Pray for prayer

I listen. To the prayers I don't understand. And the ones I'm not saying. The overlap and communion of breath. The clash and skism of all these words being spoken in unity. I sit below the chapel and drink a cup of coffee, not wanting to interfere with these intimate conversations with god. Like walking into a kitchen conversation when a couple has been arguing. They speak gruffly and urgently. They plead and bargain. They give thanks. So much thanks. For what they have and what they don't. What they are and what they are not. What they have done, and what they have not done. 

And I am thankful too. 

I listen to their prayers, and I close my eyes.

For the words I don't have. 

And the heart I can't muster.

Sunday morning

They came early in the morning. In their starchy shirts, and their polished shoes. Their hats laced with tulle and plastic baby's breath. Children clinging to skirts, and bibles in hand. A steady stream of an  older generation. A different time. 

What are they doing here, I asked.

'Who, them?'

Yes. All those church people.

Their church came down in the earthquake. 

Michael gave them the chapel to have their services. 

Like Christ

A deaf man came and sat outside st. Joseph's today. Quietly, patiently, he waited. Hours passed, and he talked softly, to himself, aware that no one understood him. As I walked through the gate and to the car, he grabbed my wrist. Pointing his hand to the car, and then to the sky. He clasped my hands in his, and fell to his knees. Praying. 

On our way to the prison, I asked. 

Who is that man?

That man? 

Yes.

He's just some deaf man.

He comes every Saturday and Michael gives him money to buy food for the week. 

Perspective

'Izabel, do you think they have cars in heaven?'

'Well, I'm not sure Ra, why do you ask?

'Oh, I'd just really like to drive one someday.' 

In a prison, in the third world.

What does faith look like.

I can't see it.

Not gentle breeze on your face

Not a cold bottle on the back of your neck.

Not the ruthless sun.

Salt water on your mouth. 

Somebody squeezing your shoulder.

A lingering look

Or a slap across your face.

It isn't when you drop to your knees

Hair falling into your face

A cold chest. 

Sweat and tears drawing maps on your cheeks.

Look up to the sky.

Try and swallow. 

But maybe,

It is that we can do it again, and again, and again.

For the reasons we are.

The people we love.

And Him. 

The sun rises

What does it take to feel small. 

To know that the moon pulls the water from the sea, and brings it crashing down on sandy beaches. 

And sand.

Those littlest molecules. Those pieces of pieces.

That the sun casts a shadow on the sidewalk.

What of beauty. 

Babies and mommas and thunderstorms. 

And what of God?

To feel just a little bit bigger.

To love and be loved