and coastlines. About waves and islands and standing on walls. I'm thinking about energy and exhaustion. About roses. About eyes that see and ears that hear, and hearts that understand. About relationships and loneliness, and the things that underscore the loneliness. About the longing for family, and a place to call home. About how different my life is today than what I would have predicted a year ago. About definitions of joy and hope and peace. About Isaac (whose name means laughter) laying bound on an altar, trusting his father, who was also trusting, that a ram would be provided. About Hannah, weeping in deep anguish, crying bitterly, in such distress that she was accused of being drunk. About waiting for her prayer to be answered, and then offering the answer to that prayer back to the Lord for his service. About the line of scripture that speaks of weeping that endures for a night and joy coming in the morning. I'm thinking about the morning not so very long ago when I woke suddenly, startled by some unheard voice, and the words that rolled instinctually from my lips, were those of Hannah's son, "Speak Lord, your servant is listening."

My heart is restless.

I lay with Isaac and wait for the ram.
I weep with Hannah, and wait for morning, crying bitterly.
And I say again with Samuel, "Speak Lord, your servant is listening."

And I pray for the process of birthing. For a birth that is smooth, and happens quickly, and is filled with health.

When a woman gives birth, she has a hard time, there's no getting around it. But when the baby is born, there is joy in the birth. This new life in the world wipes out memory of the pain. The sadness you have right now is similar to that pain, but the coming joy is also similar. When I see you again, you'll be full of joy, and it will be a joy no one can rob from you. You'll no longer be so full of questions. (John 16:21-23, The Message)