Praying Bigger

Praying Bigger: 15 March 2021

I harbor an undercurrent of dread about the end of the pandemic. It feels horrible to be grumpy that I haven’t been able to enjoy the pandemic the way I could have enjoyed it. I would be such a good hermit! But as it is, I am exhausted mentally, out of shape physically, depleted emotionally.

Still, I try to show up with my best self at least part of each day. But the sheer fact of showing up every day for a year during the pandemic is exhausting like mile 20 of a marathon. Although I’ve never run a physical marathon, this pandemic mental marathon has me pacing myself to the tenth of a mile. I know that I will finish. And at the end I will want to rest.

One major reason I am not more depleted spiritually is the routine of this blog. Much as I despair every month of writing anything worth reading, the habit of posting, the accountability itself, is healing and energizing and makes me feel depleted in a good way-- like after a long hike or hard project. Like I earned the exhaustion.

My dread is that instead of rest and congratulations for finishing the pandemic marathon, I will need to begin running the “hooray the pandemic’s over” celebratory marathon. Maybe it’ll be more like a really extended field day with three-legged races, water games, reggae bands, cotton candy, foods that shouldn’t be fried, roller coasters and carnival barkers. And everyone in my house wanting me to go on different rides with them, all at the same time.

My children have had such limited social interaction this year. They cannot wait for real playdates with roughhousing and screaming, when their friends can come inside the house or they can spend the night away. Mark misses entertaining. In the before times, it was not unusual for him to invite people for spontaneous meals—golfers he just met, the lecturer he just heard, someone he waited in line with. And there are all the friends we have missed seeing so much: the people who cared for us during Mark’s surgeries and my father’s death, the folks we didn’t get to see last summer, the extended family.

My family will want me not only to participate, but in most cases, to plan, coordinate, drive, shop, cook, schedule vacation days, entertain and/or engage—to facilitate their bursting forth like a long-awaited spring. And I will want to do that! Sort of.

I am also realizing my own reluctance to dive in. I’ve gotten used to limited interactions. I find I’m a little shy, shyer than usual. I’ve forgotten how to make small talk with strangers. I wonder if we’ll stare at each other’s mouth, like exotic fruit, and lose our ability to maintain eye contact.

I think families (and churches, schools, communities) will need to have some conversations about expectations. As the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous so wisely warns: Expectations are premeditated resentments.

How will we adjust our expectations? How will we acknowledge our resentments?

Thinking of all this reminded me of a conversation on Facebook, of all places, that happened a few years ago on a group forum. This was years before COVID-19, and I don’t remember why we were discussing Bartimaeus, the blind beggar who calls out to Jesus for mercy and is healed, but I’ve never forgotten the marvelous questions posed by my friend, Carol Warren. She wrote:

"What do you want me to do for you?" Every time I hear the reading about Bartimaeus, I wonder: what if? What if Bartimaeus had been thinking beyond himself when Jesus asked such an open-ended question. What if Bartimaeus had thought of others like himself and said, "End blindness." Or bigger: "End poverty." Or "End violence." Would Jesus have said, "Your faith has saved you" and done it? I have to stop and wonder. The writer of James says we don't have because we don't ask. What if we asked bigger? What if we prayed bigger? I think we need some BIG prayers in these times. I'll be going for it!

We can see the end of the pandemic. We are not there yet, and we cannot give up on the keeping each other safe during these last miles of the marathon. But there are, increasingly, reasons to celebrate.

What are our expectations for our post-pandemic world? Are they limited to our immediate family members? Our own beloved communities? Or the Beloved Community?

I’m trying to pray bigger.

I’m praying for time alone and also for raucous celebrations. I’m praying for stamina and giddy hugs and legislation that makes voting the easiest, most accessible way to participate in democracy. I’m praying for sweet, tearful reunions; ridiculously long meals inside restaurants; a bursting economy; improved international relations; a global commitment to ecological sustainability; civil discourse intended to enlighten, not inflame, discussions about abortion, immigration, policing, national debt, public health.

I’m praying that when Jesus asks me, “What do you want me to do for you?” that I’ll have the presence of mind to offer him a chair, a beverage, an open heart, and all the time in the world.