This is one of my favorite parts of the Bible. My heart is full when I read those words: "I have heard your prayer, I have seen you tears; indeed, I will heal you." Even so, prayer tends to be the last thing on my mind in difficult and discouraging circumstances. Prayer is something I often avoid--first, because I always seem to be at a loss for words when it comes to approaching and engaging with the Divine so intentionally, and second, because I have grown accustomed to dismissing prayer as an illegitimate solution. You cannot simply whisper some words while you're on your knees and let them float away like a message in a bottle, expecting something will happen because of them. Intellectualism has conditioned me to hold that prayer is not a sensible practice.
And yet, the truth that emerges from the story of King Hezekiah is that something about prayer makes sense in times of illness and suffering.
Prayer, for so much of my life, has been one of those things that's a bit too mystical for me. I have distrusted it because I have not seen a rational explanation for it. I could tell people I was praying for them or bow my head during prayer at church, but in my mind, I regarded prayer as just another ritual the church has held onto--something that doesn't have any real power.
And then I had my own Hezekiah moment. A few years ago, during a period of intense anxiety and sadness, a counselor recommended prayer. At first, this prescription made me angry. I thought, "Really? You went to school for how many years, and that's all you have to offer?" But because I had no other options, I started saying the Lord's Prayer every night as I lay in bed, trying to fall asleep. I would repeat it over and over until I woke up the next morning, unsure when my prayer had ended and my sleep had begun.
Science Mike talks about prayer in his Axioms About Faith, saying, "Prayer is AT LEAST a form of meditation that encourages the development of healthy brain tissue, lowers stress, and can connect us to God. EVEN IF that is a comprehensive definition of prayer, the health and psychological benefits of prayer justify the discipline." Even if all the Lord's Prayer was for me during those otherwise restless nights was a mantra to put me to sleep, the days following, in which I felt more awake and present to the world around me and less burdened by the anxieties of those nights, were enough their own miracle that I felt my prayers had been answered.
It seems to me that the Mystery of Life likes to work this way, teaching us that prayer is perhaps not the request for a miracle but the ordinary, unexpected miracle itself. Prayer is the sudden peace of deep sleep. Prayer is the fig-poultice that heals us. It is spit and dirt, mud that restores our sight.
Prayer provides serenity, and at the same time, it wakes us up. When we gather for our evening prayer at my house, we say our petitions and thanksgivings, and they are entirely connected to the way we go about our daily lives. My prayer for peace for a coworker grieving the loss of her mother follows me to work the next day, a reminder to be present to her experience and needs. My prayer for those affected by drought stays with me, a reminder to be grateful and to be wise about the resources I use. Prayer is rest, and prayer is action. What a miracle that it can be both.
After we heard the lessons at choral evensong, we took a moment for intercessions and thanksgivings. Because I could think of nothing else, I said the Lord's Prayer--a thanksgiving for all the times I had prayed as a last resort and for all the times that simple thing of drawing, humbly and desperately, towards the Divine had, in itself, been the answer and miracle.
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