On prayer and pain

and the all-encompassing gaze of God

There are seasons where heaviness presses in on those around me, where bearing witness to pain in the life of others completely dwarfs any hiccups in my own life. I take in the news of another miscarriage, the ache of loneliness within a loving marriage, the burden of rejection and hopelessness, the sudden death of someone who died too young. These adjacent griefs simmer within—a soup of sorrow far beyond my capacity to mend. Headlines add distant and complex layers, exposing again the sinister underbelly of suffering that hides in plain sight, echoing what I already know to be true close to home. I walk into work and come home overwhelmed by the glimpses of tragedy I am privy to in each hospital room I enter.

I am weary from the suffering I encounter, though I cannot excuse myself from being present. I’m moreso asking the question—How do you weather proximity to pain? How do you bear it without letting it destroy you, without cutting yourself off from the agony of the questions that remain unresolved? And how long, O Lord?

In my own prayers and anxieties, I was recently reminded of the first chapter of 1 Samuel, of Hannah’s desperate prayer, her animalistic agony, her untamed and raw performance of doubt and belief before the Lord. I’ve felt that kind of visceral misery in other seasons; I’ve raged against God with my questions and hurts, my perceptions of his absence or silence. The rawness of Hannah’s language brings me courage and comfort to enter the presence of the Lord in whatever unbecoming state I find myself, gives me permission to be a mess and bring my mess before him.

“I’ve been praying from the depth of my anguish and resentment.” - 1 Samuel 1:16

Recently I was out for a hike in Percy Warner Park, a quiet and wild place to walk, think, pray, breathe. As I mindlessly made my way down the trail, my attention was arrested in an instant by a Barred Owl sitting perfectly still on a branch twenty feet in front of me. To see an owl in daylight is such a strange delight. We stared at each other eye to eye for a solid minute. Eventually it turned its attention downward, clearly stalking some prey beneath the foliage on the forest floor, clearly unbothered by human presence. It swooped soundlessly, magnificently, branch to branch, staring attentively into the brush and then at me. I crept closer, breathless, keeping watch until the owl eventually released the idea of that meal and flew away.

Photo by Tina Rataj-Berard on Unsplash

Later that day, my spiritual director began our meeting by inviting me to step into the loving attention of Jesus, words that immediately conjured the image of the owl intently studying its prey— and me—a mysterious encounter that nobody else experienced. The words of one of my seminary professor’s simultaneously resurfaced, his emphatic translation of the final verse of Psalm 23: “Goodness and mercy will pursue me all the days of my life.” He accentuated that the psalmist’s poetic language does not describe a puppy dog tagging along but calls to mind the Hound of Heaven intently pounding the pavement to hunt someone down.

It is a comfort to sense that griefs, injustices, quiet frustrations, and unmet longings do not escape the owl-like intensity of the gaze of Christ, even when he seems to remain distant. Hannah’s faithful raging was received with accepting and tender attention, so much so that her request was eventually met. While I can’t say that righteous discontent is always met with the answer held in mind, I find solace remembering that the infinite pain of humanity finds a home with the God who weeps. His attention is dignifying, humanizing to our prayers, our pain. Each isolating twinge does not go unnoticed, each unbecoming spasm of anguish is cherished and received, maybe even borne more deeply by the Maker’s undercurrent of compassion flowing beneath each suffering creature. For better or for worse, there is no escaping the gaze of God. Today that brings me comfort, because I don’t have to bear witness to the pain of the world on my own, and because one day his goodness will hunt each one down.

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I want to encourage everyone to check out my dear friend Anna’s Substack and her first published collection of poetry, Under the Terebinth. The poem she published earlier this week weaves right along the themes of this post. Her current work, alongside conversations with our fellow poetry workshop members, and a gentle reminder from my friend Elizabeth to keep “feeding the lake,”¹ were all hugely inspiring and encouraging to me this week. Our isolated artistic endeavors are always better when we work, weep, rejoice and receive together. I continue to be amazed at the power that a creative community can generate and share. Keep creating, friends.

1. Words of Madeleine L’Engle