Read Online Wonderstruck by Margaret Feinberg - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Margaret Feinberg
Ads: Link
good, old-fashioned hard work and sweat.
Artisans don’t just focus on the end product but the process.Such dedication makes the difference between spongy cheap sandwich bread and a thickset, gnawy, flavorful Italian loaf made with hand-ground flour. Instead of machine-fabricated waxy chocolate, an artisan chocolatier might hike through a remote plantation in the global south to find cocoa beans to ship home, roast, and grind into the chocolate needed for dark truffles. 2
Even the simplest items take on artisanal flair when someone cares enough about the process of creating the product. The image of the artisan illustrates much of what was taking place in my prayer life: namely, moving away from rambling, mass-produced prayers that cost me next to nothing to a richer, handcrafted prayer life. Like the artisans, I knew prayer was more than just the end product—receiving an answer from God. But I needed to be more intentional about the process. Three-word prayers required me to reengage spiritual muscles that had long ago grown flabby. These unsophisticated prayers helped me clarify my dreams and disappointments before God. With only a few words, I became more aware of what Abraham Heschel calls “the pangs we ignore, the longings we forget.” 3
These prayers ushered me into a renewed sense of openness before God. Honesty infused both my relationship with God and God’s relationship with me. As our relationship became more genuine, my dependence on God increased. Throughout Lent, three-word prayers felt like I was praying with one hand and foot tied behind my back. I hobbled forward, but every movement reminded me that I wasn’t getting far on myown. I needed God. Each syllable reminded me of this truth. Stripped of presumption and arrogance, of mindlessness and meaninglessness, I found myself crossing the threshold of God’s domain—choosing divine will over my will and handing back what I mistook as my own. My time with God became imbued with desire and delight.
When the laborious prayers became habitual, they began to shift again. One morning, while praying for some friends whose marriage was unraveling, my request simplified.
Heal. Grace. Compassion. Reconcile. Restore
.
With each word, I paused to allow the fullness of the petition to fill my being as I made the request to God. As the word
heal
rolled off my tongue, God knew I was asking for more than an end to the conflict in the couple’s relationship. I petitioned for the wounds to be cleansed, bandaged, and healed. Broken bones reset. Cells regenerated. A full recovery in a single word.
With my prayer life reduced to a few syllables, every expression felt more potent than ever. Then something even more unexpected began to happen: I found myself entering a rich silence with God—the kind experienced by the closest of friends who sit side by side on a well-worn couch, feet propped up, melting into the cushions. Time slowed. The longer I sat, the less I wanted to move. Eyes grew heavy, not because of tiredness, but because I felt rested, fully myself, without any need to do anything—except be myself—in the presence of one who I love and the one I knew loved me.
Throughout my Lenten experience, I rediscovered the inward stillness of God. For years the psalmist invited me to “be still, and know that I am God,” but I struggled with the continuous inner dialogue that noised up my life. 4 In this place with words nonexistent, I realized I’d been dwelling on the edge of mystery. Now I was with God in a whole new way. My soul was both nurturing and nurtured by the silence. In quelling myself, I sensed a resonance, a divine reverberation that I suspect is a facet of what the psalmist meant when he alluded to deep calling to deep. 5
To my dismay, just as my communication with God opened again, Easter weekend approached. Watching Lent pack up felt bittersweet. The unexpected gift he brought to my prayer life made me feel melancholy about his departure,
Artisans don’t just focus on the end product but the process.Such dedication makes the difference between spongy cheap sandwich bread and a thickset, gnawy, flavorful Italian loaf made with hand-ground flour. Instead of machine-fabricated waxy chocolate, an artisan chocolatier might hike through a remote plantation in the global south to find cocoa beans to ship home, roast, and grind into the chocolate needed for dark truffles. 2
Even the simplest items take on artisanal flair when someone cares enough about the process of creating the product. The image of the artisan illustrates much of what was taking place in my prayer life: namely, moving away from rambling, mass-produced prayers that cost me next to nothing to a richer, handcrafted prayer life. Like the artisans, I knew prayer was more than just the end product—receiving an answer from God. But I needed to be more intentional about the process. Three-word prayers required me to reengage spiritual muscles that had long ago grown flabby. These unsophisticated prayers helped me clarify my dreams and disappointments before God. With only a few words, I became more aware of what Abraham Heschel calls “the pangs we ignore, the longings we forget.” 3
These prayers ushered me into a renewed sense of openness before God. Honesty infused both my relationship with God and God’s relationship with me. As our relationship became more genuine, my dependence on God increased. Throughout Lent, three-word prayers felt like I was praying with one hand and foot tied behind my back. I hobbled forward, but every movement reminded me that I wasn’t getting far on myown. I needed God. Each syllable reminded me of this truth. Stripped of presumption and arrogance, of mindlessness and meaninglessness, I found myself crossing the threshold of God’s domain—choosing divine will over my will and handing back what I mistook as my own. My time with God became imbued with desire and delight.
When the laborious prayers became habitual, they began to shift again. One morning, while praying for some friends whose marriage was unraveling, my request simplified.
Heal. Grace. Compassion. Reconcile. Restore
.
With each word, I paused to allow the fullness of the petition to fill my being as I made the request to God. As the word
heal
rolled off my tongue, God knew I was asking for more than an end to the conflict in the couple’s relationship. I petitioned for the wounds to be cleansed, bandaged, and healed. Broken bones reset. Cells regenerated. A full recovery in a single word.
With my prayer life reduced to a few syllables, every expression felt more potent than ever. Then something even more unexpected began to happen: I found myself entering a rich silence with God—the kind experienced by the closest of friends who sit side by side on a well-worn couch, feet propped up, melting into the cushions. Time slowed. The longer I sat, the less I wanted to move. Eyes grew heavy, not because of tiredness, but because I felt rested, fully myself, without any need to do anything—except be myself—in the presence of one who I love and the one I knew loved me.
Throughout my Lenten experience, I rediscovered the inward stillness of God. For years the psalmist invited me to “be still, and know that I am God,” but I struggled with the continuous inner dialogue that noised up my life. 4 In this place with words nonexistent, I realized I’d been dwelling on the edge of mystery. Now I was with God in a whole new way. My soul was both nurturing and nurtured by the silence. In quelling myself, I sensed a resonance, a divine reverberation that I suspect is a facet of what the psalmist meant when he alluded to deep calling to deep. 5
To my dismay, just as my communication with God opened again, Easter weekend approached. Watching Lent pack up felt bittersweet. The unexpected gift he brought to my prayer life made me feel melancholy about his departure,
Similar Books
