Dear God,
you don’t mind my saying so,
prayer can be boring.
I sit here, like someone waiting
in the restaurant for her date,
eyes politely averted
from the heaping plates of other diners
(okay, I do sneak a peak now and then)
while hoping that I haven’t been stood up.
you don’t mind my saying so,
it seems to me that you could liven things up a bit —
without, of course, livening them with
hurricanes or deaths or sickness—
I’m sure you know what I mean,
but I thought I’d make it clear just in case.
you don’t mind my saying so,
just a little action once in a while would be quite nice.
I’m not asking for ladders to heaven
with angels going up and down
(okay, sometimes an angel or two would be most welcome)
or wrestling until break of day like Jacob
(anyhow you know I’ve already done my share of that).
you don’t mind my saying so,
although mysterious is all well and good,
and darkness is restful when I’m tired and want to sleep,
and silence a relief from the clatter of the street,
still and all, your Mystery,
your total, deep, and holy Mystery,
can overwhelm me when I’m fearful and need a little light.
Signed with love,
your sometimes-faithful, restless child,
who is still waiting
and knows you don’t mind my saying so.
All that is most important about us happens at a level below consciousness. So real prayer, prayer in its very essence, escapes our direct consciousness. Everything depends on our believing God is Love, utterly faithful, good and generous. Everything depends, too, on our handing ourselves over to God’s loving designs, asking for no tangible certainties.
Ruth Burrows, Essence of Prayer