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My Grandmother's Necklaces

Is it possible to tether poetic language to the experience of the divine? What happens when human language falls short? Is it possible to be drenched in the nearness of God without uttering a single word?


Some mystics might say that it is impossible to fully connect with God, anyway. God tells Moses, "You cannot see my face; for no one shall see me and live." In the long preamble to the gospel of John, we hear the words "No one has ever seen God." There's something freeing in that: our own attempts to approach God in prayer will, at times (or always) fall short, and we might feel as if God is distant. Knowing that perfect prayer is impossible frees us up to pray how we can when we can.

Others suggest that wordless silence and stillness offers the most resonant plunge into God's presence. Wordless prayer might be the most ancient, most innate kind of prayer, what our ancestors called "praying without ceasing" or "sighs too deep for words." In the book of Genesis, Jacob ends up saying that it is the seeing of God, not the speaking to God, that ultimately saves him, naming the place where he wrestles with God Peniel saying, "I have seen God face to face, and my life is preserved." When it feels impossible to find the "right" words to pray, wordless prayer offers a doorway into the ancient-always presence of God.


 

I have always been good at untangling. I would climb the musty staircase of my dad's childhood home, and open the boxes of my grandmother's old costume jewelry: nothing valued enough to leave the attic in the years since her death, but treasured all the same. I would untangle and untangle necklace after necklace, digging through what felt like layers of history and experience: why did she buy this? What event did she wear this one to? How did they end up a tangled mess (probably grandchildren before me, tossing and loving the texture of the beads)?


There is something equally tangled about prayer. What is prayer? What prayers most connect us to the divine? What are the right words to pray? What is the texture of prayer? Who has come before us, praying? What are the cultural and historical memories that we greet when we untangle a life of prayer? What musty staircases must we climb to begin untangling? What warm, full house of love must we enter in order to have access to such untangling?


In order to get to my grandmother's attic, a thousand things that had to happen. Even before we turned off the engine, we were greeted in the gravel driveway: an outpouring of cousins, uncles, barn cats. The warm welcome was accompanied by a crowded warm farm house. Every surface in the dining room and kitchen was filled with food: snacks for now, covered dishes for later. There was always a card game to play, someone to talk to. It wasn't until long after entering the house that I could sneak up to the cluttered upstairs rooms to explore.


Prayer often exists within the context of that celebration, that joyful entry, that sense of being welcome and seen. But, a life of prayer also reveals a musty staircase, a place of retreat, a way of silence beyond the crowded room. Prayer offers an entryway into more ancient words, a doorway into aporia and apophasis, a stairway up into the tangle of culture and history.


If you are new to prayer, or coming to prayer after a long time, it may feel awkward, or maybe it feels like a welcome homecoming. If you have been long immersed in prayer, habits can become stale. There are yet still more entryways into the presence of God, for God is there all along, hidden or walking out to greet you before you've even arrived.

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