Lord, teach us to pray

Luke 11:1-2 KJV
[1] And it came to pass, that, as he was praying in a certain place, when he ceased, one of his disciples said unto him, Lord, teach us to pray, as John also taught his disciples. [2] And he said unto them, When ye pray, say, Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, as in heaven, so in earth.

As he was praying in a certain place—why not tell us what place? Does the author not want us to know where he was praying? Was it too personal? Was he aware of the human tendency to enshrine geographical locations?

Jesus was an expert on prayer. The word prayer for most of us is tied to the supplication to someone in authority over us. Jesus is the King of kings—no greater authority exists, so his prayers are far more about homesickness and heart. He misses his Father and his home, so he calls home frequently.

As John taught his disciples—this is interesting. The Bible does not tell us what John told his disciples about prayer, but we could examine his lifestyle and biography for clues.

John was a relative of Jesus, but his parents were at least 2 generations older than Mary, meaning it is highly likely they are not present in his public ministry years. He was some kind of orphaned prophet. Many of us experience real or emotional orphanhood, and we need to know that God longs to be our mother, our father, and our home.

He ate locusts and honey—food he can forage for and that does not depend on human donations. Eating locusts feels confrontational—eating pestilence. Eating honey feels celebratory and hope-driven. Milk and honey are the signifiers of abundance and heaven. I like to believe he dipped the locust in the honey to make this extreme diet slightly more palatable.

Our Father—while humans might have been invited to use this term for the God of the universe, it is a borrowed and honorary title until Jesus has given his own life for ours. The crucifixion is our Adoption Day, yet Jesus gives the gift of this intimacy in this prayer. God is our Father—what a powerful blessing.

Who art in Heaven. Heaven is his home and as his children it becomes ours as well. I like to think of this as the address line on a letter, as well a the revelation of key components of God’s personality. What is Heaven? Home, God’s home. He defines Heaven by his attributes and we know a little more about him because we have some concept of the conditions of Heaven—safe, saturated with goodness and light, but also almost certainly beyond our full comprehension. Daniel, Ezekiel, and Isaiah all give us glimpses of Heaven and later so will John.

Halllowed/holy is your name. None of us can venerate the name of God enough. We can only approach what it means to be holy and hallowed—pure, light-filled, powerful, undiluted, intense. When you really sit in the presence of the idea of holiness for even a few minutes it can make you uncomfortable. We would all be consumed by holy fire if it were not for Jesus’ sacrifice for us on the Cross. We can come close to holiness only by way of his saving and protecting blood sacrifice for us.

Thy kingdom come.

We see God’s kingdom come any time humans comfort each other, sacrifice for each other, confront injustice for each other, fight darkness with light and expose lies with truth.

We have been commissioned to bring the kingdom, not just wait for it to come like a train rumbling into a station.

Thy will be done. See above—we are supposed to listen to God and do what he tells us.

As in Heaven, so on earth. We practice our citizenship rights whenever we do anything in the same way it would be done in “real” Heaven. I say real because we live in such chaos, sometimes seeming so far for Heaven. By giving us this sentence—thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven, Jesus tells us that we can live heavenly lives now, but what does that mean?

Put the most simply—it means spend time with Jesus. He is our best friend. Talk to him, sing to him, ask him for help, ask him for more. Pour out your grief and anger.

If he is new to you, ask him if he is real and what to do next. Read the Bible, especially the Gospels, and if you already know how much he loves you, ask for more, for yourself and for a broken world.

The Music Box

It is morning, the day before my mother’s funeral. My oldest son and I are standing by the French doors in the great room of my mother’s house. He is cleaning the windows and I am admiring the view of the pond when we both hear music coming from the mantle above the fireplace, six to eight feet from where we are standing.

I go over, thinking it must be one of her clocks. It is not. It is a music box, playing its song.

It played for a couple minutes, then the morning quiet resumed.

That was all.

She is not the same

There was a canal outside the city where we would go with cookies some afternoons after school had released us. Watch the boats glide past the steep bank, press down among the long grasses—brittle spun gold—punctuated by poppies

She is not the same anymore

Neither the woman on the canal nor the one in the hospital bed

She has been set free

And I feel the silence

A migratory grief

Sometimes in the head, other times

the heart

Sometimes we drive in the dark

Every once upon a time I take the girls

Driving in the dark

We look for places to call home–ramshackle garage, vape shop, dry cleaner with its window smashed

In the apocalypse there is still no

Room left in the inns of the world they ask

Why did she have to stick the needle in her arm? Why did she stick the needle in her arm? What was it about the needle that

Caused us to lose her?

The little one has poured her anger out over her minders all afternoon

Unwilling to face what it costs them

So I try to de Bergerac her through the necessary obsequities

I tell her I will whisper the words and she will shout–

I’m sorry

I’m sorry!

I’m sorry I was mean before

I’m sorry I was mean before

I was working out my grief

I was working out my grief

And sometimes there is anger in grief

And sometimes there is anger in grief

She has such a comical little girl voice

But when she says these things I know what God means

When He whispers in my ear

Eternal Sea

When I wrote the slim, hasty, typo-ridden memoir Just, I used pseudonyms.

I chose to link my adopted children’s pseudonyms to their first initials C became Sea,

Sea like the color of his eyes

Sea like the cold ocean we stood in together

Sea like the depths, the hidden things both beautiful and terrible, the bigness of it all

Sea, placeholder for the God who makes seas then makes them evanesce

C is lost to me for now. He has disowned both me and the God who made me

But I can still remember

The time you hit your mouth on the hard metal of the seesaw and we had to rush you to the dentist

The way we would wait until you were sleeping to exclaim over your cuteness because

Most times when you were awake there was both sturm und drang

The time we went to the shore and I carried you on my back and you pummeled my head all the way back to the car

If I had a dollar for every time you hurt me or someone else I love dearly

It would not begin to be as much as you are worth

Of your eternal value

Of the Light you can become forever

If you just

Turn and face the Sea.

Flight 752

They boarded the plane. Put their bags in overhead compartments. Scanned the list of drinks and snacks on what they thought would be a long flight. Buckled in the children. Watched the international pantomime for safety on an airplane. Assured flight attendants they were old enough for exit seats.

None of us are

Ready for the impact

The percussion, the fire, the fall

As though the story we had been always told about Icarus was a slanderous lie

He did not fly too close to the sun at all

No warning, no premonition, no string long enough to thread them free of

The labyrinth, the

Friendly fire

The Vigilant Ones

If I were to write a book of fiction for my children I would construct people for them, community, a family, let’s say, a big, sprawling, messy family

Maybe they would live next to some kind of river

Maybe the dogs would talk or the fish would taste like brightly colored jello confections.

Or maybe these fictional people, these purely hypothetical people, would just be back up

The silhouetted figures you might see on the crest of the hill above the sycamore tree as the sun sets

After the dam breaks

When they-you-we

Might need the vigilant ones

The most.

Dear Heart,

I keep thinking about the video of you when you were wee, all dumpling, sass, and wild curls. You were getting ready for something, and judging by your cute little dress, something liturgical. Your dad told you to say goodbye to the camera, but you misunderstood him and thought it was me.

You protested, but she’s my mommy!

Seems like both yesterday and three lives ago.

There are no words for how much you mean to me.

No words for how hard it is to close the book on the always with you chapter of your life.

I love you

All you have been to me

All the joy you are to me.

Poured out perfume which fills the room

Forever.

Love,

But-she’s-my-mommy