The pulse of prayer. [On Lent]

“O Lord, let my soul rise up to meet you

The words beat. Pulse. Breathe. The rhythm starts my day as I dive into the pages of the linen-covered book, the sturdy weight of it in the palms of my cold morning hands. I want those words to become air, sucked violently into my lungs, gasping for Life.

I feel His labored breath in the words these forty days. The steps of his feet on the dirt road to Golgotha beat steady with the rhythm of these united prayers.

I wonder if He knew, when he rode into Jerusalem. Did he see our faces, even today? Did he know what was coming? Surely he knew, for He was The Word and the prophesies were written like ink into his skin. Did he hear the harsh words I’ve spoken? Did he see my judgment eyes? Did he see the way I lose my temper and slip into contempt? Surely he saw them. I see those things staring back at me in the mirror every morning and I wish his Dad had taken that cup from him. In the dark of Gethsemane he asked, and I wonder, just days later, if he saw my darkness while the wood splintered his back.

Now my breathing is labored and I lose sight of the thorns on His brow – they go hidden behind stacks of dishes in the sink and baskets of laundry on the floor.

I feel frenzied and I want to crawl out of my own skin for distancing myself from him. I pray. Gravity finds me and so does He.

I spill hot tears when I think about the journey he took to make the sacrifice. It was a sacrifice that only he could make and I look in the mirror at my sin-stained soul and I am undeserving. We all feel that way as we approach the beautiful darkness on that Good Friday. But here I sit, with a bold community reading the prayers together and our voices ring out and cry out and I believe he hears. He sees our hearts split in two like the temple curtain and with each prayer – morning, midday and evening – he mends us together and hems us in and raises that banner over our heads again – the one that says “Love” and we are made whole and a bright white so pure.

This practice and pacing of liturgy hit my fresh eyes & ears… at first I didn’t feel it. But weeks in, I feel it now – the craving – the desire to read and speak prayers, knowing they are echoed on the shores of the Atlantic and in the spring snow of the midwest. I may sit in my living room, but my heart screams these words out alongside a community and I remember that I am not alone in this journey to remember his sacrifice.

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This post is written as part of the 40 Day Community, started by Megan at SortaCrunchy.

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