Prayer at 3 AM for one loved and laying long in a hospital

 

Lord, lead him beside those still waters,
            those green pastures,
for his dreams glare of florescent halls,
and his thoughts are collections of knives.

An old charge, tedious for You:
if You are all powerful, all merciful,
            whence my sweet son,
who’s suffering is continual?

This is my immodest prayer,
full of accusations,
empty of understanding.

Should I pile on more praises,
change my disposition, shall I kneel in the dark,
shall I prostrate, can I offer a limb, give my life?

My heart is all will, my soul is all brain,
my prayers are connivings and deals going down.
And the more I pray
            …the further away.

You, Lord, who questions through hurricane,
and answers by absence,
arrow me a divine-thought, real as rock
and quick as light, to unwill my heart,
and re-mystify my prayer—to make of it,
            actual prayer.

Here’s what I know:
despair and pain,
like an epi-gene,
can switch on faith,
or just as soon kill it.

So lift me beyond my simmering transactions,
my heaving sea of abject solutions,
into the flickering light of fertile doubt,
            again to stand
on the dark shore of an awe-full faith.

And I will pray to give up this praying.
I will pray to You, to be free of You,
            the You of my making.

Yet this I plead, and will not cease:
            raise and release him,
back to a regular life, like all lives,
with our gales and hard weather, our
            graftings of awe and cuttings of joy.

 

32 Comments

  1. Stephen, your words were like an arrow that pierced the inner defenses that have kept me from asking God the hard question of “Who are you?” The defenses have needed to be cracked open enough for the honest asking and, hopefully, for the hearing. And praying for you in your questions, and him and both of you in his pain. In spite of all, may you both be enfolded in mercy.

  2. Oh my, such a potent cry this morning. I hear your pain, your angst, your ‘prayer’ and doubt. Such a struggle. Thank-you for your transparency here Stephen. I feel your pain. If only your son could heal, your prayers answered. I appreciate your humanness. Thank-you for that. May you sleep well tonight.

  3. “ And I will pray to give up this praying.
    I will pray to You, to be free of You,
    the You of my making.”. ..That sweet switch of surrender.
    This is why I love your poetry.

  4. Whether intended or not, Steve, you’ve engaged us all in the pain of surrender, and your honest portrayal of the experience is inspiring.

  5. Thank you for sharing this personal and vulnerable poem, Stephen. I don’t know you personally, so I can only imagine what sufferings you and your loved one experience. Yet I relate to it. I can no longer pray the prayers of “faith” that I used to pray to a god I know longer believe in. But I still plead to the deep and unfathomable mystery of love that enfolds us all.

  6. Weeping here. I’ve not been able to read poetry lately. Glad I chose to open this one. Odd word, glad. Relieved to see words and questions so much like my own. Articulated far beyond what I can form with this clenched jaw.

  7. I’m struck by the move from the shepherd’s psalm to Job’s anguish. Your poem engages also a New Testament picture – the fellowship of suffering (Philippians 3:10) which for me is somewhere near the heart of the gospel. But this has been so long already…..

  8. Oh Stephen,
    when it comes to laying it all down
    not in defeat
    but in anguished
    surrender

    for what we know
    for what we
    cannot know

    surrounding you in love and kindness
    and a gentle merciful peace
    to rest
    in your hearts <3

  9. Every SB poem touches a chord somewhere but this one pulls your many readers together not only to praise your fine writing but also to throw our arms around your family, even at a distance. I send my strongest hopes in your son’s direction, and I will keep him in my thoughts.

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *