God, this is the week that never ends, in the year that never ends.
Always, towards the end of the school year there is an impossible week.
Where spring and summer activities collide in their not quite done, and just getting started-ness.
Always there is a week where the schedule doesn’t work, every day has triple obligations, and on top of that everyone is cranky.
And then, someone doesn’t sleep, and someone else doesn’t feel well or the car has trouble or the pet has to go to the vet or the computer quits working or a something else impossible happens.
God, timing is everything.
And this year, when I have spent more time with parts of my family than ever, and seen other parts and my friends almost not all…
This year when vacations and retreats are just gasps of breath in the midst of survival mode…
This year when all the “fun things” I thought I was doing to have fun turned out to be coping mechanisms essential to surviving, as they have fallen by the wayside and the to do list somehow continues while these other things don’t..
God Almighty, You know, how this year has been never-ending.
Like a song that is stuck in your head, nagging at you day in and day out, that’s how the pandemic works–always in the background, giving your headaches and heartaches. Always on the calendar as you figure out what to do and how to do it.
The stress presses down, on my head, on my heart, on my soul.
God, I have been praying without ceasing this year. I have cried and sighed and laughed and zoomed and emailed and turned on cameras and turned off camera, have put on masks and then then washed the masks, every single day of this never ending year.
I have examined every ache and sniffed and listened to every lonely heartache of my friends and family…..and taken-just-a-moment-to-center-myself all in prayer.
I am living into the rhythm of prayer Lord–one that is both structured and spontaneous, one that has been out loud and quiet, one where I’ve known exactly what to say and one where I’ve murmured nonsense to the Holy Spirit.
It’s the longest week, in the longest year I’ve ever lived.
So I will continue to pray, and live.
Thank God you are eternal, thank God that prayers do not cease, and are picked up by friends and families and churches and strangers when mine falter.
Thank God you are the song that never ends God.
Feel free to use/share/adapt with credit to Pastor Katy Stenta
Here is a prayer for the survivors, who were left by those who got sick and died.
A prayer for the workers who were deemed essential–and never got a break from the work, the breath, the spit, the talk, the-show-up-to-get-your-paycheck.
It’s a plea for those who were “let go” told that they weren’t important enough to keep getting paid.
It’s a recycled prayer for the homeless and the hungry, who are the same as ever, only worse.
A love note for the queer fam, whose barriers only increase when people become stressed.
Here’s a prayer for the black and brown people the Native Americans, the Asians, the Immigrants…the ignored, habitually mistreated and forgotten. The “inaccessible” for healthcare, the ones who always have to sit on the bottom, except for deaths in the pandemic where they ride high.
Here’s a chant for Black Lives Matter–words that start, but don’t do enough to create a structure for reparations.
Here’s a prayer for the abused, alone and trapped.
A prayer for the addict, who is living the days, and the nights trying to figure out treatment in tough times.
This is a cry for the lonely: the elderly, the singles, the disabled, the sick. Lord, you know there are too many ways for us to feel lonely in ordinary times. Here’s an extra cry for them.
Here’s a prayer for a moment–for all those who are caretaking or parenting, those who have had not respite and no relief, for whom the to do list has lengthened and the how to list no longer exists.
This is a prayer for the children, who know in their bones what they are missing, even when they don’t know what they are missing.
We are praying for all of the world together–because this is our traumaversary–a moment when we look at the world that has ended, and has not yet a world to look towards.
We have to relive the trauma of the loss, and we still haven’t learned how to Cope with it Lord.
This is a prayer for me Lord,
Because I’m tired and lonely, and I don’t even know if I’m hungry or bored or just dealing with depression. This is a prayer for my family, because “okay” is all we can go for right now.
This is a prayer for the traumatized. Help us, we pray, Save us, we pray.
Feel free to share/use/adapt with credit to Pastor Katy Stenta
God, my heart is so happy whenever I hear or see that anyone has received the vaccine. It makes me want to throw a party.
