Prayer
October 31, 2009
In prayer, my mother is never smiling.
I can imagine the wild desperation behind her eyes,
and I can hear it in her whispers,
just barely audible on the other side of her door.
I don’t need to see her to know that she is
on her knees, she is pleading. She is breathing
all of her pain into the mouth of God, regurgitating
her memories and regrets and begging Him
to swallow.
As if her pain is somehow safe
inside the great belly of God.
Like an ocean
made only to hold her tears.
Sometimes, I want to tell her:
The belly of God is only big enough to fit between your two
tightly clasped hands.
God’s ocean is made only of dirt and forgotten teardrops,
God’s mouth is no bigger than your own.
But I say nothing.
I knew God once.
I redeemed my free ticket for salvation,
took it from God’s hands like candy from a stranger.
I knew what it meant to cry and to know that God
was wiping my eyes, carrying my tears.
These days I suffer alone,
and I envy my mother.
I long for the blindness necessary
to live out what is left
of my faith.
These days my tears are heavy,
persistent,
and every single one of them
is singing His name.
(Nikki Delap, October 2009)
