I told the Lord I don’t know how to pray. I know, He said. Oh, right, I guess He would. 

I told Him I’ve been busy doing and decidedly un-busy praying. Uh huh, He said. (You might not think that He would speak that way, but He does, sometimes, at least, to me, anyway.) 

So I told Him, Look, I really don’t know how to pray and a whole lot of other things besides. 

Finally, He said, Now we’re getting somewhere.

All these years I thought I had been getting somewhere.

Pshaw, He said, rolling His eyes (yes, I was surprised too), If you’re through whining and stalling, we can begin. Your rosary, pick it up and let’s get started.

So I did and we began to pray. My body joined in with a round of aches and pains and my hand began to reach automatically for the small plastic bottle of pain-relieving pills, but He shook His head and said, Anh ah.

So I offered Him all my sufferings
to be united with His,
offered Him my ignorance,
my haughtiness and my laziness,
my wishy-washiness,
my prevarications
and all my preoccupations,
my good works and my failings,
and all of my shortcomings,
my joys, sorrows, hopes and fears,
and all my being,
in the past and the present
and for all of the years
left to me in this sorrowful vale of tears.

A short time later (it could have been hours) I finished my rosary, looked at Him and said, Now what?

He said,

Now begin again
and this time don’t let your prayer end.
Keep the beads in your hand,
keep your eyes on Me, on the Cross,
and keep the prayer going, no matter what.

So I’m learning to keep the prayer going
in the silence of my heart.

©️ 2009 Lee Lancaster

This is a slightly revised version of something I originally posted back on Oct 6, 2009, on another blog which I’ve deleted completely at least a couple of times and I don’t know if I’ll ever use that one again. Maybe someday. 

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