I’m not looking for any “Good-Christian-Points” nor do I want to be one of those awful people that chirp “I”m praying!” like it’s some magical band-aid for their deep hurts, questions and needs.
But I quietly pray for miracles.
Sometimes, we act like God never answers our prayers and we feel more comfortable in our doubts and questions than in that hunch we have stuffed down in our soul that maybe, just maybe, God could actually do something amazing here, that he wants to do something amazing here. I used to pray “Thy will be done” as a cop-out, a safety net to avoid the risky prayers, the ones that meant I was openly begging heaven for a miracle, the prayers that involved my heart on the line along with yours, putting some of my own skin in the game. Along the way, after the deconstruction of my faith, I learned to pray “thy will be done” again and know that it is dangerous but that is because his will is more loving, more wild, more whole, more than I can ask or imagine in every way. That is the risk of saying yes.
We all know what it’s like to pray and not hear from heaven. Or at least – I do. To pray and still give birth to babies you’ll never hold, to pray and still lose, to pray and still struggle with monsters, to pray and wonder sometimes why you bother because the problems are so big and I feel so lame, like prayer is not really doing something constructive or helpful. We pray for our brothers and sisters around the world, dying and starving and losing some cosmic lottery that we didn’t ask to win and, from far away it looks like we are all losing but there are stories of redemption there, too, and isn’t prayer more about us being changed into God’s character than actually about moving his hand in our direction?
But still I pray for God’s hand to move. I pray like it matters. I pray for the story to change with these words in the middle of it all – “But God….,” right after the pain and the suffering and the yearning, and then BOOM. Miracle.
After my last miscarriage, the one between Anne and Joe, some people I trust felt moved to pray with me and for me that it would, in fact, be my last. That I would be able to have children and carry them, healthy, to term. At that point, I’d had too many pregnancies for only one child in my arms. And since then? Joseph. And since then? Evelynn.
It’s the weirdest thing to me that – in this world – I somehow still pray for miracles. And the reason I still pray for a divine interruption in the natural order of things, in the way of the world, is because I believe that God is, truly, wonderfully, redemptively, Love. So I pray for what I think lines up with the God I know – healing, wholeness, peace, love, beauty, restoration, redemption, forgiveness – but it doesn’t always turn out the way I expect. And I mourn all the more deeply, wonder more strongly when it doesn’t work out how I thought it should.
I don’t have a clue why some prayers are answered the way I think they should be answered and why others aren’t.
Any answer I’ve ever heard seems disingenuous, reductive, childish or limited or ridiculous at best, heartless and cruel, at worst.
I have a lot of unanswered prayers. I struggle with how to pray sometimes so I just hold it all up and ask for Someone I trust to notice, to number the stars, to collect the tears, to redeem it all someday.
But I also have a lot of answered prayers, quiet miracles worth just as much consideration as the rest of it, a track record of His faithfulness, His Love breaking through.
And so I keep praying, like it matters, clinging to, abiding in His Love above it all, expecting some kind of a miracle.
For us all.
This is linked up with Heather of the EO for Just Write. And it shows because I’m fairly sure that this makes absolutely no sense. That’s what I get for trying to write out something I don’t quite understand myself, I imagine, something that is in the rebuilding-stage after deconstruction.
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