Praying With My Eyes Open

Heidi and I sat near a family of three at church recently. To the right of the father was his teenage son with Down Syndrome. Every time we prayed during the service, the father would turn and wholly embrace his son with both arms, and then lean over to press their heads together. The son would turn his head toward his dad, and plant a sacred kiss on the cheek that remained locked and still for the entire prayer.

Amazing to witness. I thought about the affection of the father, then the comfort of the son, then the love between them that rendered selfless and selfish irrelevant. In the midst of this embrace, a prayer passing between them and then up into the heavens and there I found myself perceiving God as much as ever.

Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done

We pray it, then we set about doing it the best we can. And we find courage from those around us that model it in remarkable ways.


* * * *

Each morning, when I get about a block away from Adelaide's school, I turn down the music and reach my hand back toward her. I'll feel her hand grab mine, and then I pray for her day. For her to be a good neighbor, for her to be treated justly, for the school's safety and for her to enjoy learning about our world. It's habit now, but the few times that I have failed to initiate it I get her fiery voice from the back seat, "Da-aad, you didn't pray for me."

We repeat this a block away from Ethan's school.

More often than not the prayers feel like haphazard Hail Mary's into the foggy unknown, but in the routine we affirm our love for one another, our hope for what we perceive to be good, and the kids see my wrestle-worn belief that God is in the mix of it all. What happens beyond that is beyond me, and at some point that is just fine.