Sometimes I wonder about prayers. And do they really work. I pray every morning, it's the second thing I do after saying thank you and I am grateful for my nights sleep.
Prayer. I sometimes feel not sure, but I do it every day. And then recently, in my bereavement group, I listened to the prayers in a different way.
I realized that what saved my heart in the first days of Bartholemew's passing were prayers.
I could lean into them. I could hold on to these words of healing, like a soothing balm on my soul that was trying to make sense of this tragedy. I could lean into a knowing that was greater than I am.
At that time every Wednesday, a prayer lady would call and pray with me. And I depended on that call. I depended on those prayers. Because that was all I had.
There was nothing in my arsenal of living that prepared me for Bartholemew taking his life.
Nothing.
So the prayers gave me a measure of peace, I wanted to live in that field forever as if it could take away the pain and the knowing that this tragedy of trauma has happened to me.
For many weeks I had a prayer call every Wednesday. And I raced home to sit in a chair take as deep a breath as I could to receive the words of god, of peace beyond human understanding, and all knowing.
Now I don't have those prayer calls. But I remember how valuable they were to me.
And now, I pray. I pray for myself, for Bartholemew's life eternal, Miles, his father, my friends, people who upset me...I pray for everyone.
I wonder if they feel the prayers surrounding them in love, in healing, in compassion, in grace, in forgivenesss....I offer them with no expectation. They help me to heal.
And the words are carried on the waves of the vibration that we cannot see with our eyes but exists.
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