Hope and Prayer

Sometimes prayers still fly into my mind even though I let myself off the hook from Jesus soon after your diagnosis. An embarrassing clichè, I know. I guess my “fake it till you make it” faith just never had a chance against something like this. The words of these reflexive prayers stick in my mouth like glass. There’s no one listening, or worse, there is and I hate him.

I used to vomit out robust and existential entreaties like, “Please God, make this all go away. This can’t happen. Not to him, not to us. Please just fix this.” Now I just belch sad fumes: “Dear God, don’t let me be so mean today.” Or “Please God, let his formula ship today or he’ll be out of food.” Or “Jesus, just pause the decline for a day. We need to catch our breath.”

Yet YOU still believe, a man who can no longer talk, eat, walk, breathe effectively or use your hands for anything besides drawing your forsaken truth. You still count God present and on your side. I wish I could join you as we seem to share almost all the other shreds and dregs of life these days; but your faith always feels like a warm fire just out of my reach — easier to face the cold and acclimate than to feel satisfied by the partial warmth.