It’s not even a prayer, O Wild Whisper. It’s merely words strung together, bumbles of syllables and sounds, mutterings and half-finished thoughts, vain longings and (when I’m not careful) a snippet of heart truths that I prefer to keep to myself. I press on to meet you this way, to reach you this way, but what are nouns and verbs and punctuation compared to Life and Spirit? Of what usefulness are tongues, of what meaning are enunciations when all heaven sings your praises and every holy whim is more wise than my very best effort? Ah Sweet Mercy, bear to wade through my words and call me to the prudence of silence.


I am willing not to know, O God. By which I mean, damn I don’t know at all, so let me make peace with it anyway. By which I mean, thank goodness you are God and I am not. By which I mean, patience is overrated. By which I mean, I am overwhelmingly grateful for your grace. By which I mean, it’d be so much better if I knew. By which I mean, your endless capacity for creativity is amazing. By which I mean, I hate surprises. By which I mean, thank you for all that is yet to be. Amen.