Some days I come sit out here. I leave my electronics and books behind. I face east and watch the train travel south. I listen for its horn. I focus on the graffiti and the deep reds and yellows that pass in a blur. Here for a moment; gone in another.
I sit out here and pray. I remember what Anne Lamott taught me about prayer: “help, thanks, wow.”
“God, help me here. I’m inviting you into my daily; I am asking you for your divine help, your guidance, your will, your path, your hand. Because I want you here, centered, but also because I need you. I always need you. I acknowledge that nothing is possible without you and that nothing is good without you. I want you; I need you today.
Thanks, God. Hey there, thanks for waking me up this morning. Thanks for loving me again even after I told you I wanted a break in our relationship or even after I stopped returning your phone calls and texts and stopped hanging out. Thanks for making the story much bigger than me. Thanks for making it about your son Jesus you gave up so I could know you and your grace each sunrise. Thanks for heaven friends on earth, thanks for your promises you make and keep, and thanks for being who you say you are.
I hope I’m like my father like this.
Wow, God. WOW. Wow-good, wow, bad. Wow, your sun is warm today. It’s reminding me of you. I feel your sunshine today, but yesterday I didn’t. But the sun just reminded me that just because I didn’t feel you, didn’t mean you weren’t there. Here. With me, above, beside, behind, before. Wow, you are kind in your reminders of realness.
Wow, life is hard today. Wow, I’m forgetting what you call me amidst this spring of rejection and meaninglessness. Wow, today is hard. Wow, why am I so easily influenced by cynicism of the world? Wow, why do I lean into darkness more often than light? Wow, today is hard. Help, again, God.”
When I’m out here chatting with you, the trees dance for you. You remind me what good comes from pressure and hardship. You remind me of endurance and diligence and how I desperately need both. And most of all, you remind me that you love me.
And just as the box cars journey fearlessly across and through tracks and whiz past the hard days, as will we.
nonfiction narrator 