Sunday, February 17, 2008

In a Tender Waking Hour

I’ve prayed rushing off to somewhere else. I’ve prayed with my hand on the fevered head of my child. I’ve prayed while my husband slept. I’ve prayed beside my child’s crib. I’ve prayed by candlelight but also bright stadium light. I’ve prayed in the massive roar of a conference. I’ve prayed in traffic. I’ve prayed on the floor of my office. I’ve prayed in a rose garden, beneath a cherry tree, in a strawberry patch, under a clothesline, on the side of a mountain, a pond, a rushing stream, a placid lake, and a roaring ocean’s tide. I’ve prayed flying through the troposphere, in a storm, even in a hurricane. I’ve prayed while at the end of my faith when God was quiet, even cruelly silent. I’ve prayed when told, “Stop praying! What’s the use?” I’ve prayed when the last thing I wanted to do was pray. Yet in all the roar of worry, complaints, trials, and terrors that have brought me to my knees, it is in the tender waking hour of first light, when there is only a trace of heaven in the sky, when the stars emote a final pulse, that I hear the Quiet Whisper, like a gong going off in my soul, “Be still and know I AM.”