It’s hard to write when a baby is crying.
I lay the words aside, over and over, and tumbleweeds roll across my blog and cobwebs hang dusty in the corner.
There’s pain too, and that can either release words in a torrent or swallow them whole in one dark gulp.
I threw out my back. Stomach bugs went through the children. Teething. Babies up throughout the nights, fitful sleep. My father had six bypasses put into his heart. Fevers and hacking coughs. Long hours caring for a friend who has no one; her hand gripping mine ever so tightly while pain wracks her body. Tears like ripe fruit brimming my eyes; with the barest touch they fall, and a perpetual knot made swallowing hard.
There’s more, but that is enough. Who am I to tell you that life can be hard? You know it too; you have your own sorrows.
The match scraping against the box has become a part of my prayer time. It’s like the pistol marking the beginning of the race. We have begun. The end ignites and I light the shrinking, puddling candles in my prayer corner and feel their warmth. I blow out the match and lay it on a growing pile. My prayer book has dog-eared corners; the book’s been opening easily to “Prayer for a Sick Person” and “Compline”. “Prayer for Forgiveness” too.
My eyes read the words and my lips say the words that my soul longs to pray and set heavenward; they are whispered, and the candles lend beauty and warmth on gray days. I tell it to myself, that prayer is the most important work I can offer; that I am not helpless. The enemy knows these things; how often am I led away from my prayer corner, thinking, ah, I should get the laundry changed over first, and then this, then that.
My baby is crying again, and it is hard to write. He is fed, changed; he needs to sleep but fights what is best for him. He and I have much in common.
I used to pray at my bench, but my babies were routinely destroying that sacred space, scattering my candles, mouthing the spent matches, throwing the books on the floor. I have this antique washstand, a beautiful piece, and I moved my prayer corner there, above the curious hands of my toddlers. My beeswax candles hang along the towel rail, my Bible, my lectionary reading calendar, and my prayer book lay unmolested. It’s a place set apart and claimed for holy work.
And when squeezed between a rock and a hard place, you really need a holy place. I didn’t used to believe in them; at least in my head, my theology did away with holy places when the curtain was torn. It didn’t stop my soul from feeling the opposite when sitting in a cathedral, when wandering church ruins. My soul was wiser than my constructs.
A lot changed for me when I read the Old Testament story…
As they were burying a man, behold, they saw a marauding band; and they cast the man into the grave of Elisha. And when the man touched the bones of Elisha he revived and stood up on his feet.
II Kings 13:21
Holiness lingered in the holy man’s bones. Peter’s shadow healed the sick. Handkerchiefs that Paul had touched were brought to the sick and they were made well (Acts 19:12). Holiness permeated matter, and suddenly, matter mattered.
This made the keeping of relics of saints a whole lot more understandable; it wasn’t some macabre idolatry, but rather an acknowledgement that holiness remained; that God’s working Presence doesn’t desert our matter; that our matter truly matters.
As this hard season continues, I have deep gratitude for my holy work in my holy place, and the Holy One who catches every whispered word.