The Whole Prayer

There’s a moment in the movie Raiders of the Lost Ark, where they find a relic with instructions inscribed on it about where to search for the lost ark. The twist comes when they realize there are additional instructions on the other side. To use what’s written on one side is to look in the wrong place. To use both is to find the treasure.

In 12-step recovery rooms, the meetings begin with a prayer written by Reinhold Niebuhr that has become known as The Serenity Prayer:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

the courage to change the things I can, 

and the wisdom to know the difference.

It is a wonderful prayer that captures the daily struggle to live between the things we can do something about and the things we cannot. It remains a meaningful prayer, but I learned years after entering the rooms that there’s more to the prayer: 

Living one day at a time;

Enjoying one moment at a time;

Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;

Taking, as He did, this sinful world

As it is, not as I would have it;

Trusting that He will make things right

If I surrender to His Will;

So that I may be reasonably happy in this life

And supremely happy with Him

Forever and ever in the next.

Amen.

Like the relic in the movie, it added something to the prayer that helped me in my search for serenity. Being reminded to live one day at a time, to accept hardship and realize the world and those in it are not as I might like them to be, and trusting God’s got this if only I could surrender my need for control makes me able to be reasonable happy now and supremely happy later.

Recently, I’ve needed every word as I’ve tried to live through an awful election, a pandemic, and a world that seems to be clinging to life. There are days when the short version is all I need, but there are also days when I need the whole prayer. It contains all I need to find what I am looking for.

For all the Saints

“In the midst of life, we are in death.” Book of Common Prayer (p.484)

The only religion class my high school offered was on death and dying. Built around the work of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross which describes five stages of grief, I struggled to see the importance of such a class. Afterall, we were teenagers, full of life and seemingly invincible. 

It didn’t take long for that illusion to be washed away. A classmate was killed the day before senior year. His was only the first. Since then, there have been many others. As if all those lost lives weren’t enough, there have been other losses, as well – lost relationships, jobs, reputation, beliefs, certainties, youth, health, you could add to the list, I’m sure.

It’s a wonder we can see straight when death surrounds us. You’d think with all these lessons in grief we would have mastered it by now, but it seems the process of grief is as perplexing as it was when Kubler-Ross tried to help us make sense of it.

I write in the shadow of All Saints’ Day and on the anniversary of my mother’s death. From this vantage point I can “see” with my soul beyond the losses to something beyond. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking or a hope that’s been passed along from generation to generation, but enduring grief seems to be the ticket for admission. It hurts and often causes me to want to run in the opposite direction, but I know from a life of running away that there’s no substitute for walking through grief’s gate and embracing all the emotions that await on the other side. 

Despite having taken a class, and having experienced loss in all its forms, I march on trusting God is walking beside me and those like me who are wrestling with loss as if for the first time. 

Jumping In

The sky was blue, but the water was cold. Clinging to the final days of summer before the autumn breeze whispered to the leaves it was time to change color, I stared out at the lake wanting to join the others who were swimming and diving away. I dipped my toes in hoping that would do the trick, but the rest of my body cried out to stay where I was . I tried to walk in one step at a time, but the progression of chill sent me scampering back to shore. Eventually, I knew there was only one way to get in and that was to walk to the edge of the dock and jump. It was excruciating and I gasped, but I was finally in the water and able to join the others.

That’s what it’s like when we have to face fear. Fear wears many costumes, but its effect is singular and universal. It causes us to stand on the shore shaking, paralyzed and unable to join the others who are living happy, joyous, and free lives. Watching them can lead us to the edge. Wanting what they have can cause us to dip our toes in the cold or take a step or two, but fear will often pull us back to the shore where we can stay dry. 

We may be dry, but we’re alone.  As difficult as it is to walk to the end of the dock, as convincing as fear’s arguments may be, it’s best to just jump. Yes, it’s shocking and can cause us to gasp, but once we are in the water, we can join the others and live the lives God intends.