I hadn't intended this blog to be a book review; more of a homesteading journey, a chronicle, a bit of an almanac, a how-to recipe organizer kind of place. Oh well, this is a season I suppose. I just re-read the first chapter entitled Beginning in Emilie Griffin's 'Clinging' on prayer. The opening paragraph really grabbed me by the throat.
"There is a moment between intending to pray and actually praying that is as dark and silent as any moment in our lives. ...an abyss of our own making that separates us from God"
It hit me where I live. Where I am. Where I've been before. In that gulf, that dry place; questioning, anxious, afraid, cringing at the change to come if I really jump off, enter in, relinquish the driver's seat (realize I'd never really been in it). I'm hesitant to even begin the next chapter (entitled Yielding!) much less begin to pray.
Prayer changes things. Once entered into who can know where it will lead? I mean really, a conversation with the all-knowing, all-powerful, maker of heaven and earth? Sounds fabulous. Who wouldn't want to enter in? Why wouldn't I? Maybe because I have a sense that change is in order, perhaps overdue. Maybe I don't want anything to change?
Maybe if I'm really honest, I don't want to change.
I like my life. I love my farm, my home, my animals, my dude. Not necessarily in that order. I like growing and preserving our food and sharing that with others. I like my job, my boss, what we do there and how that impacts our community. I want to do more, not less. I want more hours in the day, more time. Approaching the end of my 56th trip (or 55th or 57th, hard for me to nail that down.) around the sun I am impressed that time is short and that there is so much more to be done. Tomorrow is not promised! I've always known this, we all know this. It just seems so much more real now.
I'm the healthy one, the one who doesn't get sick. But I just spent several days in the hospital on IV antibiotics with a life-threatening infection on my face. On my face! Right up there near all the really important real estate, the heart, the lungs, the brain. I was told not to worry when I asked, "How do I prevent this in the future?" When we see this on the face it is usually a one and done sort of thing they told me. Just go home and do your thing. Do what you always do they said. So I did. I came home. I finished the antibiotics and all the horrors that that implies. I don't do antibiotics well. But I was good. I did everything I was supposed to do.
When we are good, when we do what is right, what is good for us and good for others we expect good to follow. Good results. But. Hahaha, there's that but! But the thing came back and I panicked. Panicked! Really panicked. Three trips to the VA in four days panicked. Back on the awful antibiotics panicked. Reading books on prayer and being afraid to pray panicked. Doing the 'what ifs' panicked. I'll spare you all the what ifs, I'm sure you have our own list.
I think Dane was getting a little irritated with me, "It could be worse" he said. He knows. He really knows. He's seen worse, been through worse, up close and personal. He survived his first wife of 30 years who died of cancer. I'd hate for him to have to go through that again. The truth is though that one of us will. Barring a freak accident that takes us both, one of us will outlive the other. We are all dying, it's just a matter of time.
I'm not afraid of dying. What I am afraid of is living. Living with illness, living with infirmity scares me. I don't do sick well; my pride prevents me from asking for help. Dependency scares me. Being a burden scares me. Not being able to do what I set out to do scares me.
And so, here I stand (or here I soak, as this is where I do my deep thinking these days) on the brink of that abyss. Here in that moment between thinking about praying and actually entering into prayer. Entering into the presence of the one who made me, fashioned me in my mother's womb, knows my every thought before I even think it. Loves me unconditionally. What could go wrong...?
