Tomorrow, I will awaken. And I’ll take a moment and notice the colors of the early morning sky, as the sun begins to rise. And I’ll take a moment to realize that it’s that time of year again, during which I see that sky each week. And I’ll take a moment to realize that the year is upon us, and the holidays are soon behind, and that it’s really and truly here. And I’ll take a moment and remind myself to breathe. And I’ll take a moment to, indeed, breathe.
And within that breath, will be this prayerThat :
Thank you, God, for this day.
I pray for those living through the eye of the storm. May they have strength. May they know comfort. May we all be able to offer help, just as we have. Too many times.
I pray that my day will be ok. That the kids will be safe and feel loved and know the sweet taste of the joy of learning. That I’ll be able to answer the questions I’m asked and answer the demands that the day will present.
I pray that the young people of our congregation will use their passion and creativity and skill and ideas to lead their peers towards a year of excellence and engagement.
I pray that I’ll get it all done.
I pray that the sound of the shofar will actually awaken me to that which I need to listen to in the world. That the loud blasts allow me to hear the still, small voice within my own heart.
I pray that I’ll be able to lead–through my preaching and my teaching, to help other understand the still, small voices of their own universes.
For these things I ask, as my prayer.
And I ask, ask, as well, what I even mean by prayer. If these prayers are limited by the idea of an interventionalist God, or if these thoughts can transcend a theology I don’t believe in, and become a hope, or perhaps an aspiration, even an inspiration.
For all these things, come morning, I pray.