Heather Jane Writes

Tag: Faith

  • Why do I Pray?

    Why do I Pray?

    Why do you pray? Or why don’t you pray?

    In the four years that I was in Education for Ministry (EfM), there was always a point in the year when the conversation would turn to prayer. Growing up, I went to mostly Baptist and other evangelical churches, where prayers were created on the spot. The people in those pews knew how to string words together from Dear Lord to Amen. Most of the people in my EfM class had grown up in the Episcopal Church, which has a whole book of prayers for every occasion. Want to express some gratitude to God? It’s in there. Need a prayer for an election? Covered. Many of them found praying with their own words much harder to do.

    In talking about prayer, we would often share what prayer looks like for each person. So, as I think about this question – why do I pray (because I do pray) – my mind immediately goes to what I do. For me, I have three ways that I do it:

     

    As if my voice were connected to my feet.

    This afternoon, we did a prayer walk around Avondale Park and a few blocks in the Avondale community. Our goal was to listen to and watch what was happening around us. We sought out the places where we felt God and hoped to hear God telling us what would happen to us next. There was more talking amongst ourselves than there was prayer in the traditional sense. I like to think God was the introvert walking along at the back of the group taking everything in. Then, when we sat on the grass at the park to talk through what we were hearing, he whispered questions to us. He did not stand up, point to an empty house, and say, “That is your house.” He whispered, “Have you asked anyone else what they are feeling called to do?”

    When I lived in Franklin, TN, I used to pace and pray. I walked in circles in the living room asking God to bring me a friend to ease my loneliness. He answered that prayer in the most beautiful way. In more recent times, I told God that I no longer wanted to say that prayer. I wanted to be alone. He ignored that prayer. Thanks goodness He did.

     

    As if God were in the passenger seat of my car, gripping the seatbelt for dear life.

    The second type of prayer I love is the great debate in the car. This started when I began working. I had enough time from work to home that I could have a good, casual conversation with God. I have figured out a lot about my theology in those conversations. I have cried and laughed in the same conversation. Those are the ones where I have felt God the most.

    In 2020, I stopped commuting to work and did not make the hour-long trip up and back to see my mother like I used to. I am not a very good driver, often distracted by my own thoughts, so I found the time outside of the car to be a blessing. Tonight, though, I am realizing that I lost something last year – a way to pray.

     

    As if I am pressed down by the world.

    The last type of prayer is the fervent one where I am kneeling on the floor and my forehead is pressed down into my hands. Those are either the desperate cries for help or the overwhelmed cries of joy. Those feel like the most reverential. I am presenting myself in front of a God of great power and love in those moments.

    The other day, I stopped working in the middle of the day. I went and knelt in front of our makeshift altar area and said a prayer. I remember it feeling like a very significant, holy time. Today, I have no clue why.

    When my grandmother was close to dying, I knelt in the floor of my mother’s house and prayed. I gave God an either or situation. If it were His will and could be done with complete healing and no more pain, I asked Him to keep my grandmother alive. Immediately after that I gave him the other option. Let her pass quickly so that her pain would go away. My prayer that night ended up being about preparing my heart to accept either answer.

     

    But why do I pray?

    I’ve talked so much about how I pray, but I can’t seem to get to the answer to the why I pray. My view of God is of a personal relationship. I pray for the same reason I call my mother. I want to be in relationship with God. I don’t want to worship something or someone that is distant from me. I want to believe that I can have a deep conversation with Him or pretend that He has a sense of humor. I want to believe that I feel a presence in the room with me. And that by speaking things out loud, even if it is just a low whine in the back of my throat, that someone hears me. That someone cares.

  • Making Peace

    Making Peace

    This was written as a sermon prompt for The Abbey worshipping community. It is a reflection on the story of Jesus overturning the tables of the money changers in the temple (John 2:13-22 (LectionaryPage.net).

    I’m not a table flipper. In fact, if I had been with Jesus and the disciples on that day, I would have probably been nervous, watching the reaction of the religious leaders. I might have even made some excuse about the long journey we had been on, lack of sleep, or the fact that Jesus had not had a good breakfast that morning. Inside though, I would have been proud of what he did and envious of his ability to do it. He saw the same injustices that I did, but he was willing to do something drastic about it.

    I’m a peacekeeper. I see the injustices in the world, but my knee-jerk response is to try to make the world get along. I want conflict to end and for us to find some common ground. The problem with that is keeping the peace often allows injustices to continue and ultimately, the relationships are broken beyond repair.

