The net of a contemplative's prayer is cast wide. Nothing of life falls outside the parameters of prayer: traveling on a vacation, sitting at the computer, keeping the house, working in the yard, raising the young ones, loving a spouse, setting out into a weekend, having people over for a meal. I stopped in a supermarket the other day and then sat in the car for awhile waiting for a friend to come out from the doctor's office. Here's the prayer I wrote:
Father, Son and Holy Spirit
praise to you for all this diversity,
these apples:
Ambrosia, Fuji, MacIntosh, Gala.
For the workers who picked them,
packed them,
shipped them.
Father, Son and Holy Spirit,
praise to you for all this diversity,
blackberries,
strawberries,
raspberries,
blueberries.
For the hidden farmer workers
on the bottom rung,
picking fruit to keep us healthy,
while they remain broken,
away from home,
fearful,
insecure,
un-insured.
Father, Son and Holy Spirit,
a blessing for the young fellow
who while stocking
asparagus,
avocados and
cherry tomatoes
onto shelves,
had the presence of mind
to say "good morning" as I walked by.
Father, Son and Holy Spirit,
keep an eye on this young mother
scanning the shelves
for baby cough syrup,
or baby ear drops,
or baby teething drops,
or baby congestion drops,
or baby diaper rash cream.
Anxiety
on top of anxiety,
give her the support she needs,
the remedy she's hoping works,
joy and peace of mind.
Father, Son and Holy Spirit,
a blessing for the cashier lady
who wasn't troubled by my delaying anxiety
at not being able to locate the plastic discount card
among the fifteen others attached to my car keys,
but who joked a little at her own confusions.
Father, Son and Holy Spirit,
returning to the car
some elderly folks with canes
slow,
slow,
are going into the nearby clinic.
They want to be freed of their complaint,
hoping for wholeness -
some easing up
of troubles.
