Prayer Continuing

     Why is it that what I’m praying moves from words to flesh? Last week, the prayer at the beginning of the day came to life in the shape of a math teacher.

An awful note came home on my son’s test. It took legitimate criticism into the land of undeserved negative reinforcement. When I spoke with its author, expressing my concern over the comments and asking to meet with her, she was surprised. If I had no issue with the her assessment of my son’s skills, why would I object to the note? A week and a few notes to school later, I went to meet her.

The easiest way to make her understand what she did wrong: wave my PhD and years of educational theory in front of her and perform a cutting assessment of the note. Use big words and direct eye contact. Prepare counter arguments in advance, and make sure she wouldn’t be sending notes like that again – to my son or any other student in her class. Turnabout is fair play, after all. Except I’ve spent the last couple of weeks asking God to “teach me to act firmly and wisely, without embittering and embarrassing others.”

I went to the meeting, listened to the teacher, and asked her to listen to what she wrote. What I learned: she is a good teacher of math, not such a good teacher of children. There was no ill intention, just a lack of emotional understanding – no ability to see that how something is expressed matters. Because she had already adopted a more positive attitude toward my son, I let the matter drop. I asked that future notes be sent to me rather than my son. No one was embarrassed or left embittered, and my son won’t have to read hurtful notes.

My son and I settled on a plan: he will forgive her verbal missteps and I will diligently reinterpret future notes. We will take into consideration her shortcomings and feelings, and continue to give her the benefit of the doubt. If another incident arises, I will meet with her again. We will keep praying for her, caring about her into the future. Will she have any awareness or gratitude for this? I don’t know, but I am aware of the grace I received: the chance to act firmly and wisely, without embittering and embarrassing another – and to see my son do the same. For such grace, I give thanks.

Amen.

O Lord, Grant me to greet the coming day in peace. Help me in all things to rely upon thy holy will. In every hour of the day reveal thy will to me. Bless my dealings with all who surround me. Teach me to treat all that comes to me throughout the day with peace of soul, and with firm conviction that thy will governs all. In all my deeds and words guide my thoughts and feelings. In unforeseen events let me not forget that all are sent by thee. Teach me to act firmly and wisely, without embittering and embarrassing others. Give me strength to bear the fatigue of the coming day with all that it shall bring. Direct my will, teach me to pray, pray thou thyself in me. Amen. (Metropolitan Philaret of Moscow, d. 1867. From A Manual of Eastern Orthodox Prayers, Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1991, p. 20)

I missed something when I copied this prayer. Not a word, but a space. Here it is:

Direct my will, teach me to pray, pray thou thyself in me.   Amen.

In my prayer manual, there is a three letter space separating the Amen from the rest of the prayer. I missed the presence of this absence when I began writing this prayer, paying no attention whatsoever to what wasn’t there. I might chalk it up as a printer’s mistake if there weren’t three spaces separating every writing in the prayer book from its concluding amen. Not an accident, then, but an intentional separation. If this were a book of prayers created for communal worship, I might think the space was added to remind the priest that the “amen” wasn’t his or her line – it’s the response of the congregation. But this is a book created for private devotional use. The one who says the prayer also says the amen, so why include a space?

Amen can be translated many ways: so be it, let it be, or make is so (the Star Trek: Next Generation version). It’s more than agreeing with a prayer, it’s asking God to make real what has been said. The gap between a prayer and an amen is there for a very good reason: to give me time to decide if I really want to commit the words to God. Do I really, truly want these words to be made real? Am I willing to be transformed by them – and work for the reality they bring? It’s one thing to mouth words about wanting the holiness of God to transform my life, it’s another to commit myself to it. Words are powerful, and prayers can change the world. Am I really ready to see the face of God in everything and everyone, even in myself? Words of prayer are a door into God’s love: the amen is taking hold of the Spirit’s hand and going through it.

With every amen, I cross a threshold. Once I move from the prayer to the amen, there’s no going back. Only God knows what adventures will follow. Chances are, I’ll be changed each and every time. The space tells me to be aware. This is a doorway to eternal love: enter at God’s own risk.