So God, today the kingdom of heaven looks like everyone being vaccinated and going to a party.
No one is too early and no one is too late to join the party.
We are all dressed like we want God, to the nines or comfortably.
No one is jealous or pushing in line, no one is worried that there is not enough food or glamour or belovedness to go around.
Every single person is called by their name and preferred pronouns are used without a misstep or a blink of surprise.
God, today the kingdom of heaven looks like Spring with kids playing freely, unbothered but the stresses of the pandemic.
Homes are warm and dry and safe and accessible; everyone has one to go to and no one is afraid to go home.
People are supported: their status is not defined by their age or gender or class or marital status. Every person is celebrated.
People’s traditions and roots and experiences are valued and validated. Science is no longer, ever, seen to be in conflict with faithfulness.
And Faith is in the room. Faith that word which is almost never used to refer to a singular person’s set of beliefs, but instead is a word that honors the system of the community that glues them together through ritual and hope. Faith is abundant.
God, your kingdom come, your will be done. I pray now and forever.
Feel Free to Use/Adapt with credit to Pastor Katy Stenta
God, as a I sit in the weak winter sun of upstate New York, breathing in the stillness of my house on an (extremely) rare day where everyone else is out. It’s comforting.
Yet, in the solitude, I know that what has kept me going all of this time is the deep knowledge that you are not alone.
As my tiny church struggles with a smattering of people, some older and some with young children: to stay connected, we tell each other with cards and phone calls and zooms and socially distant visits: you are not alone.
When I walk with my eldest and he worries if he ever gets to see his friends again, I echo he promise you are not alone.
As I read stories about baby animals and bunnies who want to run away from their mothers, I hear the subtext of the story: You are not alone.
As people supported black lives matter marches, and black individuals and as February brings knowledge of what has been done and what has been undone, and as people of color look for opportunities for a vaccine–I try to sound out the call, you are not alone.
And as institutions struggle: great nonprofits, huge church governmental structures, civic infrastructure and the congress itself–I struggle too to remember, you are not alone.
And when Southern states get caught in vortexes and power outages, when great wrongs are done to profit at the expense of the poor: then mutual aide, food banks and phone banks, tweets and emails and other communications all reach out to tell those who are suffering: you are not alone.
God, I am grateful that in the midst of a half a million deaths, that we do not mourn alone. I am grateful that when fascism and bigotry rears its nasty head, we are able to take one another’s hand and tell each and every dreamer, immigrant, person without home, black and brown person, LGBTQUIA individuals, those who live with disabilities and more–that every time we help one another, we are proclaiming the truth. You are not alone.
God is with us, and if God is for us, who can be against us. And God coaxes us, with this truth, to live out the gospel as it should be: one where no one is alone.
Let us continue to preach the good news. And maybe, when its a hard day you can whisper it in my ear God, or put it on a billboard, or reflect it in my friend’s eyes so that I remember that the good news is mine too, and we are not alone.
Make your presence known to us we pray, in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.
God, I don’t have enough tears for 400,000. If I cried for forty days and forty nights, it wouldn’t be enough.
So instead I’ll light the candle–and watch the flame gasping for breath.
And when I blow it out, I’ll bathe my face in the smoke. I taste ashes on my tongue.
Grief is never enough. The lives cut short, every single one of them, is a tragedy.
Anger rises, and I let it wash and let it go, because this anger is sadness in disguise.
I breathe in, and out, and feel the prickles of oxygen that others can no longer breathe.
God I don’t have enough tears for 400,000 people.
But you do. Mourn with me please I pray. Every tear for one of your beloved. May they fill the ocean with the salt of sorrow, so that we can never again let people die because they are essential or forgotten.
Mourn with me, I pray.
Feel free to use/adapt with credit to Pastor Katy Stenta
I am so angry, she said, and I admit I was surprised to hear the echo of her words in my heart God.