    Jesus was a peacemaker. There’s a difference between the two. Peacekeeping often avoids conflict. Peacemaking often requires conflict. I heard this important distinction recently in a podcast episode by Joshua Luke Smith. He gave me a new perspective on the word “confrontation.” He said we need to stop looking at confrontation in negative terms. It isn’t arguing with people on social media or going on a crusade against the world – though both of those might happen. Confrontation is reconciliation and restoration. When we try to keep the peace in our relationships, we often do not speak up when we’ve been hurt. When we do that, the relationship becomes broken by the unspoken words and feelings between us. But, when we seek to make peace, we reach out to the other side. Sometimes, that is simply opening a dialogue where both voices can be heard. Sometimes, that is calling injustice behaviors out or doing something bold to make it difficult for the injustice to continue being hidden.

    I’m scared to be a peacemaker. Ironically, I realized today that I have every trait to be one according to an enneagram definition of it. I am a people-pleaser, friendly, agreeable, cooperative, adaptable, trusting easy-going, and empathetic. I may never flip a table, but maybe I’ll have the courage to write or say something bold one day. All I need now is a stronger desire to make peace rather than try to just keep it.

    How can we be peacemakers instead of peacekeepers?

  • Letter from my father to his parents from Vietnam – Dec. 10

    Letter from my father to his parents from Vietnam – Dec. 10

    In the two and half page letter my father wrote to his parents, most of it is a discussion about the weather. He remarks that someone told him that it was cold back in the states. Then, he talks about how Vietnam has two seasons – “hot and dry” and “hot and wet.”

    This stuck in my head because it is one of the safest topics you can talk about to someone. When you meet someone, commenting on the weather is a go-to topic to get the conversation started. Yet, in this letter, my father is connecting with his parents from halfway around the world. He doesn’t need the weather to get the conversation started. He needs the weather to make what his life is in that moment feel normal again.

    Right after the description of the weather is what I expected to read when he gave me this set of letters. He talks about how “Charlie” fired on them the night before. He compares the enemy fire to the louder sound of the firing from his unit. He’s heard them enough that they have become normal to him. They are so part of his daily routine that he sleeps right through them.

    I have heard cannon shots a few times in my life, and they have always startled me even though I knew they were coming. I can remember the vibrations from the sound in my chest. I think about my father in his bed, his eyes closed, and his chest vibrating from the concussive blows of the guns nearby. I wondered if for a second his heart rouses his brain and then his brain reminds his heart that it is our fire and not the enemy that it hears.

    I think in life, we can become so desensitized the trauma around us that we no longer see it. We walk past homeless people with our eyes closed. We see injustice and we don’t question whether we should fix the system that is broken that caused the injustice. We accept hate and complain that there is not enough love in the world.

    At this time in our society, there are huge 105 mm howitzers blasting away and vibrating our hearts. Sometimes, we listen to our hearts and for a few seconds we start to move to action – whether fight or flight. Then, our brain tells us that it is our fire and not the enemies or that even if it is the enemies, it will not affect our sleep tonight.

    What does it take to make someone hear the 105 mm howitzers again and to care enough to make them stop? Because on the other size of the field or mountain of the war is someone like my father, sleeping despite the sound of rounds falling around him. Maybe he is huddled into a small space underground or camouflaged in a tree. I wonder if the next day, he wrote a letter to his parents talking about the nuances of the “hot and dry” season they were having and at the end mentioned that he was not afraid of the enemy fire falling around him.

    What is to be learned from this moment? What will stick with me after I leave this time? There is a song I heard recently that I have fallen in love with because it does in me what the title asks it to do: Did Trouble Me. Trouble me, oh Lord. Trouble me in a way that my heart startles from its sleep. Trouble me in a way that shushes my brain’s excuses as to why I should not stand; why I should not speak. Trouble me, Lord, in a way that makes me rush across the field to the man on the other side of the war.

    In the earlier part of this letter, my father mentions that he received a package from his parents. Very likely, that package contained at least one tin of chocolate-chip cookies. My grandmother was known for her cookies, and I have fond memories of receiving my own box of baked goods in December for Christmas. In my mind, I can see my father grabbing that tin of cookies as he rushes out of his tent to stop this crazy war. If only cookies could make the barriers that divide us crumble, make hatred cease, and heal our hearts so that we could live in peace. Do trouble me, Lord. Do trouble me.

    The Inspiration