All day long I dream of someday, dot, dot, dot, ever emphasizing the ellipses given me, taking their direction into the unknown evenings.
All week long I think of Friday with an exclamation point, our earliest emoticon, standing for a more powerful word with appropriate thanks to God.
All year long I juggle narratives: a poem deconstructed, seasonal tributes, a moleskin memoir, a sequence of dreams and that constant choral reminder that every day, every thought is a prayer.
And it is. I may not always rejoice or give thanks in every circumstance but there is prayer in my narratives and the juggle is a ceaseless communication. I may not always remember to address God or end each pause with a so be it, amen, but the conversation keeps going. Every dream, every emoticon, every part of the journal and the journey itself is a prayer.
And what a prayer it's been this year, what rich conversation we’ve had! It isn’t always easy, but I'm learning, trying to give thanks in every circumstance.
1
I am thankful, first of all, for the story of Josh, a story bigger than what the year brought but even in the course of this year, an appreciable story! I can only tell my part of it, my own prayer to add to the mix of others, but I am especially thankful for many things: Our final string of Saturday nights, TG plus a day. Our last half attended Scrabble games, diverted by higher priorities of beer and visiting. That quiet quinceañera for Andrea with a perfect Chicago view on a cloudless evening. That strange Columbus adventure five hours away, and every drive back and forth full of accommodating prayers. Those drives with Andrea and Tilo, going to see their dad. All the Ohio players: Doctors Prevedello and Findlay and Giglio, Pastor Braband, Lauren and her kids, the Jesus Loves Me nurse, the midnight prayer orderly, and in the final days those vigilant text reports of a mother and a sister: like watching a baby sleep, one of you said. Then, in Lombard, saying goodbye, and again I think of many people: Pastor Amy allowing tears to flow in her first funeral; Uncle Greg sharing profound emotions; the waitress at Chili's, serving up Josh’s favorite order; Paul and Lena singing the Parting Glass at Rounders; the quiet tributes of Josh's closet friends and family; and the shared speeches in the basement of the church. And to think, just two years before, Josh and I had contributed to a talent show in that basement: at my brother’s urging, I read a couple of my bird poems and Josh played Amazing Grace on the trumpet. Yes! What a story it was, Josh, what a story we'll keep telling, what a story it is still, and it keeps going...
2
I'm trying, and learning, to rejoice always, and sometimes God makes it easy. So it has been this year in the opening chapters of my life with Cara. We met seven years ago at church but we met more personally in the spring, just a few months after I had cancelled a trial run with a blind dating service. Each of those blind dates, stories unto themselves, ultimately underlined my emptiness. I longed for more than a name on the reservation sheet. I wanted someone to share dates two and three and more, someone to walk with me in faith, someone to share my prayer. And so it was at the end of my blind date trials, that Cara and I began walking and praying together. When did you know, she asked recently, and I immediately remembered the path we were on during an early walk through the streets of Libertyville. But every date with Cara has been awesome: The discovery of old movies, with Casablanca, Singin’ in the Rain, Fiddler on the Roof. Our first selfies on a walk along the beach in Lake Forest. And in Wauconda, Lindy's by the Lake. Watching Pretty in Pink and striking a promlike pose. Discovering favorite drinks at the Greentown Tavern. Playing Rumikub and dominoes with family. A Sunday barbecue with the kids. Learning to make Bahn Mi sandwiches. The Dan Ryan Rendezvous after a weekend apart. Kneeling in the aisles at Worship Night in America. Attending the BoDeans Rock for Peace. Running around Butler Lake. Building shelves for Erin. Going to a Marriot play, and getting season tickets for next year. So many dates intersected with other stories of the year, too: Seeing a Bob Dylan Ravinia concert on the date Joshua died, and feeling him smile over us. Remembering 1 Corinthians 13 at two different wedding. Celebrating the Cubs with John and Cathy. Watching the first Trump debate and skipping the rest. Walking into Glenbrook Hospital together. Participating in two Bible studies at church and getting to know our new pastor. And there was that date of all dates: New York City, where at the top of the Empire State Building I gave my dear Cara a ring of poetry with a proposal, and she said yes.
3
Dear God what prayers we've prayed this year. I feel sometimes like these prayers of mine are full of tangents and distractions, but overall, beyond the ellipses and random thoughts, it is a single prayer I am sending out, and I'm trying to make it as joyful and grateful and non-stop as I can. The narratives, the petitions have blended together to the point that I’m learning what it means to pray ceaselessly. In the middle of May, in between all those Columbus drives and before my dates with Cara, I discovered my own cancer in a tumor that would later prove to have advanced to stage three. The PSA markers showed up first, and a biopsy made it more imminent, but in between the discovery and the surgery my prayers on this topic have become a blur: how can I remember this particular story without thinking of Joshua's greater struggle or for that matter the parallel challenge of my mother with bladder cancer or the ongoing healing of Dick after his accident last fall? Or how can I tell this story without including that wonderful part Cara played in it, helping me accept what was, beyond all side effects, a victory? And yet this story, together with an impromptu gallbladder surgery I had in the spring, also replaced what had been my prevalent narrative just a year before: my long-distance running adventure. There was real remorse this November when I reached the one-year anniversary of my first marathon run, and I wonder now if it may have been my last. To be sure, I am a survivor, cancer-free and full of promise and hope, but I have not run more than a mile and a half since April.
4
Jesus taught us to pray in two ways: first, privately, in secret and without empty phrases; and second, almost in the same breath, in community to our father with words to be shared. So goes this prayer of mine, ceaselessly confiding and communicating with Immanuel and keeping it going in all circumstances. When I stop and start up with a dear God but also when my thoughts wander, I should never forget that God is there. He's there when I'm alone or in a crowd, when I have something to say or when I'm quiet, when I want that God connection and even when I rebel from it, God is still there, listening to my prayer.
This year one of the Bible studies we embarked on was called Faith Five, a concept devised by Rich Melheim in which families are encouraged to take five steps at the end of each day: share, read, talk, pray and bless. Step four's prayer is sometimes the hardest in our busy tired lives but it doesn't have to be that way. It doesn't even have to be a separate step if we start to appreciate how we had already started our conversation, or continued it, with step one. Share, by Dr. Melheim’s prescription, is the time we discuss the day's highs and lows. God is already there with us at that point even if we don't fully feel his presence, but we are reminded of this by step two, when we read a Bible verse together, and we recognize it and process it in step three when we talk and relate our highs and lows to the word of God. By step four when we are specifically called on to pray I'd like to think we're already well into the prayer. Finally with step five, the blessing, we say Amen and even that is not the end of it. We close our eyes and slip into restfulness, a beautiful prayer, and dreams, a mystic force. Every sleeping breath is a prayer that carries us to the morning.
It has been a crazy year, having three, four, five things up in the air at once, and often the juggling has taken every ounce of concentration. But God was in between the moving objects. God was in my hands and in the rhythm of their work; God was in my efforts and is at every turn with every object. God is my strength, my hope, my refuge. And this, all of this, is my prayer.
Dear God thank you for Joshua and the life he lived with us and the place he is now. Thank you for Cara and the blessings you have given us together and all the promise of what lies ahead. Thank you for the challenges along the way, for the cancers overcome, for the battles we’re still fighting, for the prayers we’re praying through and for the victories we can claim. Thank you for our families, our children, our parents, our siblings, our children again (!), and hear their constant prayers too. Thank you God for being Our Father all the time. Amen.
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