I have been prayed for more times that I know. There were blessings I requested two years ago, sending an email to those I loved: “I am struggling and trying to do something different. Because so often I find myself not knowing what to ask for or which direction to turn, I wonder if you would be willing to write a prayer for healing that I might use until I uncover my own words.” January 21, 2008

I am no different than most. I tried everything else first. I went to doctors, to therapists, to friends. I tried pills, meditation, yoga, and hospitals. I read books and asked questions, consulted experts who promised to fix. I looked everywhere else first because it didn’t cross my mind. Prayer was for Saturday mornings and lighting the shabbos candles, but as a method for healing, it seemed like a waste of time.
There is a difference between forming words while bowing at the appropriate moment and meaningful prayer. I could read Hebrew but I didn’t understand a word. Reading the translations left me indifferent, dark shadows versus flames of being heard or strength located to hold me upright. I had no idea where to start, how to uncover holiness, or even if I really believed my appeals would be heard. But like so many who wander the midnight streets, I was willing to try.
So I asked and I received. I gathered pages of prayers written by family, friends, those I loved, and those that loved them. I sifted through words of healing, painful petitions and knee-bended supplications, generous donations of soul anchoring me to this world. I was the beneficiary of faithful strangers, pleas recited in circles, songs sung for life.

And for whom were the prayers? I can close my eyes and beg for what I think I need or for your health or her sanity, but I am too small to see the ripples. The answer that I really require might have nothing to do with my friend and everything to do with my connection with the Holy, my connection with my soul. Maybe my pleas are answered by the arms that carry me when I tire, by the friends who listen to worries, by family who show up even if I am absent. Perhaps the prayers of years ago were answered as balm for the praying, back door answers bolstering those who bore the burden of fear.
I cannot understand the power of prayer and I cannot judge the answers. I do not question the whys of my journey or demand explanations for pain. As a single leaf, I am blind to the magnificence of my oak tree. I do not know for whom or how or why. I do not comprehend the power of voices rising together, or the potency of ancient words to cure. I can’t convince you with remote prayer statistics or research study data. But I do believe. And perhaps the prayers were answered in this: I finally found my own words. I found my own prayers.
I learned how to lean on ancient blessings and communal words. I learned how to locate the holiness in the spaces between, and how to read the verses of the heart. I practice caring less about specific words and more about the quest for connection, the desire for the holy. I learned that it is in the praying I find my G-d, that I find myself. I learned that hugs are blessings and hands are answers. I found the sanctity in laughter and the holiness in family.
I still don’t know how prayer works or when my prayers will be answered. I don’t always know what I need or for whom to pray. There are times my words become rote, hollow letters strung together, and times when I doubt. But I show up anyway and each morning I say a prayer of thanks.
Thank you for blessing me with unanswered prayers. Thank you for not giving me what I asked for as I begged for an ending. Thank you for responding to the plea behind my words, for knowing the answer I needed was resilient love instead of a burial plot.
Thank you for blessing me with unanswered prayers. Thank you for life.
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woah, I think this one is the best yet (in my humble oppinion!). Truly beautiful darling, I am inspired and feel blessed to know you.
ReplyDeleteThank you, your words are healing xxx
This is my favorite line ever....."But like so many who wander the midnight streets"
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