I sit down to pray disappointed
that I didn’t have a better night’s sleep,
frustrated that I still can’t get a handle on this.
Compassion comes out of hiding,
slips in beside me,
leans her head on my shoulder
and strokes my arm.
In the quietness and comfort of her presence,
I see the gift in the fears
that are only heard at night.
They warn me of what could happen
or might be happening even now.
They want me to do something to prevent this if I can.
And, if I can’t,
they want me to know
that shocks and losses
are hard.
You don’t get over them easily.
I remember how Jesus slipped through the crowd
that threatened to throw him off a cliff,
walked right through them
as if he parted the sea.
But that doesn’t mean
he slipped out of the hurt and betrayal
without tears and sleepless nights afterwards.
The neighbours he grew up with,
the friends he played with,
the same ones he built furniture for,
accompanied in heartache,
celebrated weddings and births with
would rather kill him
than believe he was a good person
who was telling the truth.
In the light of day, with compassion beside me,
I realize
that sometimes the calm I feel in the daytime isn’t trust,
it’s amnesia.
I am at ease
because I believe no big bad thing is happening to me right now
and life will carry on this way.
Night fears awaken me to the reality
that losses and shocks are coming.
I am living,
and my body is preparing to die.
“It’s true,” says compassion, squeezing my hand.
“But, lo, I am with you always
even unto the end of the world.”
When you pass through the waters,
I will be with you,
and through the rivers,
they shall not overwhelm you;
when you walk through
fire you shall not be burned,
and the flame shall not consume you.
For I am the Lord your God.
You are precious in my sight
and honoured
and I love you.
–Isaiah 43: 2-4, adapted (NRSVUE)
An Everyday Pilgrim 