Of course, I know I’m angry God, we all are. Haven’t I been giving permission for people to scream psalms and then wrote out my own about the catastrophe that lead up to and was 2020? But I was still surprised…because I am SO angry, God.
I’m angry God, with little places to process it, and very small chances to even be grumpy (though I am, of course grumpier like most people).
I’m angry that people keep making poor decisions, I’m angry that I don’t know how long I have to stay in survival mode.
I’m angry that my child who has autism works so hard to remain masked when so many capable adults believe rumors and lies and continue to ignore the need to do what is needed to stay safe.
I am angry that we are so, so lonely, while others go out and party.
I’m angry that my family’s mental health is precarious at best, and I’m angry that the priorities of the government and individuals seem to be power and money over safety, and self-righteousness over loving our neighbor.
And I’m angry that my family cannot perfectly keep others safe because there are too many factors and not enough cooperation for us to be able to tell when and how all of this will end.
I am angry that more and more people are getting sick or dying, and all the socioeconomic things–Too many to name even….
I want to be angry God, because it’s a true reaction to what is going on.
Is this how Jesus felt when Samaria refused to welcome him when he finally decided to journey to Jerusalem? Did he have to get over it to tell the parable of the Good Samaritan?
Or did you tell the story to yourself Jesus? Did you tell it to remind yourself not to always be angry?
God, there is nowhere to put this anger. If I put it on mine enemies, and wish them harm or illness, I–in truth–only hurt myself.
And there’s no real way to process it, yet.
Except sometimes I watch a show or I read a book and I cry.
God help us, help me, with this trauma. This mix of delayed mourning, longstanding loneliness and more anger than I realized.
Help us say the prayers, scream the screams, write the psalms and to create the rituals we need in this time of trauma. Help us to create small oases of sanctuaries to process. the hardship we are going through.
I’m tired of being angry God. Please help me in whatever way you can.
Send your Holy Spirit to comfort and renew me, I pray.
Feel free to use/share/adapt with credit to Pastor Katy Stenta
With Credit to @blackgirlinmain Shay Stewart Bouley on Twitter who congulated those cooking their first Christmas dinner–with full empathy for how nerve wracking it is– her tweet inspired this.
A blessings on all those who had to cook, who aren’t usually responsible for Christmas dinner–blessings for those who did tacos or takeout or didn’t cook at all and just rustled up whatever was around.
A blessing for whom the Christmas rituals were too short this year, missing people and missing traditions, and a blessings for whom they were too long because the holiday is such a struggle.
A blessing for those for whom Christmas is the end of a very long and very tiring season and they are awaiting a little bit of a break or a restart, and a blessing for this for whom Christmas means no break at all, and often means double work and double stress and little grace or gratitude from those around you.
A blessing on those who have experienced a loss, for whom Christmas hits hard and lonely, a blessing for those who are dealing with infertility when everyone is screaming about babies being born.
A blessing for the families who don’t have the money to do Christmas, for the families that are too busy worrying about a roof over their head or food to eat to feel blessed in any way.
A blessing for the sick and those caring for them. In this time of trial, may there be compassion and moments, however brief, of respite.
A blessing for those who aren’t sure if they want to celebrate Christmas, for whom it’s complicated or carries too much baggage or carries too many to do lists or litmus tests of faith.
A blessing for those for whom this is their “first” Christmas of any kind, good or bad, because transition is tough and we need these blessings.
A blessing on those who are tired, alone, trapped, in danger. A blessing for victims of abuse, victims of state brutality, those who are imprisoned and those who are stuck in violent or unsafe situations, a blessing for those in the midst of war in what should be a season to pursue peace.
A blessing for those who are searching for hope: through family or friends or social media, a blessing because the search can be long and hard and you can get lost upon the way and talk to the wrong people as the magi can tell you.
A blessing for those whom I’ve forgotten, those who are at the corners of my mind, but somehow skipped over. I lift you up to God, because God knows your heart. God knows the blessings you need, so I pray that God gives you the blessings you need.