What is the difference, exactly, between a wish fervently made and a prayer fervently offered? What is the difference between begging Fate or Life or Time for deliverance and begging God for the same thing? Nothing in experience is exact, it turns out—not differences, not similarities. Fire is fire yet never once replicates its flames. Desire is desire yet each moment we are made new to experience longing in new ways, to suffer distance or absence, and the sometime irrevocable silence that goes with them. I remember when I was young the precious moments of approaching a fountain in some public square or formal garden and waiting for my father to produce coins for me and my brother to toss in. “Make a wish,” was the instruction offered with the unspoken assurance that my wish would be heard somehow, would resonate with the music of the scientifically unexplored celestial spheres. Holy moments, these. Last week, my husband and son and I came upon just such a fountain in a public park—a grand octagonal pool around an urn spilling ardent waterfalls. There were no cherubs carved in the marble or cast in bronze, but the fountain seemed celestial enough and full of promise. Coins glittered on the pool’s bottom, copper and silver stars in the deep space of blue tile. We could see them perfectly. There was no doubt what they were for. I asked my son, “Do you want a coin to toss?” At fifteen, he stands five-feet, ten-inches tall, no longer a child in any sense. “It’s silly,” he said. I turned back to the fountain and into an intense, interior silence, full of my father, rippling with longing. It turns out, I’m not done with wishing. Even without a coin, I offer my prayers. Even without spheres, the heavens still sing for me. Karen Jessee If you would like to contribute to the reflection and share with other readers, please press on the word "comments" below. Thank you!
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"Sticks and stones might break my bones, but names can never hurt me." Oh, but they do! Words can hurt—the name-calling of childhood, the name-calling of adulthood, the criticism poorly conceived and offered or poorly timed, the epithet thrown, the venting another does as they hurl their own hurt around. People have always used language to hurt each other. Hence the admonition in the book of Proverbs: There is one whose rash words are like sword thrusts, but the tongue of the wise brings healing. --- Proverbs 12:18 I better keep watch over my mouth. But what do I do when I’m on the receiving end of anger? Personally, I sit there, stand there, whatever there, stunned. I play possum. I wait for the angry words and tone of voice and charge, charge, charge! to stop. Then, I wander around dazed for a few days wondering if my possum is really dead. Am I truly flattened because someone has expressed a low opinion of me? I’ve never seen a possum “come back to life,” but I assume he is as surprised as anyone he made it through his trial alive. My question is, how will I know I’ve made it through my trial? How will I know it’s over and life is safe again? Maybe the rhyme I started with is right. Maybe, unless someone’s throwing actual stones at me, life is already safe enough. Maybe, if I’m still moving, breathing, able to speak on my own behalf, I’m a possum on the prowl attending to business. The act of speaking on my own behalf is a far cry from playing dead, and advocating for myself might actually foster the interpersonal safety I’m desperate for. Even so, I am tempted to lie down every time I think of speaking up. What will I say? Where will I find my words? What’s really important to me? What’s life all about? A poor possum’s brain isn’t big enough to process all this. Fortunately, there’s more to a creature than its brain. When I’ve found my feet, I might discover I’m not actually broken. I just feel broken. And, since I have a whole body at my disposal, there are probably many ways to spend my time after not being actually dead. Perseverating doesn’t help. Doing the laundry can. I don’t know the mechanism by which doing the laundry heals the soft wounds in me. I do know that God loves a humble servant, someone who seizes the day and does what’s important in the moment. A servant may hardly be mentioned but nonetheless play a critical role in a scripture story—the good Samaritan’s innkeeper (Luke 10:35), servants at the home of the prodigal son’s father (Luke 15:22-23) , the ones who prepare the upper room for Jesus and his friends to share a sacred meal (Luke 22:10-12). Practically nothing is written about them, yet their faithfulness carries these stories to their redemptive ends. So, I can fold socks. I can care for the people given to me to care for. I can fetch a proverbial ring and cloak then fetch mundane groceries at the store. I can clean house. There is always something to do which will get me out of wanting to defend myself. I can get on with life, letting my brain rest. By some mystery and God’s grace, when the time actually comes to speak my peace, I will know what to say in a clear and compassionate way. Karen Jessee If you would like to contribute to the reflection and share with other readers, please press on the word "comments" below. Thank you!
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