Elizabeth says, “You love that tree, Grandma.”
I say yes.
When she’s older I’ll tell her that I love the thick branches, the way it’s so old but still strong and I’ll tell her that its green leaves against the ash colored limbs just bring me comfort. I love the way it leans as if resting.
I’ve not misplaced my faith nor have I given up on prayer.
I wrote about helplessness yesterday, about how it feels as if we’ve got no other choice.
I don’t regret my thoughts becoming words and landing here.
It’s my blog after all and all along I’ve only written honestly.
I thought about prayer today, what it is to me and what it does.
A simple prayer was spoken on my knees in the shower last week.
Jesus, please comfort her where she needs it.
Hurtful words had been shared and repeated. Like a pinch on a soft part of your arm that the bully won’t let go, it left a sting.
And I didn’t respond. I thought it better to let it go. I considered what may have caused the harsh words.
I remembered I just can’t know.
When I asked God to comfort, I was comforted. I left it with Him and I no longer felt hurt.
Because I just can’t know.
Tonight, I’m thinking of the Texas families. I’m deficient in understanding and only know from experience with those grieving, this is a long and winding and without navigation road, the death of a child.
So, I ask God to comfort.
I accept my place in this offering of prayer.
I join the chorus of others who pray.
And I have faith in the God who is comforting. Who is mighty, strong, unwaveringly there.
If me deciding against anger and instead inviting God’s comfort to a tiny trivial thing can bring such sweet peace.
I know the angels and armies are stretched wide and locking arms in an answer.
Comfort, we pray.