Prayer

Fieldnote on presence, paradox, and the sacred hidden in ordinary life.

This morning I returned to The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran.

It took me back to prayer.

And to the different perspectives on religion that shaped my childhood.

Baptized Anglican.

Then again Pentecostal.

Influenced by a Christian grandmother who attended whatever denomination happened to be wherever she was standing.

Childish jokes.

A bop on the head.

“You are healed.”

Prayer through tears.

Prayer over bread.

Watching my grandmother baptized in the lakes of the Haliburton Highlands.

Followed by tuna noodle casserole and a cigarette snuck in the car on the drive home.

Religion was embodied by living life in balance… but living life, none the less.

Not despite the contradictions.

Through them.

I miss my grandmother with more depth than I have the words to explain today.

Maybe another day.

Or maybe it’s something that only exists between her and me.

But one thing reading The Prophet reminded me of this morning was this:

Prayer is not about getting something from God; it is about becoming more fully present to life, to yourself, and to the sacred… whether you arrive with tears or gratitude.

Perhaps that was the lesson.

From The Prophet.

From my grandmother.

Perhaps prayer has never been about changing the world around us.

Perhaps it has always been about arriving more fully inside it.

…

As I’m writing this, Elvis suddenly starts playing.

She loved Elvis.

I love Elvis.

And then another completely random fact wanders into my head.

Elvis only ever won Grammys for his gospel recordings.

Random facts.

Random memories.

Thank you, Grama.