Direct my will, teach me to pray, pray thou thyself in me.

Direct my will, because will without direction spends itself getting lost in the maze of distractions that every day offers. When you direct my will, the world changes from a maze that confuses me to a labyrinth that leads me to you.

      Teach me to pray, because I can’t hear you or talk to you without learning from you. Prayer is holding myself and others up to you, handing my world back to you. Teach me, or I will grasp at things and cling to them rather than opening myself to your embrace.

     Pray thou thyself in me, because who I am is rooted in who you are. When you pray in me, my smallest self is embraced by you.

      Praying is dancing. When we are babies, someone dances us around, held in arms high above the floor. As we grow, someone slides feet under ours, teaching us the steps, holding us secure as we move to the music. When we put away childish size, we stand on our own feet, dancing with the partner of our soul who has shown us grace from the very first minute the music began.

Give me strength to bear the fatigue of the coming day with all that it shall bring.

     When I first read this line, I took it to mean something like this: Every single thing the day brings requires energy, and I ask for the strength to meet each one of them even when I am tired. At first glance, it’s the day that’s bringing all things. But it’s not the only way to read this line.

     Today, give me strength to carry what being exhausted brings into my life. It’s not the things that the day shall bring, but all the things that fatigue brings. Fatigue is an exhaustion that comes from extreme mental or physical exertion. Weeks and months can go by in a blur because it takes every ounce of energy just to survive each day. Every moment becomes something to endure rather than something intentionally lived. Life can be reduced to checking off a nearly infinite to-do list with little time to enjoy a single item on it. Fatigue brings with it a life nearly impossible to bear with hope. Finally, it brings the truth: God’s strength is the only resource sufficient for such a time.

This happened to me once. My husband and I had moved to New York City where he was soon immersed in a new graduate program. I was busy with our infant son, teaching classes at New Brunswick Seminary, writing a dissertation, daily housework, and adjusting to my new home. Like Emily in Our Town, I realized that I was missing the beauty of my days. I could get everything done, but couldn’t seem to appreciate it or muster the strength to find God in it. With no better idea, I took a chance and met with Brother Clark for spiritual direction.  Brother Clark listened to me, paused, and said, “It sounds to me like you’re dealing with the blessing of answered prayer.”

He was right. All of it came from receiving a yes to heartfelt prayer. Although nothing changed, my world was transformed.

I think both readings of this line bring hope and peace. I ask for strength to bear what the day brings, and I need strength to bear what fatigue brings. Once upon a time in New York City, the day brought me the blessed reality of answered prayer – and fatigue brought me the truth that I could live in its midst and never see it.

Teach me to act firmly and wisely, without embittering and embarrassing others.

I learned the tango for a part in a high school musical. My partner and I had fun with the steps, but the overhead lift was scary. It took many drops and falls to figure out what was necessary to do the lift without injury: firm position, flexibility, and repeated forgiveness of mistakes. If I went limp, he couldn’t lift me; if his arms were too rigid, I’d land head first on the floor behind him. We made many mistakes, and we both got bruised. We had to trust each other while we danced, and we had to work with each other rather than against. Bumps and misplaced body parts were just a part of learning the dance, not evidence of the other person’s ineptitude. When we danced onstage, we weren’t perfect but we were partners.

Learning to tango helps me with this line. Acting firmly isn’t maintaining a position with no give – that kind of rigidity puts someone on the floor. Acting firmly is taking responsibility for my own part in how today’s dance turns out, not taking all the blame or foisting it onto my partner (That might produce a great argument, but not a dance). I can learn from my missteps and forgive the missteps of others, not becoming bitter or seeking to embarrass others.

Wisdom is knowing that life is a dance more than a race.  The purpose is to move together to create something beautiful, not to leave someone in the dust. God alone can teach me to see a dance floor instead of a race track.

Today is a dance and everyone I encounter is my partner. When I act firmly and trust my partner’s strength, the lift works. Isn’t that the point – using my strength to lift another, and trusting the strength of the other enough to defy gravity? I may not be perfect today, but I’ll dance.